Chapter 8

"But ... you Have to. I've seen you do it." Violet flickered again. "I was just there! I watched you go to Montgomery and turn in the ticket. You have to go!"

"Funny thing about the future, Violet. Getting up late in the morning changes it. Good night, Violet."

"But..." she tried to follow them in but she couldn't get past her own wards.

The Monster Millions computers shut down every night at eleven and start working at five am. It was ten after two when they finally went to bed. The reason it took so long? They repacked the chests in the truck ... unopened. They didn't do it to harass Violet. They couldn't find the keys.

Why two trunks? They stored the tipi, liner, ozan and door in the first trunk. It kept the cover clean. The second trunk was their traveling altar.

They put the plywood over the chests and slid the two trunks, one empty, one full, on top of the plywood. They locked the Van and started a little fire in the tipi fire pit ... to keep out the mosquitos. They made gentle love for forty-five minutes, and then talked about it. They never raised their voices during the night, but they made a clearcut decision.

They had a voice mail. "Call Home." They did ... the fortuneteller thought it was a wonderful idea. In the morning, they drove to town and bought a ticket. They went to the Post Office and mailed it to the Gypsies at home. Violet didn't see that.

They drove back to the gathering ... took down the lodge, repacked the trunk, loaded the poles and left a little note in the middle of the sacred square of earth.

Violet heard them leave the first time and smiled ... they were fulfilling her future. She heard them come back ... comforted, she went to sleep. She did NOT hear them leave the second time.

This time, they drove to 99 stores in town that had the Monster Millions sign outside and bought a winning ticket at each. They spent a ninety-nine bucks buying tickets.

Two different groups of graduated high school students spun out their varied stories about why they couldn't afford college and promised to share the winnings. If they won, they'd go to school and their friends who couldn't afford to go ... well, they'd see that they got the chance. They all signed the back of their tickets.

Ed said, "you all know what your families are like. If there's the faintest possibility your mom or dad would take your ticket and blow the money ... don't tell them. If you win, bum a ride to Montgomery Monday morning, collect your winnings and put it in the bank.

"Go to Auburn and apply. Tell the registrar that you'll be checking on acceptance. Don't let them send a letter home. Don't apply for loans or grants. Pay cash ... live at home and tell your folks you have a shit job somewhere. Go to school.

"You kids who can't go college because your parents are truly trying, but just can't help pay ... help out at home. Your parents deserve a better life too."

The students were the most faithful in keeping their promises.

They gave two tickets to the director of the local homeless shelter. He was at his wits end searching for non existent funding.

"Look, all we're asking you to do, is write your name on the back of the tickets and watch the drawing tonight. Just that and nothing more. Watch the TV."

After the drawing, he got down on his knees and thanked God for sending an angel.

An entire older subdivision promised to share and pay off mortgages for everyone near foreclosure in their area.

A developer was very unhappy.

They drove to an African Methodist Church and passed out a dozen tickets to reliable looking older folks. Yes M'am ... we will give back to the community, they said ... in varying voices and promises. Most of them did. Homes sported new lawns and new paint.

The entire neighborhood gleamed with pride.

They passed out tickets to bums on the street and prostitutes on the corners. Those were among the ones who disappeared. From corners and alleys they fled the life they had in search of new ones.

They drove to the Student Union and gave a ticket to a girl who had just lost her sports scholarship because she'd broken her leg.

She hunted out others in the same kind of fix and helped them through.

They gave two tickets to the directors of the Rape Crisis Call Center and two more to a Battered Women's Shelter.

One said, "It's eighteen million dollars!! I can do so much!"

The other said, "It's not enough." He closed the shelter, took the money and disappeared.

When they couldn't think of anything or anyplace else, Seph tossed all but one out the window. There were only three left for the tossing.

One landed in the lap of a chair bound wounded warrior, a casualty of the desert. A programing genius, he started a business building artificial limbs that fit ... and worked.

Another slapped the face of a man coming out of a bank ... his last resort to save his farm. He'd been turned down yet again ... his farm had suffered a string of freak 'accidents.' He wasn't a good risk.

Yet another developer lost his project.

It took the entire 180 days for the last ticket to show up at the lottery headquarters. The old man who won collected his check, walked outside, endorsed it over to the Alzheimer's Foundation and died in the street.

They drove to Sharpe Field ... Harold Franklin was back.

"You Mr. Franklin?" Seph asked.

He looked at the Dodge and the State of Michigan front license plate. "Yup ... you've come to collect your aircraft." He grinned, "and your boat."

"If you want the planes gone, you're going to have to teach us how to fly." Ed was all teeth and happy eyes.

"Not a clue?"

"Nope ... never even flown a paper airplane." That wasn't true ... every school kid in the United States has flown at least one paper airplane ... it's in the curriculum.

"My dad knew a pair of ladies like that. They learned to fly multi engine bombers in six days and a few nights. The FAA hated issuing them licenses but it's hard to buck the Marines.

"Well ... come on in. Let's get started." Harold led the way to a small class room. He turned on some lights and unlocked a case. "It's going to be hot today. Megan picked a good one for the gathering."

He switched on the air-conditioning and motioned them to the desks. "Got money? Bags of it? It used to be cheap to learn to fly. Damn Democrats have made it expensive to walk across the street. At least we work with the CAP and get a major discount for fuel used for lessons.

"Lessons from sitting in this seat to flying your own single engine out of here ... and standing a pretty good chance of living through it ... are twenty five hundred ... each ... plus the plane, fuel and metered hours. One hundred and twenty an hour if you used my aircraft. One of yours is the best primary trainer in the world.

"There's a semi restored Piper J-3 Cub out in the hangar. A number of older pilots had their first aircraft experience with the J-3 Cub. I believe that Cub trained pilots have an edge over others because the Cub requires the use of all controls to perform even simple turning maneuvers. Cub pilots who solo from the rear seat instinctively fly the airplane, rather than fly the engine.

The 65-hp Continental rates down towards the bottom in power and at the top in reliability. The Cub will spin, but not loop. Cross-wind landings, the Cub will dip a wing so low, you can write your name in yellow dope on the runway and the rudder will still hold it straight.

"I soloed in a Cub. It's not a good idea these days but, students scared him so bad my instructor never flew unless he drank before climbing in the front seat. I soloed in 6.5 hours and loved Cubs ever since.

"So, stand up ... now rub the top of your head and pat your stomach while hopping up and down on one foot with your eyes closed."

There was a lot of laughter but they did it.

"Now switch hands and hop on the other foot."

"Very good." He stopped them. "I'm surprised ... very few pilots can do that, but it was required right at the start of the war. That and a lot of other foolishness that had no bearing on flying. A lot of men who would have made good pilots ended up as navigators because they couldn't do that.