Ticket

By ELIZABETH OSMOND and RYAN SAVAGE

© St. Petersburg Times, published December 25, 2000

Editor's note: Each year, the Citrus Times has invited readers to participate in a unique writing experience called the reader-written novel. Eight people were selected to write a chapter and pass the developing story on to the next writer. Except for the writer of Chapter 8, none of the authors know exactly how the story will end. We hope you enjoy this year's story.

Chapter One

Gus Wedley rubbed the sweat off this balding head as the sun rose over the fish camp. He looked over the marshy water and wondered what he was doing here.

He was 76 years old and a Navy veteran of several World War II Pacific landings who earned a meager living as a barber in Jersey City. These should have been the best years of his life. Yet, here he was in an old crate of a boat, fishing for bass and catching nothing but gar.

His frown changed to a smile as he remembered his life would be different now. Thirteen million dollars in the Florida lottery, and he had to split it with only five other retirees he'd pooled with. He'd still be getting a load of dough.

And they were smart, too. They weren't giving the government one red cent more than they had to. The six of them had seen a lawyer, and they'd hidden the winning ticket in a special place only known by the six of them.

So, what the hell was he doing fishing and drinking bourbon when he was about to be a millionaire? He shrugged off the only thing that disturbed him; he should have bought that ticket himself. Then he wouldn't have to split it at all.

Gus turned his boat to head back to his trailer in Windy Oaks Campgrounds. Of course, there was no wind and no oaks. He found that out the first day he was there. He felt the warmth of the bourbon he'd just finished, and it fired up his imagination. He definitely would get a mansion somewhere with a butler to abuse, maybe a Jag, too, and a facelift to ease away the years.

He was going to be somebody. Motoring out of the weeds, Gus thought of his winnings. Over and over, he divided $13-million six ways. Engrossed in his fantasies, Gus cast his lure, and the hook stuck. He was snagged tightly to something toward the front of the boat. As he tried to twist the rod, he was thrown off the aluminum seat as the jon boat ran over the thing in its path, catching it on the propeller.

Just my luck, Gus thought, a manatee where I'm trying to fish. He stood slowly, checking to see that all of his joints were okay and headed to the motor with the paddle to remove whatever it was that had blocked his path.

Just as it occurred to him that manatees don't live in the fresh waters of Big Lake Henderson, he looked down and started to scream.

"Help! Someone! Anyone!" he yelled.

Thrusting his paddle into the swollen corpse stuck on his prop, he turned it face up and screamed again.

"Paulie, Paulie! What's going on?" he screamed just before he vomited all over himself.

He gunned the motor, circled the body, and raced for the Windy Oaks dock. Smashing into the pier, he fell onto his knees, and started weeping hysterically. Suppressing a fleeting thought that with Paulie dead, the $13-million could be split five ways instead of six, he focused on the tragedy at hand. Paulie Starr was his best friend, for God's sake. How could he think of money at a time like this?

Gus pulled himself out of the boat and stumbled to the nearest trailer, out of breath, screaming for help. The door opened, and Bertha West stepped out.

"Shut up!" she grumbled. "What are you doing in my yard? I can't even hear my soap with your moaning and, besides, you stink."

"Help, call 911. It's Paulie. He's dead or something," Gus panted.

Bertha smacked her hands on her ample hips, threw out her massive chest, and demanded why she should do anything. Her brown curls, courtesy of the local hairdresser, shook with emphasis.

"Git. Git gone. I've got things to do. I ain't calling 911. They never come anyhow," Bertha said. "But there's cops up at Jimbo's, for all the good it will do."

Bertha slammed the door in Gus' face. He stumbled up to the Windy Oaks bar, officially called the Oaks Grill, but known locally as Jimbo's Pub and Grub. He spotted four cops sitting in the corner, downing their lunches.

"You gotta help me," he yelled, his yellow polyester golf shirt and madras shorts dripping with the stinking lake water he had splashed all over himself.

"Call 911, ya rummy. We got wings to finish, and Florida State is behind," said the cop with the bulbous nose and the prominent veins in his face. His buddies laughed. "Yeah, we're investigating the deaths of these chickens here, so bug off," the one with the buzz cut and buff body said.

The other two laughed and pointed their gun fingers at Gus.

Gus knew "get lost" when he heard it. He turned to the bar and looked for the bartender. He wondered what use a bartender was who never tended bar, but that's the way Jimbo Hobbs ran the place.

Gus supposed the bartender was, as always, drunk in the kitchen. "Hey, Jimbo, get out here," Gus shouted. The bartender ambled to the bar and leaned his bulging arms over the counter.

"Whatcha want?" he asked.

"Paulie's dead! Call 911! I need help!" Gus said excitedly. Gus hoped the task wouldn't be too challenging for the drunken Hobbs, and the call would actually get made.

Guilt was setting in as the booze in him became depression. He had left his best friend tangled up in the reeds. Gus turned to the door with his shoulders slumped in despair. He staggered back to his boat, determined to get Paulie himself.

He hopped in and revved up the kicker motor. Retracing his route, Gus headed for the reeds. Fortunately, even in his drunken haze, he remembered where he left Paulie. Quickly reaching the little path his boat had made coming out of the weeds, Gus turned in and slowed the motor.

One curve ahead, and he would find Paulie. He hit the curve, cut the motor, and drifted to the spot where he had left Paulie's body. His eyes scanned the dark water, and he moaned with fear. Paulie was nowhere to be seen. Gus put his head in his hands and began to weep.

He had to cut out the alcohol. This wasn't the first time he'd seen something that wasn't there, and, if he couldn't quit drinking, it wouldn't be the last.

His mind raced. Did he really see Paulie's body, or was he too drunk to know? He needed to go home and sleep it off. Maybe he could figure it out after that. But he knew one thing for sure, whatever happened, Paulie was gone.

About the authors

Ryan Savage

Ryan Savage, 20, is a student at Central Florida Community College, majoring in language arts and premed. Always creative, Ryan loves writing and is currently working on an espionage novel with Elizabeth Osmond. His goal is to become a physician like his father or to write both novels and screenplays. He grew up wanting to be a writer and wrote a 25-page novella at age 8. After spending summers in Pennsylvania with his father's family, he decided to consider pursuing medicine as a career to further the family tradition. Either way, Ryan intends to provide service to humanity throughout his life.

Elizabeth Osmond

Elizabeth Osmond is an attorney with the Public Defender's Office in Hernando County where she has worked for the past five years. She is a former reporter for the St. Petersburg Times and has bachelor's and master's degrees in photojournalism as well as a juris doctorate. Elizabeth also works part time writing feature stories for the local newspapers with her 16-year-old son, Connor, who works as her photographer. Her oldest son, Chris, is graduating from Florida State University, majoring in criminology and political science. Elizabeth is the vice president of CASA and is working on completing an espionage novel with Ryan Savage.

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