Jackpot.

by Mick DonnellanMay 3, 2024May 3, 2024

The lady at the post office said she couldn’t help, and to call the lottery HQ and they might know how to access the money, but it was out of her hands. She handed back the ticket and said to mind it because that’s the only proof we had of the winnings. So the oul fella took it and put it in his top pocket along with three vaping pipes and a makeshift plastic wallet with an elastic band around it and we left.

Later, the lad from Lotto Headquarters said: ‘We’re going to have to get security to take a look at this. Can we call you back later?’

I said sound, and hung up.

The oul fella said, security? This is getting serious.

And it was. There had been mentions of duplicate tickets, inexplicable computer glitches, ghosts in the machine, but no firm explanation as to why the astronomical sum couldn’t be paid out. A dark cloud was casually forming over the credibility of the sacred lotto institution and the threat of scandal, like an opportunistic cat, was licking herself as she waited for the outcome.

Your man’s name was Wayne. The Dublin number rang, big shtuff, introduced himself, said they had looked into it, and we needed to go back to the shop where the ticket was bought and ask for Ray.

Ray would know what to do.

I asked him what happened in the first place.

He said he was unsure, but it appears the girl behind the desk scanned the ticket too many times and the machine got thick and said it was already paid, even though it wasn’t. And was the ticket safe?

I told him it was, and he said to make sure to mind it, because it was valuable, and remember to ask for Ray.

There, we parked discreet in case there was a crowd. Press, radio stations, Ray holding a big huge check with the bottles of Champagne ready. Thankfully there was nobody waiting, probably because the 20 minute summer was over and it was lashing big golf balls of rain.

Inside, no surprise party, no paparazzi. Just the girl at the desk, and she didn’t look like someone called Ray, so we asked if Ray was about. She frowned sympathetically and said he was on his lunch, but maybe she could help? Paddy, the oul fella, told her the story. Never renowned for brevity, it took him about ten minutes, and a long queue had formed of old ladies with huge trolleys of shopping and cement covered Polish lads trying to pay for cans. Eventually the woman that wasn’t Ray blinked before she asked: So the ticket didn’t pay out?

Exactly.

And you have it here with you?

We do.

Paddy took it out and handed it over. She held it delicately, holy grail job, priceless artefact, and scanned it through. Never one to let a grudge go, the machine said the same, already paid out, don’t be annoying me, and the mystery remained unsolved. The not Ray woman, we’ll call her Mary, decided to talk to another manager over by the bananas. The Polish lads were delighted, rolled their eyes and shifted the weight of the drink from arm to the other. After a few minutes of discussion, Mary came over and asked: Do you ye know how much the ticket should pay out?

We gave it a few seconds before dropping the nuke.

Then Paddy said: A fiver. Two Numbers and a Lucky Star.

Five euro? She asked, like when the barman forgets to charge for half the order.

She walked over to the till, took out a fiver, said here, give me the ticket, and we’ll sort it out later when Ray gets back. Meanwhile, we’ll pay it and let ye go. So we took the money and handed her back the ticket and she went off to take care of the Polish lads.

Drama over, no champagne, no big cheque, no RTE News microphones screaming for a quote.

What’ll we do now, I asked Paddy.

Dunno, he said, might buy a EuroMillions for tonight.

Luas life.

by Mick DonnellanApril 25, 2024May 1, 2024

First there was a shout, then a fella in a red jacket was running up Abbey street and another fella in a grey tracksuit, Rocky Balboa look, was running after him. He caught up him at the lights, put him up against the stone fall and hit him a right hook in the jaw. There was a crack like an egg breaking and then he gave him a left in the ribs and another haymaker across the head. Tanya got involved now, long black straight hair, big round earrings, sincere Dublin accent. “Stop will yiz. Leave it.”

The grapple made its way across the street, through indifferent traffic, and up against a frustrated bus. The lad in the red jacket was called Tom. He took a few more skelps before Rocky realised his phone was in his other pocket all along and Tom hadn’t actually stolen it.

The rest of us watched from the queue at the Luas stop. The tram was late and there was about sixty-five million people waiting for it. There was a growing sense of urgency, like everyone had diarrhoea and the Luas was one big toilet. Tanya and Tom were back now. Tanya asking if Tom was ok, and was he hurt. Tom saying no, he was fine, and he wouldn’t never steal a phone, even though he’s homeless, he’s honest, and it’s not fair to be picked on like that. Behind us, Rocky was in the Spar shop roaring at the cashier about getting short-changed, threatening to burn the place and generally kill everyone, and then there was polite bells as our public transport gently arrived.

It was a tight squeeze, but it was this or miss the train at Heuston. The door closed and I was in beside Tom, Tanya, and their new friend Melanie. Melanie had a pink tracksuit and a tight ponytail and white runners. She gave advice to Tom about where to find a new house, and there’s a new place up in Finglas with one-bed apartments and everyone’s getting them. Tom said he wasn’t sure if he’d like to live in Finglas but thanks anyway. Tanya says they’d be no good to her because she has two kids, and she’s on her own, and she couldn’t afford the rent anymore so now they’re “…back in me Ma’s…”

Then Tom got off and a Muslim girl got on. Melanie and Tanya were still blathering when the Muslim girl asked the fella in front of her to please don’t stand so close. He was a soft-spoken type with glasses and skinny jeans. Like an underpaid graphic designer that went cracked when they don’t have oat milk in the coffeeshop. Maybe a name like Fergus. He turned around to the Muslim girl and said it was her own fuckin fault for standing there and he wouldn’t move. She asked him what his problem was and he told her it was his Luas too and to shut up if she wasn’t happy. She said she was ok, just he was crowding her and it made her uncomfortable. Melanie tuned in here, said to Muslim girl, let’s call her Zaina, hey you, don’t fuckin touch that man or I’ll put your teeth back in your throat.

Zaina said, excuse me, this has nothing to do with you.

Tanya was in now with, are you trying to rob him or somethin?

Zaina said, mind your own business.

Melanie asked her who he thought she was.

Fergus warned Zaina not to touch him one more time, and then he backed into her as hard as he could so she fell back through the crowd and nearly bust her head on the floor.

Then for a while everyone was shouting, kicking, screaming and scrapping. It was like in the cartoons when all the dogs start fighting and there’s a big dusty cloud then everyone emerges with cuts and bruises. Melanie and Tanya were doing their best with kicks and grabs, and abuse. Someone else picked up Zaina and tried to shield her from the mob. Then a big black fella caught hold of Fergus and told him to stand over here, and Tanya and Melanie to stand over there, and Zaina to stay where she was. And then the next stop came and Zaina got off. And Melanie said she’d love to go after her and kick her head in. And Fergus said be careful, you wouldn’t know what phone call she’d make and have a gang waiting for you at the next stop. And Tanya said it had been a long day and she was looking forward to relaxing for the evening and then it was time to get off at Heuston.