Jackpot Jack: A London Farce. Tatiana Bazhan

4: A Park Bench Conversation

      Jack was having a bit of a day, finally. Not a bad day, mind you, just one of those days where he felt like a wilted lettuce left out in the summer sun. He was perched on the park bench, feeling about as significant as a misplaced apostrophe, when he spotted him: the businessman. The proper one, all sharp suit and shiny shoes, radiating an aura of success like a freshly polished brass kettle.

      Seeing this beacon of achievement, Jack felt a surge of confidence, a feeling as rare as a sunny day in November. It was like a rusty engine sputtering to life. This was his moment! He would expound on the virtues of higher education, like a university professor giving his inaugural speech. He puffed out his chest, a bit like a robin trying to look bigger than it actually is, and launched in.

      “Remarkable thing, education, isn’t it?” he began, his voice a tad too loud, like a foghorn in a teacup. “Opens doors, you see. Doors to opportunity, doors to … wealth! The more doors you have, the more rooms there are to roam around in, right?”

      The businessman, a chap who looked like he could buy and sell Jack ten times over before elevenses, merely nodded, his expression as blank as a freshly laundered sheet.

      Jack, undeterred, ploughed on. “A degree is like a golden ticket, a passport to a life of … stability! A steady job, a rising salary, climbing that ladder of success, rung by rung! A nice house, mortgage paid off in record time, the works!” He gestured wildly, nearly knocking over a passing pigeon.

      “Right,” said the businessman, his voice a low rumble.

      Jack, feeling like he was finally getting through, pressed his advantage. “It's a foundation, isn't it? A solid foundation to build upon. Without that education, you're just … adrift, like a boat without a rudder. Going around in circles, ending up back where you started.”

      The businessman kept listening but his thoughts were far away from Jack’s enthusiastic ramble. He was thinking about his granddad and the well-established business he had left behind. Then he thought about all those hours his father had been teaching him how to play poker at a very young age. All that practice, not without his dad encouraging him to drop out of school as soon as possible, made him not finish even the fifth grade.

      Finally, as Jack paused for breath, the businessman spoke, a slight smile playing on his lips. “Education, eh? Funny thing, that. I suppose it’s good for some.” He then opened his briefcase, pulled out a fat cigar, and lit it with a gold lighter, the flame reflecting in his perfectly polished shoes.

      He thought, “Education indeed, but what do you know, Jack … Some are just born lucky!”

      Chapter 5: The Bankrupt Beneficiary

      Jack whose optimism grew as relentless as a dripping tap on a tin roof, skipped down the lane, his heart lighter than a feather pillow stuffed with dandelion seeds. Of course, he'd just encountered his soulmate! So, with the gusto of a town crier announcing a royal birth, Jack wished him “eternal prosperity!” and continued his merry way towards the Chess Club.

      The Chess Club, for Jack, wasn't about the chess. Oh no. He couldn't tell a rook from a rambler rose. It was the spectacle, the human drama, the sight of men contorting their faces into expressions of profound, yet ultimately pointless, concentration that truly tickled his fancy. Inside, the air hung thick with the odour of stale pipe tobacco and desperation, a blend as potent as a magician's potion. He spotted him then: the Old Man with the Trembles. His hands shook like leaves in a hurricane and his eyes darted about like frightened sparrows. His chess game was, to put it mildly, a disaster. Even Jack, whose strategic prowess peaked at remembering which end of a spoon to use, could see the man was playing with the skill of a badger attempting brain surgery.

      “Terrible game,” Jack chirped, oblivious as ever. “You're throwing away your queen like she's an old sock!”

      The Old Man sighed, a sound like air escaping a punctured bicycle tyre. “Got only five hundred dollars left, lad,” he muttered, his voice shaky. “Five hundred … for the rest of my life.”

      And that, dear reader, was Jack's cue. He puffed up like a prize pigeon, his moral compass spinning wildly. “Five hundred dollars! Good heavens, man! You need a proper job! Stability! A career! It's the only way to secure your retirement, you see. A pension is your life raft in the sea of old age!” He gesticulated wildly, nearly knocking over a table laden with half-empty teacups. He ranted and raved, a whirlwind of unsolicited advice, practically accusing the poor old fellow of financial recklessness. “You can't just drift through life, like a ship without a rudder, hoping for the best! Work! Save! Plan!”

      The Old Man merely sat there, a silent, stoic statue amidst Jack's theatrical storm. He said nothing, his gaze fixed on the chessboard, no doubt plotting his next spectacularly ill-conceived move.

      As Jack, finally exhausted, prepared to leave, feeling rather pleased with himself for his impromptu lecture on fiscal responsibility, the Old Man looked up, a flicker of something – perhaps amusement, perhaps despair – in his watery eyes. “You know, lad,” he rasped, “I worked. Fifty-eight years, without a holiday, without a sick day. Clerk at the bank, I was. Solid, reliable. But …” he paused, a dramatic beat worthy of the West End stage. “… today, I learned my pension company went bust. Bankrupt. Gone. Vanished.”

      And with that, the Old Man turned back to his chess game, leaving Jack standing there, his jaw hanging open like a broken hinge, his rosy optimism deflated like a punctured balloon. The irony, dear reader, was as thick and rich as clotted cream, and decidedly less palatable.

      Chapter 6: Unexpected Fortune

      Jack whose intellect could generously be described as “rustic charm,” emerged from the Chess Club looking like a thundercloud in trousers. He’d just endured a conversation with the old Mr. Henderson, a man whose chess skills were only surpassed by his knack for losing his meagre savings to unscrupulous investment schemes. Jack's heart, as soft as a marshmallow in a furnace, writhed with righteous indignation.

      “It's the government, I tell you!” he muttered, his voice a low rumble like distant thunder. “Blind as bats, they are, with their pockets lined with gold! They don't care a fig for the working man!”

      His internal monologue soon spilled into the streets, escalating from a grumble to a full-blown bellow. “Greedy gits!” he roared, his face turning a shade of crimson that would make a beetroot blush. “They wouldn't know a hard day's work if it bit them on their well-padded bottoms!”

      Just as Jack, lost in his tirade, was about to waltz across the red light, a booming voice stopped him in his tracks. “Hold it right there, sir!”

      A police constable, looking as solid as a brick wall, stood before him. '”Name, please?”

      “Jack,” our hero mumbled, “Just Jack.”

      The constable's face lit up like a Christmas tree. “Jack, you say? Jack … Good heavens, it is you! We've been looking for you for a fortnight!”

      Jack, usually invisible as a grain of sand on a beach, was baffled. “Looking for me? Whatever for? Did I park my bicycle in a restricted zone without knowing?”

      “Restricted zone? No, no, nothing like that!” the constable beamed. “The Mayor himself put out the word! There's a reward, a hefty one, for Jack. You, sir, are a hero!”

      “A hero?” Jack echoed, his jaw slack. “But I’ve never charged into a burning building! Or rescued anyone from a runaway train!”

      “Not a runaway train, no,” the constable chuckled. “But you did rescue Mrs. Taylor's tabby, Whiskers, from that oak tree last month! The poor thing was stranded, mewling like a banshee, and you, Jack, climbed right up and brought him down. The Mayor saw the whole thing! He was touched! He declared you an honorary citizen and has insisted on giving you some compensation.”

      Jack,