Try and Make a Little Headway

I’m fixing to try and make a little headway.

This is the sixth week I’ve been at this project, which last week led up to the point where I was witnessing a dump truck in the parking lot of the State Park Motel in Gulf Shores, fixing to make off with the dumpster that I suspected of having a trash bag in it that contained my forty million dollar winning Lotto ticket that was going to expire at five o’clock today.

I leapt up on the running board of the dumpster on the driver’s side and shouted at him, “Stop! Please stop!”

The driver shut down the hydraulics and while the dumpster was hanging in mid-air he asked, “Can’t you find something better than a garbage truck to car-jack?”

“No, nothing like that,” I told him. “It’s that I’ve got to get something out of that dumpster. Please help me!”

At the same time I fished two twenties out of my pocket and passed them through the window toward the driver.

He took the twenties and said, “No problem, dude. I’ll pick this one up on the flip side.”

Then he lowered the dumpster back to the ground with a thump, disengaged from it and his truck roared out of the parking lot.

I stood there feeling drained, but knowing I had no time to waste, and that somewhere inside that dumpster was my winning Lotto ticket. There was a side door so I didn’t have to crawl up on top and get inside of it. When I got the door open there was a sea of black trash bags inside, all stuffed full. I pulled out the three that were on top knowing they had to be the most recently deposited ones.

The first one was full of trash of which none looked familiar to me. After I had gone through it piece by piece I picked up the second bag. I breathed in a little breath of hope when I heard empty cans rattling inside it.

I had only gotten about halfway through it when I spotted the image of a peach peeking out from underneath one of those empty cans. And sure enough it was my Georgia Lotto ticket worth forty million dollars. It had beer stains on the peach, but the numbers were clear.

I looked at my watch and saw that it was nine o’clock. I had wasted 30 precious minutes. It was ten o’clock in Atlanta, and that meant I only had seven hours left.

So many questions filled my mind. Should I check out of the motel? Should I pack a bag? Then I remembered Elroy’s admonition to not stop for anything, and slid the precious ticket into my shirt pocket while I ran toward my cousin’s pickup.

I headed east, and at the Florida state line Highway 182 turned into Florida 282, toward Pensacola.

I abandoned Elroy’s pickup in the parking lot at the Pensacola Airport at 10:25. That meant it was 11:25 in Atlanta, and that I had five hours and 45 minutes left.

It sent a thrill through me when the agent told me there was a direct flight to Atlanta that departed at 10:45 and arrived at 12:45, but to my dismay he informed me that it was way oversold and I didn’t stand a chance of getting on it.

I purchased a ticket on the next flight which departed Pensacola at 1:45 and arrived in Atlanta at 3:45. That’s if it was on time, and it would be cutting it real close, only giving me an hour and 15 minutes to get from the Atlanta Airport to the Lotto office in downtown by 5:00 o’clock. I headed for the gate with a sinking feeling in my stomach.

Oh Lord, it looks like I’m fixing to have run out of space again.