A Change of Plans

Michael Brown rubs sleep from his eyes and dangles his legs over the side of the bed, his seven-year-old toes another day closer to the floor. He pulls off his Spiderman pajama top, stumbles from his room and opens the door to the bathroom where his grandfather and retired Philadelphia cop George Brown is sitting on the toilet reading the newspaper and smoking a cigar.

“Jesus Christ! Are you stupid?” George yells.

Michael slams the door and runs back into his room.

“Why the hell can't you knock?” George shouts from the bathroom.

Downstairs Sandra Brown hears the commotion and shouts at the ceiling, “Mikey! What's going on? You've got five minutes to get down here.”

Mornings like this remind Sandra that living with her dad in Northeast Philadelphia was not part of her grand plan, which was rewritten at age nineteen when she peed on the stick and learned she was pregnant. Her position as the captain of the West Chester University basketball team and her dream of a career in nursing vanished virtually overnight along with her son’s father.

Back in his room Michael struggles to pull a sweater over his head while he mimics his grandfather,“Are you stupid or something?”

Just as he gets his head through his sweater, George’s fifty-nine-year-old frame fills the bedroom door.

“What'd you say?” George asks.

Startled, Michael trips over his shoes but recovers quickly and while avoiding eye contact says, “Nuthin Pop. I didn’t say nuthin.”

George takes a step into the room. “Didn't sound like nothing. Knock next time, you fool.”

George leaves and Michael walks to the bathroom where he takes a deep breath before entering amidst a haze of cigar smoke mixed with George's farts. Michael fights to unzip his jeans dancing on his toes while struggling to hold his breath. With his zipper down, Michael empties his full bladder. As he finishes, lungs bursting, Michael lurches for the door where he crashes into the hallway and passes out.

George emerges from his own bedroom outside of the bathroom. “Goddammit! Sandra, he did it again.”

Sandra runs up the stairs onto the second-floor landing. “Dad! It stinks up here! Why on earth do you have to do that every morning?”

“Well, it's my goddamn house and my goddamn bathroom,” George shouts.

Michael comes to and starts back to his bedroom.

“Mikey, go downstairs. I’ll get your stuff,” says Sandra. “I'm going to be late for work – again!”

Sandra grabs Michael’s backpack and heads for the stairs, glaring at George who hasn’t moved.

***

Michael and Sandra exit the house and walk down the sidewalk.

“Sorry,” Michael says.

“I know. Not your fault.”

They get into a beat-up Ford Pinto, its rear bumper attached by duct tape. Sandra closes her eyes and turns the key. The starter grinds before the car chokes to life.

As they pull away, Michael asks the question he asks nearly every day, “When can we get our own house?”

Sandra’s response is well rehearsed. “Honey, you know I'm working on it. When I get a promotion, we can move out of Pop's place.”

“His shit smells,” Michael suddenly blurts out.

“Michael!”

“It's true.”

Sandra stifles a laugh and then can't hold back. “Oh boy. His poop does smell. You’re right.”

Both laugh uncontrollably as they pull up in front of St. Thaddeus Elementary School. Michael exits the car, still giggling.

“Hey babe. Forget about this morning, ok? Go learn something,” Sandra says.

“Ok. Love you.”

Michael slams the door and bounds up the steps to the school. Sandra pulls away, leaving a plume of exhaust.

***

Most days, Stan Porter’s neighbors in Levittown are subjected to his morning ritual. Today is no different as Stan exits his front door wearing only boxer shorts and boots, his flabby seventy-three-year-old pecs on display for all. He picks up the newspaper and adjusts his manhood before turning back into the house.

Inside a disheveled kitchen, Stan retrieves a whistling teapot and pours boiling water into a cup, adds instant coffee and a shot of whiskey. He moves into a cluttered family room, sits in a lounge chair and sets his coffee and a newspaper on a TV tray before lighting a cigarette. Stan picks up a small stack of lottery tickets and exams them one by one, crossing them out with a pencil. On his fifth ticket, he circles one number, then two, then three, and then four. At the fifth number he looks carefully at the newspaper then back at the ticket. He circles the fifth number and lets out a girlish “woo hoo.” He looks at the paper and crosses out the sixth number but then confirms he has just won twenty thousand dollars. Stan jumps to his feet, sending his TV tray and spiked coffee flying.

***

Sandra jockeys for position on the Roosevelt Expressway and makes her way out of Philadelphia on the way to her bank teller job in Bucks County.

“Goddamn. I'm going to be late again.”

At a traffic light two men approach her car and start washing her windows.

“Does this car look like it deserves clean windows? Just stop!” Sandra shouts while waving her arms.

When the light turns green, Sandra peels away. One window washer throws his squeegee at her car where it bounces off the trunk.

***

Stan careens into the lot of the Bristol Savings and Loan and into a parking spot. He jumps out of the car and tries to enter the bank, but the bank hasn't opened yet. He bangs on the door once and then gets back in his truck to wait.

Sandra pulls into the lot moments later, gets out of her car and runs to the bank entrance. She waves through the glass to someone inside. Bank manager Matt Jones, who at fifty is at the pinnacle of his career, unlocks the door and lets Sandra inside.

“Matt, I'm so sorry. Car trouble and then the traffic was awful,” Sandra rattles off the excuses before Matt cuts her off.

“Well, you're here and you're up.”

“Up?”

“Michelle quit. You're the new customer service rep – if you want the job.”

“Yes. I mean I'm sorry about Michelle, but yes.”

“Ok. You know what to do, right? And, it looks like your first customer is here,” Matts says with a chuckle at the sight of Stan.

Aggressively smoking a cigarette, Stan stands at the door as Matt opens it. Stan exhales the last lungful of smoke as he brushes by Matt and heads to the customer services area.

As Sandra settles into her desk, Stan paces impatiently waiting for her to acknowledge his presence.

Sandra comes out from behind her desk and greets Stan. “Good morning. My name is Sandra Brown. How can I help you today?”

“I think I need one of them safety deposit boxes.”

“Ok. Let's see what we can do Mr...”

“Porter. Stan Porter.”

At Sandra’s desk, Stan sits hard in the chair. He sweats profusely and his hands shake.

“Can I get you a glass of water or something?” asks Sandra.

“Yeah. I think I need water.”

Sandra quickly disappears into the back. When she reappears, she finds Stan trying to light a cigarette.

“Mr. Porter. I'm sorry. You can't smoke in here.”

Stan looks up, an unlit cigarette hanging from his bottom lip. His eyes roll up into his head and he falls across Sandra's desk, knocking the water from her hand.

“Oh, Jesus. Mr. Porter, are you okay? Help me,” Sandra shouts.

Matt rushes over.

“What did you do, Sandra?”

“I got him a glass of water. I mean, nothing. I didn't do anything.”

The tellers and a couple of customers gather around.

“Someone call 911. Does anyone know CPR?” Matt asks.

The tellers and others shake their heads no or shrug their shoulders

He places his fingers on Stan’s neck searching for a pulse. “I think he's gone.”

***

Outside of the bank, EMTs wheel a stretcher with Stan's covered body and load it into an ambulance. A police officer who has been questioning Sandra gives her his card and leaves.

Sandra enters the bank. Back at her desk she stares at the spot where just minutes earlier her first customer died.

“I think you should go home,” says Matt quietly.

“No, Matt. I'm fine. Really.”

“No. It's company policy. When a customer dies on your desk, you have to take the rest of the day off,” Matt says with an uncomfortable laugh.

Sandra bursts into tears.

“That was a bad joke,” says Matt.

“Matt, I really need this job.”

“No. You're fine. But seriously, take the rest of the day off. You'll get paid.”

“Ok. I really am fine, though,” Sandra says unconvincingly.

Matt walks back to his office, and Sandra sits and reaches under her desk to gather her belongings. She picks up a wet newspaper from the floor, revealing a lottery ticket underneath. She slowly lifts her head and peaks over her desk to see if anyone is looking. Matt is across the lobby chatting up a customer. She places the ticket into the middle of a small black notebook in her bag, grabs her belongings and heads for the door.

***

Sandra pulls up in her car in front of her house, exits the still sputtering vehicle and runs inside. She drops her keys on the kitchen table and bounds up the stairs. As she reaches the landing, she hears music in George's bedroom. She opens the door to find George naked, covered with a sheet and handcuffed to the bed. Peggy Doyle stands by the bed, holding a short leather whip in her hand, her fifty-something hips stressing the seams of her pink négligé.

“What the hell is with you and your son and doors?” yells George

“Mrs. Doyle?” says Sandra.

“Well, how are you Sandy? I haven’t seen you in such a long time."

“Uh… fine, thanks. Dad, you need a hobby or something,” says Sandra before storming out the room slamming the door behind her.

George shouts out as she leaves, “Don't tell me what to do. This is my goddamn hobby!”

Sandra can hear her father and Peggy from her bedroom.

“Hobby? Is that what I am?” Peggy says.

“No. That's not what I meant.”

“Well, maybe you do need a hobby. What about golf? Take your damn little putter and balls somewhere else you son of a bitch!”

“Where are you going? Unlock me,” yells George as Peggy leaves the bedroom.

On the way down the stairs, she yells over her shoulder, “Good to see you Sandy.”

“Peggy, I'm sorry. Come back,” George pleads.

Peggy leaves the house slamming the door behind her. There's silence and then the sound of George struggling with the handcuffs.

“Sandra,” says George.

More silence.

“Sandra. I need your help.”

Shielding her eyes Sandra walks out of her bedroom across the hall to George’s bedroom.

“Are you covered?” she asks.

“Yes. The key is on the nightstand.”

Without another word, Sandra unlocks both handcuffs as quickly as possible before exiting.

“I got a promotion. We're moving out,” Sandra says.

“That's probably a good idea.”

Back in her room, Sandra sits on her bed searching the newspaper for lottery information. She pulls the black notebook from her bag and flips through the pages. The lottery ticket drops out and she tosses the book aside. She compares it to the numbers in the paper, which estimates the cash prize at twenty thousand dollars. Sandra covers her mouth to stifle a scream. She grabs her little black notebook again and opens to a fresh page and writes:

May 12, 1980:

- Major change of plans…

- Nailed a promotion!

- “Won” the lottery!!

- I’m MOVING OUT!!!