When Enough Is Enough

Skeeter “Bubba” Thibodaux, a burly bus driver, ended his shift early on Sunday nights to buy a lotto ticket and a case of beer at the Piggly Wiggly before its closing.

Mondays, his day off, he sat on the same vinyl barstool at the Seedy Lemon Saloon, the only honky-tonk in his neck of the woods, while the lottery numbers crawled across the wide-screen TV. Budweiser on draft, beer nuts aplenty. Hope served simple.

Sometimes his reveries about winning big were so small they barely counted as dreams. New tires for his old Ford F-150 to haul his campground trailer through the scenic bayous. Trailer windows that didn’t rattle him awake, and bathroom linoleum without duct tape fixes. Maybe a woman who’d stick with him without an angle.

When Hank Williams Jr.’s “Cajun Baby” crackled from the jukebox, Bubba sang along softly, blinking through tears and longing for the girl he once left behind. Loneliness swells up in choruses.

Dixie “D,” the buxom bartender manager, studied Bubba the way some gamblers guard cards. She saw potential. She fantasized about owning the Seedy Lemon Saloon and had mentally placed all her eggs in Bubba’s eventual basket of winnings. With a wink and a smile that promised more than it gave, D would slip him a free beer now and then, or a basket of fries drenched in beef-debris gravy.

Bubba noticed she lingered only when the lotto crawl was on. His tips always included the cost of goods. He was a man who knew no debts.

Now Bubba did possess a knack for luck: winnings from scratch tickets, and several hundred dollars on occasion from slots and video poker at the Lagniappe Lounge in town. And despite his appearance – the camo T-shirts and high-water pants stretched over his wide girth – Bubba was thick in thought, if slow in gait. No one’s fool.

He overheard the regulars at the Seedy Lemon – led on by Dixie D – snickering behind his back. Skeeter the Eater. Blubber Bubba. Crybaby Cajun. Dixie never stopped them. Sometimes she laughed first. A man could survive mockery. What he couldn’t survive was believing it.

Then came the lucky Monday when Skeeter “Bubba” Thibodaux’s ticket matched every number in the Louisiana Lottery. He didn’t grin, holler, or cry. He did not buy a round for the house. He finished his beer and headed to the men’s room. When the jukebox kicked up and the john was empty, he locked the stall and pressed his palms against the door. The long, primal howl he made echoed off the cracked tile.

Fifteen million!

He came in the next few Mondays solid as a fencepost in red clay. Same barstool, same Bud, same patient silence. Dixie poured heavy and smiled wider, but Bubba kept his eyes on the TV, his thoughts deep as a coal mine.

Then one day, Bubba vanished. The regulars pestered Dixie D for weeks, having lost the target of their drunken scorn, but she swore she knew nothing. Months went by, then a year. Time moved on the way it does when nobody important is missing.

One night after the last call, Dixie locked the Seedy Lemon and drove home. By dawn, the sheriffs were pounding on her door. The saloon had burned hot and fast – no spreading, no neighboring damage – like the fire knew its boundaries, same as Bubba always had. Nothing left but smoke and rumor.

The sheriffs didn’t believe Dixie’s story and brought her in for questioning on arson charges. Not wanting to be caught up in the investigation, the regulars scampered like mice in a barn full of cats.

And as fast as a tick can jump on a deer’s ass, with smoldering ashes barely cooled, a Baton Rouge businessman bought the site. A new bar rose up quick as lightning.

On opening night, the music of a live band spilled out to the street while customers elbowed to get in. The owner – lean, pressed clothes, unfamiliar – strolled in with a lovely lady. When champagne flutes lifted around him, he raised a longneck Budweiser to cheers.

Champagne budget for sure, but Bubba realized the satisfaction of reprisal tasted as good as a cold beer. Sometimes enough is enough.

Outside, the image of a flaming bird lit up the neon door sign: PHOENIX RISING.

BIO: Kathleen "Kat" Mulvihill is a former print and TV journalist who has reported in the Los Angeles, New Orleans, and Boston news markets. She put aside the serious news stuff and now pokes at politics and contemporary culture. Her work has been published in Literary Garage, Little Old Lady Comedy, Flash Phantoms, The Haven, Haikuniverse, and elsewhere. Kat is a Massachusetts native who lives in the New Orleans area where she hibernates during the Big Easy’s tropical summers, emerging refreshed in fall and winter.