The Purple Handbag

Olivia Malcom loathed everything about her job, especially the fact that she had to have one in the first place. When she was married to Harold, she never dreamed the day would come when she’d be reduced to this. If it hadn’t been for a few affairs with totally worthless creatures, she could’ve come away from that marriage with money. But Harold had been heartless and now she was forced to humiliate herself among such common women as those seated around her.

What was worse, it was she who, because of the ridiculous little matter of seniority, was expected to do everything menial. Olivia, make the coffee. Olivia, take the mail to the post office. Olivia, water the plants. Olivia this Olivia that. Today, being Thursday, it was her duty to take the money they’d collected to the lottery machine and punch in a few winning numbers, ha ha.

Ha ha right. If she did punch any winning numbers today – or any other Thursday – she would kiss that little job and every one of their asses good friggin bye.

She grabbed her coat and her new purple handbag that everyone had given her such a hard time about. Well, it matched her shoes perfectly and what would any of those people know about style, anyway? She pursed her lips and sucked in her breath, remember how they’d teased her about it, and huffed out of the office.

“Olivia, bring back a winner!” someone called after her. She could hear muffled laughter.

Fly a kite, she thought, but said nothing except to let out an ugly yelp because just then her left heel caught on the mat and she nearly fell down the stairs and killed herself. She should sue these people!

Five o’clock traffic threatened to crush poor Olivia as she made her way to the lottery machine. The jackpot was large, and a long line of rude people preceded her. Not one offered to let an old woman in. Huffily, she marched to the end of the line.

Eventually, it was her turn. She took out her list and began punching the first of ten tickets, including three random and her own. Each woman used a different set of numbers but everyone planned to share the jackpot if they won it. Olivia knew that wouldn’t happen, for she would be on her way to Mexico with all the money before anyone could shout Hallelujah!

Wouldn’t you just know a gang of ruffians would be on her bus again! Green hair, blue hair, holes punched everywhere even through tongues, disgusting little rings attached. Spiked collar around the neck like a dog, for crying out loud. She despised young people today. Not an ounce of decency among them. The one with safety pins in his ears jumped up and gave her his seat. How disgusting, having to sit in the same seat as trash like that, but Olivia was tired. She glared at the boy, studied the seat, and finally, with a shudder, plopped down. She set her purple handbag on her lap and frowned remembering the comments it had received.

“Thank you, too,” he said. She did not give him the satisfaction that she noticed. Piece of trash. Hell would be filled with his kind.

“Nice old lady,” blue hair said to pin ears.

“Leave her alone. She don’t know better.”

That got her attention. “Doesn’t,” she said.

“Excuse me?”

“She doesn’t know better.”

The freaks whooped and punched each other, laughing. Olivia’s face burned. “Why don’t you just….just shut up?” she managed.

The bus had stopped and someone was getting off. Blue hair grabbed Olivia’s new handbag and held it above his head. “This is me shutting up,” he yelled and tossed the bag to dog collar, who pitched it out the closing door.

Olivia tried to get up. “Stop this bus!” she screamed. “My handbag…” but the bus jerked and Olivia Malcom toppled to the floor, exposing puckered, white flesh. Pin ears tried to help her to her feet, but she shook him off. “Get away!”

When the bus finally stopped, she limped off, but the purple handbag was nowhere to be seen. People walked or loitered as though nothing had happened. Her handbag, her handbag! Oh, what should she do? She sat on a curb and cried until a police officer helped her home.


“Hey, Gracie!” Old Jack shouted as he joined her. “Nice purse you got there, honey.”

The bag lady smiled and adjusted the purple strap over her shoulder. She did look fine, didn’t she? As usual, the two stopped at the bins outside Saint Laura’s Hospital and retrieved their supper. Thursday always meant turkey sandwiches. The nice thing about Saint Laura’s was the kitchen help left the food in neat little packages when they tossed out the trash. Old Jack and Gracie stood by the dumpster and ate their sandwiches. There was plenty today, so after supper they took all they could carry.

“I see you went shopping today,” Old Jack said, laughing loudly, as they walked back to Tent Town. He knew that Gracie got all of her things from curbside trash or the bins. She was a beautiful mix of flowered cotton, shining taffeta and holey wool, and layers of it for Gracie wore everything she owned, always.

She smoothed her stubby fingers over the shining purple purse and smiled shyly.

“You better put that strap over your head,” Old Jack said, “otherwise somebody’s gonna grab it.”

Gracie did as she was told. When they arrived at Tent Town, which was just a few make-shift shelters near the bridge, someone hooted,”Woo hoo! Look at our Gracie!”

Some children ran up and held out dirty little hands. Old Jack reached into Gracie’s cart for sandwiches and little cartons of dated milk, which wasn’t soured yet. The children grabbed their food and ran away to eat. Old Jack set out the rest of the food so people could get it.

The new young couple picked up sandwiches. “Nice purse,” the man said.

“You didn’t get that outta no trash bin,” his girlfriend added, eyeing the purse as she opened her sandwich wrapper.

Gracie held the purse close. Old Jack hovered near. Able bodied young folks who sat by the freeway holding up signs that made false claims would be just as likely to steal from anyone.

“What’s in it?” the young man asked.

“Nothing!” Gracie lied, and leaned against Old Jack for protection. That night, Gracie and Old Jack slept close, protecting the purple purse between them.

In the morning, they went in search of breakfast. McDonald’s was a good place to find leftovers. If people left cups on the table, they’d get hot coffee from the serve-yourself pot and often they’d pick up an abandoned newspaper.

Today they stood in line like everyone else and paid for their food. Afterward, Jack left for his daily round of phone booths and ash trays while Gracie strolled over to the park to see if her friends were out. She wanted to show off her new purse.

“Here comes the bag lady,” whispered Nella Mae. “I hope she’s had a bath at last.”

“And where would she do that?” Lou answered, leaning close. Then in a louder voice, “Good morning, Gracie.”

Gracie stood in front of them, leaning at an angle so that the purple purse could be seen.

“What’s this?” asked Lou.

Gracie smiled and patted the treasure that hung around her neck. “It’s new,” she said, watching their faces for reaction.

“Come over here, Gracie.” Nella Mae stood to make room for the bag lady to sit on the park bench next to Lou, then backed away, holding her breath.

Gracie sat down and opened the purse. “Money,” she pronounced, grandly.

“How about identification?” asked Nella Mae, stepping carefully forward just a pace, screwing up her face. Gracie snapped it closed.

“May I look?” asked Lou. Nella Mae stepped back to watch.

Reluctantly, Gracie slipped the strap off her neck and handed the purse to her friend.

“Someone lost this,” said Lou.

“No!” Gracie cried. “It flew down!”

“From where?” Nella Mae inquired, staying well back.

“Out of the sky. From God. I caught it!”

“Oh, Gracie,” said Lou. “Is God’s name Olivia Malcom, do you think?”

The bag lady looked confused. “What?”

“That’s what is written on the lining. Olivia Malcom it says and there’s a phone number, too.” Gracie’s face fell and she reached for the purse.

“Write it down,” coaxed Nella Mae. “Isn’t there a pen in there? I see some papers, write it down, Lou.”

There was a stack of little papers with numbers on them. Lou took one, wrote on it and tucked it into her pocket. Then she gave the purse to Gracie. “You have to give this back,” she explained.

“No.” Gracie clutched the purse to her bosom.

“Yes, Gracie. It belongs to this Olivia Malcom. I’ll phone her.”

Without a word, Gracie emptied the contents of the purse into Lou’s lap, draped the purple strap over her neck and left, pushing her heavy cart back toward the park’s entrance.

“Gracie!” called Lou, but the bag lady did not turn back.

Friday evening the telephone rang and a voice Olivia didn’t recognize told her that her handbag had been found by someone named Gracie who lived in Tent Town. Gracie had kept the handbag, but the contents were safe. Olivia was tired and her body hurt from the fall she’d taken, so she said to have a cab driver deliver it. Probably not a smart move, she thought, to give a stranger one’s address, but that was the best she could do tonight.

“Tell the cab driver he’d better not steal any money,” she said, “and you’d better not either,” she warned before hanging up.

Within an hour a sack containing the contents of her handbag was delivered. She demanded that the driver wait while she took inventory. She sighed and shook her head when she realized that one of the lottery tickets – her own, in fact – as well as three dollars and ninety six cents was missing. The bag lady must have stolen it, she muttered, as she slapped the ten dollar fare into the waiting driver’s hand before slamming the door. Tomorrow she’d find Gracie The Bag Lady and demand her money, her ticket and her handbag!

Saturday. She hobbled painfully out of bed and nursed her wounds, wondering if she could sue the transit company for the terrible fall she’d taken even though she could produce no witnesses and the driver had not seen the incident. Why was life so unfair to an old woman, she wondered. And then she remembered the lottery tickets.

Searching the newspaper, she discovered that the grand prize had been won. She read off the numbers, and fainted. When she awoke on the floor, she realized that not only had her very own numbers won the jackpot, but the ticket with those numbers was in her purple handbag. She would find that bag lady if it was the last thing she ever did! Meanwhile, she had a flight to Mexico held in her name.

By Friday evening, Old Jack had a dollar and sixty cents in his pocket gleaned from phone booth change. His little pouch contained fresh cigarette butts. He’d spend some time this evening scraping them into a little pile so he and Gracie could enjoy a smoke together tomorrow. He’d picked up some odds and ends of paper to roll their cigarette. It was their treat. They’d go to the park, roll a cigarette and share a Saturday smoke.

Gracie was even more quiet than usual as they foraged at Saint Laura’s. Tuna on Friday. One good thing, there was orange juice in little cartons for the kiddies. Old Jack loved to surprise the children. “I had to give it back,” Gracie said, as they nibbled their supper.

Jack saw the purse draped around her neck. “Give what back, honey?”

She opened the purse and he saw that it was empty. “They said I had to give the purse, too.” There were tears in Gracie’s eyes as she caressed the shiny purple bag. Jack kept on eating his sandwich but his face turned hard.

“Who said that?” he demanded.

“Lou and Nella Mae. They took the phone number. They called Olivia Malcom.”

That name sounded familiar. Where had he heard it? “Olivia Malcom,” he repeated. “Who is she?”

“The purse. It’s hers!”

“I wonder where I heard that name,” Old Jack pondered, scraping a rough hand over his scratchy chin. “Someplace, that’s for sure.”

Tears slipped down Gracie’s cheeks and he wiped them with his shirt. “We’ll have our smoke tomorrow, Gracie,” he offered, to comfort her. Gracie managed a little smile and blew her nose on his shirt tail. “That’s my girl,” Old Jack said.

Saturday, the two sat side by side on the park bench nearest the water. Gracie watched Old Jack prepare their cigarette. “What’s this?” he said, examining one of the papers and then remembered where he’d seen the name Olivia Malcom. “This is the name, right here,” he said. It was written on the back of a lottery ticket he’d found at a phone booth. Let’s have ourselves a little smoke on Olivia Malcom, shall we?” He bellowed at his own joke. Gracie snickered and nodded her head.

Carefully, Old Jack spread tobacco across the ticket, then for strength added a couple more pieces of paper, moistened the whole thing with his tongue, rolled it up and sealed it tightly.

“You!” a voice screeched. “Bag lady!” They turned to see a small, mean-looking woman hobbling toward them. “That’s my handbag you’re wearing!”

Old Jack stood. Gracie noticed the purple shoes. “Olivia,” she said sadly, taking the strap from her neck.

“Give me that!” Olivia Malcom grabbed the purse and opened it. “Where’s my ticket?” she demanded. “Give me my ticket, you thief!”

Old Jack lit the handmade cigarette and smiled. “Care for a smoke, Olivia?” he asked.

“You are disgusting! WHERE IS MY TICKET?”

Old Jack inhaled, then handed the little cylinder to Gracie. “I believe it was left in a phone booth,” he said to Olivia, smoke curling lazily from his nostrils, “when that lady phoned you.” Gracie nodding her agreement, closed her eyes and savored a long, pleasant drag.

“Oh, my god!” screamed Olivia Malcom, throwing the handbag on the ground. “It was the jackpot!” She hurried out of the park in search of phone booths.

Old Jack smiled at Gracie. “This here is a mighty expensive smoke, honey,” he said. When they had finished, Old Jack picked up the purple purse, wiped it off with his shirt sleeve, and arranged it lovingly over his sweetheart’s shoulder.

“No one, not even a millionaire, has had such a smoke as we had today, Gracie.”

Sending one last thin trail of smoke toward the sky, the bag lady beamed into her hero’s face. As they strolled together back to Tent Town, Old Jack pushed Gracie’s cart while her stubby fingers gently caressed the purple purse that was hers forever to wear.

Harry Beats the Odds

Harry fingered the money in his pocket: one hundred and twenty dollars, his final unemployment benefit. If this didn’t work out, he’d have to do something desperate.

The line in front of the mall’s lottery window stretched a city block but he had nothing better to do with his afternoon. There were three and a half million dollars in the jackpot. Harry needed that money.

He still couldn’t believe he’d paid four hundred dollars for a worthless set of real estate tapes. The guy made it sound like all anyone had to do was listen to those tapes, do what they said and get instantly rich. He didn’t mention passing a State exam first, or that it required near genius IQ.

Those tapes had sold like…well, like lottery tickets, except they cost four hundred each. The guy had walked away with – Harry figured it out – around twenty thousand dollars.

That was when Harry decided to make some tapes of his own, about worm farms.

“You buy some rabbits and grow your worms in the pellets, sell the bunnies, feed the world nutritious worms!”

But articles were printed saying that Bucky’s Burgers used worms instead of ground beef and people quit buying Bucky’s Burgers. There went his worm business and the tapes along with it.

Now he had furry little rabbits all over his garage and dozens of useless worms. He’d put up a sign on his front lawn, I HAVE WORMS! But not one fisher stopped to buy any.

He was afraid to look in his garage now. Every time he did there was a new crop of rabbits and it wasn’t anywhere near Easter. He couldn’t afford this.

He had to win! He closed his eyes and tried to picture himself with the winning ticket. Harry believed in Visualization. That was one seminar that had been worth the money. You close your eyes and picture whatever it is you want and you’ll get it. He pictured himself very clearly, and was just about to visualize winning when someone pushed him and shouted, “Hey, buddy, move along.” He stumbled forward and closed his eyes again.

“Ain’t no use praying,” said a fellow passing by. “Your chances of winning are slim to none.”

Harry glared and said, “Well, they’re better than yours.”

The fellow laughed and walked away. Two ladies in front of him stared at Harry. Finally one of them said, “He’s right, you know. We have more chance of getting hit by lightning than of winning the three and a half million”

“If you feel that way, why don’t you give it up and go shopping?”

The women shrugged. “Like you said, if we don’t buy a ticket, we have no chance. This way, we’ll have one in oh a few billion.”

“Besides,” added the other, “it’s a fun way to spend the day, don’t you think?”

Harry didn’t. He didn’t like their pessimism, either. Positive thinking was important. He’d learned that in the visualization seminar. “I’m going to win,” he said, closing his eyes.

This wasn’t going to be like that Fresh Way thing last spring. He’d lost all his friends because of Fresh Way. He shouldn’t have lied to them, he supposed, but who would’ve come if he had admitted that he wanted them to sell cleaning products?

Funny how everything had seemed different that weekend at the Hilton. He had felt certain that Fresh Way would be his salvation. In the heat of the moment, he’d leapt to his feet, along with a couple thousand other Fresh Way converts, waved his arms and shouted, “I’m a winner with Fresh Way! You’re a winner with Fresh Way! Everyone’s a winner with Fresh Way!” But in fact he had only lost with Fresh Way. It had been a difficult year.

The guy behind was pushing on him again. “Look, fella, either move along or get out of line.”

Harry peeked through partially open eyes and stepped forward.

“You’ve already let two people cut in front of you,” the guy said. “Maybe you don’t care, but the rest of us do.”

Sure enough, the young couple in front of him hadn’t been there before. “You two should go to the end of the line,” said Harry, “just like we had to do.”

They ignored him. “You are very rude young people.” They snickered and looked at each other, but didn’t acknowledge Harry. Harry turned to the fellow behind him, “Why didn’t you say something earlier?” he asked.

“You blaming me?”

“No, but you should have said something.”

The fellow turned his attention toward the ceiling. Harry looked up but saw nothing except an enormous skylight with some pigeons around the edges. He sighed, thinking of his own birds, wondering how they were.

He’d never left them for this many hours before. At a thousand bucks each, he couldn’t afford for anything bad to happen to those birds. That bird deal was one that, if it had worked out, would’ve put him on Easy Street by now. Don Patton, who didn’t need the money had gotten fifteen thousand dollars’ worth of baby birds, but Harry’s hadn’t even laid an egg. Not one!

It wasn’t fair! The whole thing had been Harry’s idea. If Patton was any kind of friend, he’d have given Harry a cut.

“They’ll probably lay next year,” Patton said.

There was also the possibility that Harry’s birds were both males or both females. “It’s real hard to tell,” admitted the salesman.

“You should’ve told me that before I bought two useless birds!” Harry had yelled.

Another couple tried to join the one in front of him but this time Harry was watching. “Oh no you don’t! You go to the end of the line!” The couple squeezed in front of their friends, who pushed back against Harry to make room.

“Hey!” the guy behind Harry shouted, “You kids can’t do that.”

“Oh yeah, Pops? Looks like we did.”

Harry looked at the fellow behind him and nodded. Then they grabbed the boys and pulled them out of the line. The girls giggled and started walking away. “Come on,” they said, “let’s get out of here.” The boys hesitated, then shrugged and joined their girlfriends.
Harry liked the guy now that they had become partners. “Say,” he asked, “you ever thought of growing mushrooms?”

“Nope.”

“I hear there’s big bucks in mushrooms,” said Harry, who was eighth in line now.

The fellow raised his eyebrows. “Me, I don’t want nothin’ that means work. Give me the big winner today and I’ll die a happy man.”

“Well,” said Harry, “we can’t all win it.”

A woman in front of him turned around. “Just as likely to get hit by lightning. Know what your chances of that are?”

Harry glared at her. He didn’t need this.

The woman persisted, “One in millions.”

“Good,” said the old man. “I never did want to get hit by lightning, did you, son?”

Harry shook his head and tried to bring back positive thoughts, but the woman wouldn’t shut up.

“Which is ten times greater,” she said, “than your chances of winning the lottery.”

Harry was beginning to feel nervous. He turned to the fellow behind him. “I’ve been thinking about mushrooms,” he said, but the guy wasn’t listening.

They had reached the window. The women bought their tickets. Harry couldn’t believe they’d waited all this time for one lousy ticket each. “Good luck,” they said to Harry and the old man.

“Thanks. Good luck to you,” the old man replied. Harry wouldn’t say it. There could only be one big winner, and it had to be him.

Finally, it was his turn. He handed over the one hundred twenty dollars. As Harry’s tickets printed out the old man started acting impatient. “After all that, there’s not much use me trying,” he complained.

But Harry noticed that he did. He’d probably win with his measly ten bucks. Or maybe those women, who didn’t care one way or the other, would win with their one ticket each. The positive feeling was gone. He had been a fool!

There was no other way. He’d have to pull off a robbery. As he headed for the Circle-K, a drop of rain fell on his nose. The sky, like his mood, had darkened.

There was no one in the store, except the clerk. Harry walked up to the counter. Keeping his right hand in his jacket pocket, he shaped his fingers like a gun and pushed his pocket at the clerk. “Give me all your money,” he said.

Harry could tell the kid was feeling around under the counter. “Don’t press no alarms,” he warned, “or I’ll shoot.”

The kid stepped back. “We don’t keep very much money in here.” His fingers shook as he fumbled in the register.

A car drove up. “Hurry!” said Harry.

The kid took a handful of bills from under the change drawer and handed it to Harry. “That’s all there is,” he said. “Honest!”

Harry watched the people get out of the car. “Get down on the floor.”

The kid looked scared. “Don’t shoot me!”

“Shut up and lay still!” The people were coming up the walk. Harry shoved past them, jumped into his car and sped away.

Rain was pouring so hard he had to turn on the wipers. He looked at the wad of bills on his lap. It wasn’t nearly enough. He’d never been so depressed.

He watched TV until they announced the winning numbers, then started checking his tickets. He’d tossed seventy two of them into the trash, when he found what he’d been waiting for. He read the ticket again, rubbed his eyes and read it one final time. Then he started to dance around and to shout, “I’ve won! I’ve won! This is it! I’m rich!”

He was celebrating so loudly that he didn’t hear the doorbell. He didn’t see the squad cars in his driveway, but remained blissfully unaware of the officers until they bashed in his door, thrust half a dozen revolvers at his face, and shouted, “Freeze!” Harry clutched the winning ticket.

“Open your hands, flat against the wall!”

“Let me put something into my pocket!” he begged, but someone pushed him and the ticket fell to the floor. He tried to reach for it, but an officer shoved his wrists into a pair of handcuffs.

“You have the right to remain silent.”

Tears sprang to his eyes. “I did it, but…”

“If you give up your right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

“…I was desperate!”

“You have the right to an attorney…”

“I can afford one!” He kicked at the winning ticket. “Please put that into my pocket,” he said.

An officer picked up the ticket and jammed it into Harry’s shirt pocket. “Go on,” he said, pushing Harry toward his shattered front door.

Rain was sheeting down. Harry bent forward to protect his ticket from getting soaked.

“Helluva storm,” the officer said, reaching to unlock the back door.

In that single, blinding instant, a bolt of lightning found poor Harry and nailed him to the pavement. As he went down, a thin piece of paper fluttered from his shirt pocket.

It was later announced that some lucky person held the winning lottery ticket. Unfortunately, the three and a half million dollar prize was never claimed.