HOPE FOR CHANGE... But Settle for a Bailout

An absurd comedy about a man who wins it all…

featuring

Lottery Larry,

Lawrence, a capitalist,

and the ever-charming

Sergeant Lori L. Lewis

& Miss Milkshakes

Novel by

A novel by Bill Orton

Copyright © 2012, Bill Orton

All Rights Reserved

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This novel was begun in September 2011, and written
using a manual typewriter. The initial manuscript ran 404 pages
& 28 chapters.

The
Smashwords Edition
was
uploaded in pieces, as the author edited text files generated from
an OCR-scan of the original, typed manuscript. The first content on
Smashwords appeared on April 16, four days after completion of the
first draft. The last portion was posted July 20 – a week before
the start of the Summer Games of the XXXth Olympiad.

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Contents

Part 1

1 – Showdown at Bucksters

2 – Banking the Old-Fashioned Way

3 – Sorting Memories

4 – Milkshakes on a Sunday

5 – Heard it on the Grapevine

6 – Puttin’ on the Ritz

Part 2

7 – The Shining Tower

8 – Astrid's Travels

9 – Waiting for the Dough

10 – Fishing for Help

11 – The Charleston

12 – The Golden Register

Part 3

13 – A Check from the Governor

14 – Rowing the Whitehall

15 – Trials

16 – Potatoes in the Pilothouse

17 – Ring the Golden Bells

18 – The Peppermint Elephant

Part 4

19 – Spreading Capital with a Smile

20 – A Shot at London

21 – Reach Out

22 – Or Hardly Workin'

23 – Closing Doors

24 – Emptiness

Part 5

25 – Troubled Waters

26 – Team Lori

27 – The Stinkin' Lincoln

28 – From the Platte to the Thames

29 – Deployed

CHAPTER ONE

Showdown at Bucksters

“
Perhaps not since the great influenza epidemic
of 1918 has the flu brought greater doom to the people of London….
There is no horrific death toll as in 1918, but public health
officials say as many as a quarter of the people in London are sick
with this rare late- summer flu bug… but ask a Brit about real
agony and it is that local girl Rebecca Adlington, one of the
world’s greatest female freestyle swimmers, is so hobbled by
influenza that Team GB’s doctors won’t allow her to compete in
these London games. The Brits, down seven athletes to the flu just
today, did gain one bubbly reason to cheer, as moving Baljinder
Gill up to the number one freestyle slot has meant that Gill’s baby
sister, Jazz – who tells everyone she’d rather be swimming the
Mersey with her best blokes – earned the second slot for Jolly Old
England… and a jolly time it’s been indeed for those fabulous Gill
sisters, who are spinning water into gold. Only an American army
sergeant in her mid-30s, in her own long-shot first Olympic
appearance, has been able to keep up with those fabulous Gill
sisters.”

.

“L-O-R-I-!” Larry van der Bix waved his arms
and ran towards the tall blonde slowly riding a beach cruiser down
1
^st
Street, towards Belmont Shore. “Lori!”

“Hey, Larry, on my way to work,” said Lori
Lewis, a pair of cloth tote bags hanging from her handlebars. A
multicolored sock drooped over the edge of one bag.

“Can I bum five bucks from you?”

“Aw, man,” said Lori. “That’s all I got till
work. Can’t you hit me up after my shift, when I’ll have some
tips?” Lori leaned forward and tucked the wayward multicolored sock
into the bag.

“Oh,” said Larry, dejectedly, “sure.”

With a deep exhale of breath, Lori reached
into her jeans and pulled out several crumpled dollar bills and a
handful of quarters. “Please, Larry, don’t just blow this,” said
Lori, dropping the money into Larry’s outstretched hand. “Buy some
actual food… from the store.”

“I will,” said Larry. “Promise.”

“Don’t just drop it on the lottery.”

“It’s how I know I’m still alive.”

.

As Lori approached Bucksters Coffee on the
retail stretch of Second Street that cut through the heart of
Belmont Shore, she had to slowly navigate a maze of police cruisers
that had pulled up to the coffeehouse at such sharp angles that
traffic was forced to merge left to pass. On the sidewalk, officers
and gawkers – their faces glowing alternately red and blue –
hovered near the entrance, as Lori locked her bike to a parking
meter. Looking at the officers, she unlocked the bike and walked it
to the rear of the building, locking it to a pipe. Alongside her
bike was the district manager’s red convertible, parked in the sole
space designated as staff parking. Around a license plate that read
“CA-FA-N8D” was a frame that declared, “It’s Good to be the
Boss.”

As she entered, she saw seven or eight
officers looking sternly at the customers in the shop. Lori stashed
her tote bags in the employee break room, tied on her apron with
its, “Hi, I’m Laurie” name badge, and approached the register.
“Clearly not a caffeine and starch run,” she whispered to a tall,
late-20-something redhead in an apron and tie, standing behind the
counter by the register.

When Lori turned to the first customer in
line, she saw metal glinting at belt level.

“Gun!” Lori immediately crouched, and, with
no one else showing panic, she stood slowly. Half-a-dozen other
customers were also openly displaying firearms.

“Hey there, Missy,” said the customer. “I’m
here to get me some coffee.”

Lori kept looking around, to the officers
and then again to the customers carrying guns, who were, for the
most part, in their 50s or 60s, somewhat overweight and each
seemingly delighted with their day.

“I’m thinking about shutting the store,”
said the redhead.

“You can’t do that,” said Lori. “I just got
here. I need to work today.” Lori looked at the man at the front of
the line, waiting patiently. “Why are there a bunch of people with
guns in the store?”

“This is open-carry, Missy,” said the
customer. “And I’m still looking for some coffee… to go along with
my Second Amendment freedoms. Do we live in a great country, or
what?”

“Look, mister, nothing personal, but I don’t
like civilians with guns,” said Lori.

“Oh, these aren’t loaded, Missy,” said the
customer. “We abide by the law.”

Lori turned to the redhead. “Can I please
throw them out?”

The redhead flinched, but said nothing. Lori
turned back to the customer. “Again, nothin’ personal, but I just
can’t serve you.”

As though Lori had lit a fuse, the officers
stood ever-more erect, their heads now moving slightly
left-to-right, eyes scanning. The customer at the head of the line
looked intently at Lori, who stood leaning slightly forward, with
both hands gripping the register.

“We’re not violating any laws,” he said. “I
came for coffee and I want my mocha latte, Missy.”

“Sorry,” she said. “No shirt, no shoes,
carrying a firearm… no service.”

“Are you refusing service because I’m
exercising my Second Amendment freedoms?” The man pointed to the
officers with a sweep of his hand. “Bet you serve them.”

Lori turned to the redhead. “Can I please
throw them out? I mean, if we need help doing it, we don’t have to
wait for the cops.”

“Missy, that’ll be a….”

“No!” said Lori, cutting the man off. She
looked pleadingly to the redhead, who silently nodded. “Yes!” Lori
said, clearing her throat. “May I have your attention? I want
everyone with a gun – who’s not a cop – to please leave the store.
You can come back unarmed, but guns are not welcome here.”

The customer straightened his posture and
narrowed his eyes. “You haven’t heard the last of us, Missy. I’ll
be back for my mocha latte.”

As the last armed patron exited the shop,
several people seated in the comfy recliners clapped and the
officers stood a bit more casually. Two cops approached the
register, one of whom bore a star on his collar, and the other
wearing captain’s bars.

“I’m Captain March, miss. Long Beach Police
Department. This is Commander Walker. That was incredibly brave. A
little foolhardy, but definitely brave.”

“They’ll be back, you know,” said the
commander, to the redhead and Lori.

“Not to…,” said the redhead.

“… Shoot up the place? Naw,” said the
captain, who looked to the commander. Both shook their heads. The
captain turned back to Lori and the redhead. “Naw, but they’ll be
back.”

“Probably soon, and probably with media,”
said the commander. “We can’t advise you what to do, but this young
woman is now the face they’re going to look for.”

“You should go,” said the redhead.

“I can’t go,” said Lori, insistently. “I
just got here. I need these tips… c’mon, I was U.S. Army.”

A commotion at the door erupted, as the
customer from the front of the line came back in to the shop. The
officers within the shop stiffened. Mr. Mocha Latte walked directly
to the register and looked closely at the name badge on Lori’s
apron. “Laurie….” He walked out again.

“Oh, shit,” said Lori.

The commander pulled out his wallet and put
a ten-dollar bill into the tip jar. “Miss, you’re brave, but army
or not, you shouldn’t also be very stupid.”

The captain, fishing for his wallet, pulled
out a five and dropped it into the tip jar. “Thank you for your
service.” He then lifted his hand above his head and pointed
towards the door. All of the officers inside the shop headed
towards the entry. As officers moved out, several customers who had
been watching from their comfy chairs got up with their porcelain
mugs to seek refills. The tip jar began to fill with singles while
Lori and the redhead whispered back-and-forth.

With the captain and commander at the door,
silently watching the officers exit, the redhead spoke from behind
the register. “I have… an… announcement,” he said. “As District
Manager, I’ve hired a new assistant manager for this store,”
indicating with his hand to Lori. Two of the refill customers
stopped doctoring up their coffee to applaud, before returning to
adding half-and-half and sweetener to their cups. The captain and
commander each nodded, and exited. “She will not be working the
remainder of this shift, as I am sending her on vacation, before
her training.”