The day Benny scratched the million was the day the computer program won at Jeopardy. We were watching on Grandpa’s old cathode set, the one we just inherited. It shrank to a pinpoint when you shut it off. Ken and the less famous guy pounded the buzzers like rats seeking cocaine, but the computer was plugged into the gameboard. There was no delay between desire and muscle movement.
Alex Trebek signed off, trying not to look intimidated by the future. My dad threw up his hands like the Packers just won the Superbowl. “That’s it,” he said. “You’re becoming a god damned engineer.” He spoke like he had reached his threshold, but actually we had already had this conversation two hours earlier. I had insisted, with the pride of a teenager deluded by possibilities and Bob Dylan records, I would be a writer.
“You ever see a writer pay a gas bill?” my father said.
“If you’re looking for your meal ticket,” I said, “I’m not the right one.” There were three of us: Benny on the tail end, Sharon up front, and me crammed in the middle. Sharon was the one who owned an iPad, and rarely called.
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It was okay how we were then, a tense string unplucked. Then Benny barged in with that scratch-to-win of his, and he decided he was gonna be a world class soul artist. We liked to joke that what caused Dad’s heart attack was not his diet of Extra Value Meals, but testing his son’s willingness to pony up when the medical bill came. Benny was stingy at first. He changed his number three times, and nicknamed Mom “Citibank.” But when we had to pick a coffin, he went all-out.
