Lottery Ticket

Lottery Ticket

It was all over the news: Unclaimed Lottery Ticket Worth 44 Million Set to Expire Soon.

The posts and articles and segments detailed where the winning the ticket was purchased, along with the winning numbers.

He had a routine of filling his car for the weekend at the Sunoco on Friday. Sometimes he bought a lottery ticket.

The Friday of the 44 million dollar drawing, he bought a ticket and put it in his pocket. He regarded it as a frivolous investment. He was a man of some means, so he could do that.

That night, he went out drinking.

He came home, threw off his clothes, leaving the ticket in his pocket.

Sunday morning, he washed and dried the pants.

Monday morning, preparing for work, he found the crinkled wad of the ticket in the pocket.

Most of its ink had washed away.

He massaged the hardened mass to no avail.

As he delicately picked and peeled at the wrinkled, cremated lump, it flaked apart.

That afternoon, he found an article proclaiming a winning ticket for Friday’s lottery had been sold.

He didn’t remember the exact numbers on his decimated ticket, except for the numbers 50, the year his father was born, and 7, his lucky number. And the Mega Number: 13.

He remembered 13 because it’s supposed to be unlucky.

He remember those numbers from his ticket, thinking, at the time, maybe the luck of 7 would outweigh the unluckiness of 13.

That Monday, he read the Mega Number of the winning ticket was also 13. And, of the other five winning numbers, two of them were 7 and 50. He read the winning ticket was sold at the same Sonoco where he’d purchased his.

So he couldn’t be sure if the winning ticket had been his. But he feared that it was.

He feared, but he refused to panic. He decided there was no use in fretting. It was best, he believed, to try to forget. He decided he could pass through life just fine without ever knowing.

He was sure a claimant to the prize would reveal himself. It might even come to pass without his knowing, since he decided, in that moment, to forget.

Months passed unremarkably and the ticket was left unremembered. To aid his forgetfulness, he quit buying lottery tickets on Fridays.

He’d left it in the past, until it resurfaced. Like a specter, it resurrected in the news and online, as the expiration on the winning ticket from the March 4th drawing grew close.

Again, he tried to ignore, but couldn’t.

In the days before the winning ticket was set to expire, he craved for someone to step forward to claim the prize.

For he knew, if nobody claimed the prize, he’d forever live in doubt, confusion and regret.

And he was afraid of anymore doubts and regrets.

He realized if nobody came forward to claim that prize, he’d have to come to terms with the likelihood of having lost 44 million.

He wondered how to best handle such a loss.

There’d be days, he knew, of needing to defend against the bitterness and resentment of being foolish enough to have left the ticket in his pants pocket.

The articles said if the money wasn’t claimed, the prize would go to the public schools.

He thought, At least my loss will go to a good cause. There’ll be some consolation in that.

He also knew there’d be days and nights when that consolation wouldn’t be enough.

He knew there’d be countless restless nights of “what if’s.”

He knew for the rest of his life he’d always wonder how things might have turned out if he hadn’t left that ticket in his pocket.

What could his life have been as the winner? One of a descent into unbridled hedonism? A life of refined luxury? A life of philanthropy? The virtuous life of a stoic, common man multi-millionaire? He also knew the stories of winners tormented by people who felt entitled to a piece of their good fortune. He could almost taste the guilt from those who were sure to come crawling out of the woodwork looking for their share.

He also knew he’d have to decide who to tell, if anyone at all, about the wasted ticket.

Would they even believe him? If so, would they regard him as the fool he was sure to regard himself as? Would their knowing only add to his shame at being so careless? Would they, too, forever regard him, behind his back, as a loser?

Or, should he keep it all inside? Should he never share his regret and shame? His confusion?

He knew there were dangers in swallowing too many regrets. He believed in the power of exorcism.

He knew the acceptance of this life-altering loss would affect him. Maybe, if others knew, it would explain to them the changes. If they knew, maybe they would understand.

So he wondered with who, if anyone, he might one day share the secret. Who could he trust? Who wouldn’t blab? In whose eyes wouldn’t he read the disappointment? The same disappointment he’d feel for himself, but would need to overcome? Who else might accept his loss without punishment and judgment? In whose subtle tones and inflections might he find the calm and resignation he’d need? Who else could he trust to advise him, without the consideration of his loss to themselves?

He knew his own nature. He knew the not knowing – all the questions of potentialities lost – would forever torment him.

Perhaps, he even wondered, this will be the thing that drives me to religion. And maybe that’s what I’ve needed all along.

He thought about priests and psychologists and anyone else he might lay the burden of his confusion upon.

He even thought, I shouldn’t worry so damned much. This won’t be enough to break a sturdy man.

But he knew that was false, for he already felt and feared the cracks.

He weighted the many thoughts against each other. But these attempts at fortification only served to confuse.

He prayed there’d be a winner.

He told himself, If someone comes forward to claim the prize, I must not be envious. I must not be jealous. I must be thankful, for their winning will also be mine.

Could he be resentful of another’s gain of the 44 million? He realized he could. Though it would confirm the prize was never his, he’d tormented himself over the prospect that it might. And wasn’t that anguish worth something?

Of course, there is always a reason for resentment and envy.

Instead, he feebly committed to accepting the salvation in another person’s gain.

As the ticket’s expiration loomed, his mind grew plagued.

Again, he prayed for someone to come forward and accept the prize.

The expiration date finally came and the ticket went unclaimed.

He drove to work, knowing he had some difficult decisions to make.