First draft of The Lottery rewrite into contemporary PDX tech scene

• The morning of June 27th was clear and sunny, with the fresh warmth of a full-summer day; the flowers were blossoming profusely and the grass was richly green.  Citizens of Portland began to slowly gather around the Oregon Vietnam Veteran Memorial at ten that morning, though the event had truly begun two weeks before, census takers making the rounds, collecting slips of paper with Portlanders’ names.

• The box carrying those names now sat on top of the memorial, the children the first to arrive, their bikes piled haphazardly for those who rode, the rest clutching their return trip tickets for the ride back via TriMet and the Max.

• They were all quiet, quieter than you would expect of children, freshly from school, so full of boisterous noise, joie de vivre, and their escape from the confines of stuffy old buildings though most did speak of their classes still.

• Many of the children had pockets full of stones and the others began to gather their own from the little piles carefully maintained by the recently hired Park Ranger.

• Those who had their pockets filled already stood in little knots, mostly segregated by sex though some groups were of both. The mayor’s quintuplets had made a penguin’s nest of stones, guarding them against the predation of other boys.

  The techies began to arrive, talking about venture capital this, sweat equity that, Stock Options, who dealt the best blow, which doctor to see to get their child ritalin without a checkup, the various perks of the companies in their sector, and tax shelters.

  Starbucks cups and Bawls bottles began to litter the ground as the rest of the city began to arrive, the groups segregating themselves into family groups and social groups.

  The lottery was conducted--as were the Cherry City Raves, the Fight Club, the Stumptown All Hallow’s Eve Parade--by Mr. Chuck who had time and energy to devote to civic activities. He ran the titanium reclamation and 3D bike printing business, and people were sorry for him. His wife, a nag of a woman who had miscarried four times--and there were rumors those had happened due to her proclivities when he was out of town—had refused adoption of a child, leaving him heirless and a pitiful thing to behold.

  When Mr. Chuck arrived in the square, the crowds parted as if he were Moses and they were the Red Sea, there was a murmur of conversation among the Portlanders, and he waved and spoke into the microphone, his voice a little pitchy out of the hundreds of PA speakers set up on tactical towers. "Little late today, folks.” 

  The Mayor, Mr. Heil, followed him, carrying a large folding stool, and the stool was put in the center of the Memorial and Mr. Chuck moved the box of names down onto it. The Portlanders kept lots of space between themselves and the memorial and when Mr. Chuck said, “Any ya boys gon' help?” people got quiet and looked around until Mr. Wagner and his eldest son, John, came forward to hold the box steady on the stool while Mr. Chuck stirred up the slips of names within.

  Lost long ago, the original drum for the lottery had been an elephant’s foot with a trap door wired into it. Now, the black box sitting on the stool had been fashioned from a store’s humidor long ago, even before Old Lady Johnson, the oldest woman in Portland, had been born. Mr. Chuck spoke a lot about making a new box, but no one liked to upset the tradition represented by that old humidor. There were tales that the hints of the humidor had been made with the metal grate of the old elephant’s foot that had preceded it. Each year, after the drawing, Mr. Chuck brought up a new box, but year after year the subject was died out with no real comments.

  The humidor got more and more beat up every year: by now it was no longer completely black but scraped and battered badly along the lid, showing the original wood color, and in some places stripped of finish or stained with something.

  Mr. Wagner and his son, John, held the humidor securely until Mr. Chuck had stirred the names up real well with his hand. As most of the ritual had been lost or thrown aside, Mr. Chuck had been successful in having slips of paper substituted for the chips of wood that had been used for generations, but most conceded it due to Portland having such a massive population boom since the Lottery began. Those who couldn’t attend were watching a live cast, beamed to dozens of places around the city. Chips of wood, Mr. Chuck had argued. had been all very well when the city was tiny, but now that the population was more than half a million and growing, they had to use paper. The week leading up to the lottery, Mr. Chuck and Mr. Heil checked off those who had been selected then sent out the requirements for those 1% to come then put their names in the box, and it was then taken to the safe of Mr. Chuck's bike company and locked up until Mr. Chuck was ready to take it to the memorial next morning. The remainder of the year the box was put up, sometimes in the mayor’s office, sometimes in one of the banks; it had spent one year in Mr. Heil's law office and another year underfoot in the main post office and sometimes it was set on a shelf in the Lovejoy Safeway and left there.

  Just as Mr. Chuck ceased his conversation with the Wagners and turned to the Portlanders and cameras, Mrs. Miller came rushing along the path to the monument, her hoodie flung over her shoulder, and slid into place in the back of the crowd. "Clear spaced the date," she said to Mrs. Kissée, who stood alongside her, both laughing softly. “Thought hubs was out back stacking wood," Mrs. Miller continued, "and then I looked out the window and no one was around, and then I remembered the date and came a-running." She dried her hands on her jeans, and Mrs. Kissée said, "You're in time, though. They're still talking away up there. you didn’t set an alarm on your phone?”

  “I did, I’m getting a new one, not here yet."

  Mrs. Miller bounced on her heels to see above the crowd and found her husband and children standing up front, recognizing his roo cap. She tapped Mrs. Kissée on the arm as a farewell and winded her way through the gathering. They shifted apart good-humoredly to let her pass: a few called out in voices just loud enough to be heard across the crowd, "Here comes your Missus, Miller," and "Bill, she made it after all." Mrs. Miller reached her husband, and Mr. Chuck, who had been waiting, said cheerfully "Thought we were going to have to get on without you, Sabrina." Mrs. Hutchinson said grinning, "Wouldn't have me leave m'dishes in the sink, now, would you, Joe?" and soft laughter ran through the crowd as the people stirred back into position after Mrs. Hutchinson's arrival.

  "Well, now," Mr. Chuck said , his tone sobering, “we should get started, get it over with, so we can go back to work. Anybody not here?”

  “Lande." several people said. “Lande. Lande.”

  Mr. Chuck consulted his iPad. “Matt Lande." he said. “Broke his leg, hasn't he? Who's drawin’ fer him?”

  "Me. I guess," a woman said. and Mr. Chuck turned to look at her. "Wife draws for the husband." Mr. Chuck said. "Don't you have a grown boy to do it for you, Janey?” Though Mr. Chuck and most all who watched KATU knew the answer perfectly well, it was the business of the lottery officiant to ask as a formality. Mr. Chuck waited with an expression of polite interest while Mrs. Lande answered.

  “He ain’t even sixteen." Mrs. Lande said softly. "I gotta fill in for Matt this year.”

  "Right." Sr. Chuck said. He made a note on his tablet he was holding as he asked, "Watson boy drawing this year?”

  A tall boy in the crowd moved forward as people stepped aside for him. "Here," he said. "I'm drawing for my ma and I." He blinked his eyes nervously and ducked his head as several voices in the crowd said things like "Good fellow, lack." and "Glad to see your mother's got a man to do it.”

  "Well," Mr. Chuck said, "guess that's everyone. Old Lady Johnson it?”

  "Here," a voice said and Mr. Chuck nodded.

  A sudden hush fell on the crowd as Mr. Chuck cleared his throat and looked at the list. "All ready?" he called. "Now, I'll read the names--heads of families first--and the men come up and take a paper out of the box. Keep the paper folded in your hand without looking at it until everyone has had a turn. Everything clear?”

  The people had done it so many times that they only half listened to the directions: most of them were quiet. wetting their lips. not looking around. Then Mr. Chuck raised one hand high and said, "Adams." A man disengaged himself from the crowd and came forward. "Hi. Steve." Mr. Chuck said. and Mr. Adams said. "Hi. Joe." They grinned at one another humorlessly and nervously. Then Mr. Adams reached into the black box and took out a folded paper. He held it firmly by one corner as he turned and went hastily back to his place in the crowd. where he stood a little apart from his family. not looking down at his hand.