Chapter Three

BarCat's place of residence is the Zodiac Bistro. The bar is frequented by witches and all manner of magical folks. Not all of them are the brightest bulbs in the box.

Barcat's usual perch is on the bar right next to the waitress' pickup area, where he has a good chance of snatching a drink occasionally when no one is looking. Every evening, just before the crowd gathers, he takes his place and watches. And listens.

This particular night the man sitting next to him was bitching to the bartender about his wife. Words like bitch, skank, witch, and more come pouring out of the man's mouth as he continues to pour more shots and beer into it. He rambled on about how he wished he was dead so he didn't have to go home and listen to her shrieking.

The TV was on at the bar, and they talked about the large amount of money in the weekly lottery. BarCat thought it was time to scrounge for tidbits and drinks when the man says, "I wish I won the lottery. I'd show her. Collect the money and run off and leave her high and dry. That bitch deserves nothing."

BarCat looked at the man. You would think he was smirking if you didn't know any better. BarCat said nothing, looked the man straight in the eye, and granted his wish. Then he jumped off the counter and proceeded to wander the bar.

The man finished his drink, checked his wallet for money for another drink, and found it almost empty. It contained two dollars, enough to buy a lottery ticket. He got up and staggered out of the bar. On his way home, he bought a lottery ticket.

A week later, the same man came in and sat at the bar. He ordered shots and beer and blathered on and on about how he had won the lottery. Two hundred and fifty million dollars, he keeps saying. And he keeps drinking. BarCat is in his usual perch and thinks, gee, for a guy who won so much money, you would think he would at least buy everyone a drink, including me.

After a bit, he told Pete, the bartender, that he would come around next week after collecting his winnings from the lottery and tip him, but tonight he ran out of money. And he nearly falls off his stool, trying to stand up. BarCat looks at the dumbass tripping up the stairs and trying to push the pull door, and if you didn't know any better, you would almost think he was smiling.

The man lived three blocks from the bar and walked back home that evening, using the parking meters to hold himself up. As he crossed West 16th Street, he never noticed the garbage truck come around the corner from 8th Avenue. Nor did he probably feel it.

Pete was reading the newspaper a few days later when he saw the article. He read it out loud to BarCat because he thought the cat would be interested. Seems the asshole who never tipped him had died of injuries from a traffic accident. His wife found a lottery ticket in his wallet, and when she looked into it, she found out she was a winner of two hundred and fifty million dollars. The guy wasn't making up a story that night; he had actually won.

The paper gave the place and time of the services, and his widow requested that, in lieu of flowers, please donate to the local animal shelter. She would also make a substantial donation to her husband's memory. The paper said she was fond of cats. Pete scratches BarCat's head, looks around, sees no one watching, and gives the cat a shot of whiskey.

This time, BarCat did smile. After all, the man got everything he wished for.