I was standing in line at the lottery machine, behind a gentleman clearly far more experienced than I at the lottery thing. Not only did he purchase a Powerball ticket, which was the reason I was in line, he was also purchasing a dizzying array of scratch-offs. This wasn’t really a problem for me, or wouldn’t have been had he not taken the time to complete the scratchers whilst blocking the line.
Finally, it was my turn.
I inserted two dollars in cash to purchase one play of Powerball. The machine also took credit and debit cards but, as I am single-handedly attempting to maintain the paper money system, I was more than happy to use non-electronic money for the purchase.
Moments later, my Powerball numbers were dispensed through a slot on the front of the machine. I walked out of the store absolutely sure I would win, even though I only purchased one ticket and the odds of winning are something like a bazillion to one. I’m just that lucky, I told myself.
Returning home, I left the ticket in a place of honor—on the bookshelf where I generally left my wallet. By maintaining this habit, I rarely forgot my wallet before leaving, and therefore the winning lottery would remain at the forefront of my field of vision. And indeed, there it was, the edges ever-so-lightly sticking out from underneath the billfold, just waiting to become the winning ticket.
The drawing was only a couple short days away, so my planning time was limited. What would I do with all that money? I had some ideas.
First thing would be to enrich all of my friends and family. Everyone would have enough money to pay off/purchase a house, buy that new car they’ve always wanted, and have a crapload of money in the bank. Most importantly, they would have sufficient funds to travel the world should they desire to do so . . . which leads me to the second thing:
Travel.
First order of business is to buy an awesome condo or townhouse in San Sebestian, Spain. San Sebastion is the home of Pintxos, which is essentially gourmet tapas. Or tapas on steroids. Feel free to pick your own analogy. In my fantasy, the condo is in the Old Town section of the city, overlooking the water. Oh, and there’s only a little Basque separatist stuff going on when I’m there. A little is ok.
Whilst looking for a condo, I’d also be studying up on sailboats. A sloop is my preference, no less than forty feet long, with a nice galley. I would definitely hire a cook and a masseuse. I already know how to sail.
The boat would live in Florida, or some other comparable section of the East Coast. Preferably some place within easy driving distance of Cincinnati, where my dog lives. Oh, and the boat would mainly be used to sail to Bimini or Key West or Cuba; or really anywhere Hemingway liked to drink. Any Hemingway place accessible by boat, that is.
Obviously, I would take my private jet to his places overseas, like Spain and Paris.
Finally, the day of the drawing came. I did my best not to think about it. Knowing the odds are a bazillion to one made that easier. But still . . . I had some pretty interesting plans on how to spend the money. Certainly God, or the Universe, or the Collective Subconscious would reward me for my financial acumen, desire to enrich others, and my love of Hemingway. Indeed, in my head, these things constituted a lethal combination of altruism, commerce, and love of the written word. How could I lose?
The drawing came and went. I did not check to see if I won, choosing instead to enlarge my plans for the money that was most assuredly coming my way. After all, even if I didn’t win this time, I would win the next. The pot was getting bigger every day, as were my plans. Next on the hit parade:
The Cincinnati Streetcar.
Surely there would be enough money to flesh out the streetcar route into new neighborhoods. In fact, the people of Cincinnati would be so grateful for this largesse that they would, eventually, name the streetcar after me. And why not? The Scott Cincinnati Streetcar has really great alliteration. It flows off the tongue like something by Longfellow or Whitman.
No.
What was I thinking?
Expanding the Cincinnati Streetcar? That was for the small-minded. What would really be amazing, would be the rebirth of the Cincinnati Subway. Currently a hundred-year-old, sort of half-loop buried beneath Central Parkway, the subway brought back to life would truly catapult the city into the top tiers of the country’s transportation and economy.
All it would take was something like, I don’t know, bazillions of dollars?
Perhaps out of reach but, I must say, the Scott Memorial Subway has a nice ring to it. After I’m dead, of course.
I allowed the day of the drawing to come and go, fearful my hubris at the thought of winning was exactly that. If I didn’t win, that was fine. The real problem would be knowing I didn’t win. Knowing I didn’t win would mean the end of all my grandiose plans. Knowing I didn’t win meant I would have to face reality.
No gifts of cash and prizes to my family and friends.
No forty foot sailboat.
No private jet or condo in Spain.
And, perhaps worse of all, no Scott Memorial Subway.
I gathered my courage. I would have to look eventually, after all. If I was going to be rich or, conversely, if I was going to have to continue living on my comparatively meager salary, the truth would win out whether I looked or not.
I won two dollars.
I used the two dollars to buy another ticket.
Scott Memorial Subway, here I come.