Every paper that you read says tomorrow's your lucky day--
Well, here's your lucky day.
Blur, “The Universal”
Well, here's your lucky day.
Blur, “The Universal”
The first time I ever gambled I subsequently proceeded to aid and abet in a felony. The winter before we graduated from high school, I met up with Mike, Johnny, Parker, Anita, and a few of her friends from the junior class at the bowling alley. It was one of those “rock and roll bowl” nights that the local joint was doing to try to boost its struggling business. The idea was that you paid a flat fee for the entire night from 8 PM to closing, in a darkened alley blasting loud music, so bowling usually devolved into drinking (for the 21-and-up or fake ID crowd) or general high school tomfoolery.
At some point after the third game, I decided to try to win something out of the stupid crane game, most likely in a shitty attempt to impress one of Anita’s friends. I had a fistful of Washingtons ready when I noticed the scratcher machine about ten feet away. I’d never played the lottery—it seemed like such a foolish waste of money. In that moment, I considered the probability of actually snaring a stuffed animal with the crane, and then the conjoint probability of said plan also working, and decided to give my ones to the California Lottery instead. At the very least, I reasoned, my money would go back into California public schools.
I looked at the machine and was confronted with a vast array of choices. Did I want to play Bonus Bucks, Mega Payday, or one of the higher-dollar tickets? I ultimately settled on something familiar-looking: a $1 Wheel of Fortune scratcher. I inserted a dollar and buoyantly pulled the cardboard ticket from the machine as it was dispensed. Lacking coins, I pulled a key from my pocket and scratched off all the spots. I looked at the outcome and hustled down the short flight of stairs and down the alley to our lanes.
“Hanky-Panky, what’ve you got there?” shouted Anita, laughing at my attempt to jog down the narrow, darkened aisle in my baggy Dickies shorts, complete with a heavy leather belt and a wallet chain.
“Scratcher, motherfuckers!” I yelled back, waving the ticket. “That machine up there?” I said, finally reaching them and pointing back toward the stairs. “You put in a dollar and it gives you ten back!”
“If that’s right, then you oughtta go buy ten more tickets with your winnings!” laughed Johnny, above a particularly loud rendition of “Welcome to the Jungle.”
“Dude, I think you’re right!” I laughed back. I turned to go cash in my ticket, but Mike grabbed me by the arm.
“Wait a minute man,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet—attached to a chain, of course—and passed me four particularly rumpled ones. “Buy me four of those.”
“What, can’t leave your girlfriend for two minutes?” I joked. “Come buy them with me.”
“Dude,” he said, quietly and conspiratorially, “I don’t turn 18 for another month. What if the dude up front sees me buying them and asks for ID when I win?”
Obviously, I glossed over his replacement of “if” with “when.” We were not only immortal and on our way to punk rock glory, but also headed for the wealthy life.
“Oh jeez, I didn’t even think of that,” I said back. “All right, I’ll give you five for the price of four, my friend. Do you want the Wheel of Fortune ones?”
“There are other kinds?” asked Mike, continually amazed by his path to fortune. “What are—”
He was cut off by Parker’s declaration of victory. “Hey fuckers, check it out!” he yelled, standing on a chair over us. “Free ticket, and I only had to buy two!”
“LANE 10, GET OFF THE CHAIR,” blared the intercom. Parker jumped down and looked all around.
“Fuck you!” he screamed at no one, over the music. “I’m gonna go get my free ticket now!”
“Uh, hey, Parker,” said Johnny, “you might want to rethink that.”
“Huh?”
“How old are you, dude?” I asked.
“Old enough to commit to go fight some fuckin terrorists!” he shot back.
“Yeah, we’ve heard about that, and last time I checked, you ain’t been to basic,” cracked Johnny. “That guy up there?” he said, pointing to the defeated-looking middle-aged man running the register. “He’s got enough problems without getting in trouble for sanctioning underage gambling.”
“OK, shit, OK,” said Parker. “Will one of you cash this in for me?”
“I’ll do it,” I volunteered. “I’m heading up there anyway and I’ll bring you back your free ticket. But calm the fuck down—you’re gonna get us all kicked out of here.”
“OK, OK,” he nodded. He thrust his grubby ticket into my hand and immediately went back to his fruitless attempts with Anita’s friends.
That night, I believe I bought something close to fifty scratchers on behalf of minors, and redeemed far fewer—putting me somewhere in the ballpark of sixty felonies. Despite the persistent glare of the bowling alley clerk, I was never held to judicial account for these crimes. Economically, however, the band lost something close to $75. But it didn’t matter. We laughed it off. The next time we came back, we were going to hit it big for sure.
At some point after the third game, I decided to try to win something out of the stupid crane game, most likely in a shitty attempt to impress one of Anita’s friends. I had a fistful of Washingtons ready when I noticed the scratcher machine about ten feet away. I’d never played the lottery—it seemed like such a foolish waste of money. In that moment, I considered the probability of actually snaring a stuffed animal with the crane, and then the conjoint probability of said plan also working, and decided to give my ones to the California Lottery instead. At the very least, I reasoned, my money would go back into California public schools.
I looked at the machine and was confronted with a vast array of choices. Did I want to play Bonus Bucks, Mega Payday, or one of the higher-dollar tickets? I ultimately settled on something familiar-looking: a $1 Wheel of Fortune scratcher. I inserted a dollar and buoyantly pulled the cardboard ticket from the machine as it was dispensed. Lacking coins, I pulled a key from my pocket and scratched off all the spots. I looked at the outcome and hustled down the short flight of stairs and down the alley to our lanes.
“Hanky-Panky, what’ve you got there?” shouted Anita, laughing at my attempt to jog down the narrow, darkened aisle in my baggy Dickies shorts, complete with a heavy leather belt and a wallet chain.
“Scratcher, motherfuckers!” I yelled back, waving the ticket. “That machine up there?” I said, finally reaching them and pointing back toward the stairs. “You put in a dollar and it gives you ten back!”
“If that’s right, then you oughtta go buy ten more tickets with your winnings!” laughed Johnny, above a particularly loud rendition of “Welcome to the Jungle.”
“Dude, I think you’re right!” I laughed back. I turned to go cash in my ticket, but Mike grabbed me by the arm.
“Wait a minute man,” he said, reaching into his pocket. He pulled out his wallet—attached to a chain, of course—and passed me four particularly rumpled ones. “Buy me four of those.”
“What, can’t leave your girlfriend for two minutes?” I joked. “Come buy them with me.”
“Dude,” he said, quietly and conspiratorially, “I don’t turn 18 for another month. What if the dude up front sees me buying them and asks for ID when I win?”
Obviously, I glossed over his replacement of “if” with “when.” We were not only immortal and on our way to punk rock glory, but also headed for the wealthy life.
“Oh jeez, I didn’t even think of that,” I said back. “All right, I’ll give you five for the price of four, my friend. Do you want the Wheel of Fortune ones?”
“There are other kinds?” asked Mike, continually amazed by his path to fortune. “What are—”
He was cut off by Parker’s declaration of victory. “Hey fuckers, check it out!” he yelled, standing on a chair over us. “Free ticket, and I only had to buy two!”
“LANE 10, GET OFF THE CHAIR,” blared the intercom. Parker jumped down and looked all around.
“Fuck you!” he screamed at no one, over the music. “I’m gonna go get my free ticket now!”
“Uh, hey, Parker,” said Johnny, “you might want to rethink that.”
“Huh?”
“How old are you, dude?” I asked.
“Old enough to commit to go fight some fuckin terrorists!” he shot back.
“Yeah, we’ve heard about that, and last time I checked, you ain’t been to basic,” cracked Johnny. “That guy up there?” he said, pointing to the defeated-looking middle-aged man running the register. “He’s got enough problems without getting in trouble for sanctioning underage gambling.”
“OK, shit, OK,” said Parker. “Will one of you cash this in for me?”
“I’ll do it,” I volunteered. “I’m heading up there anyway and I’ll bring you back your free ticket. But calm the fuck down—you’re gonna get us all kicked out of here.”
“OK, OK,” he nodded. He thrust his grubby ticket into my hand and immediately went back to his fruitless attempts with Anita’s friends.
That night, I believe I bought something close to fifty scratchers on behalf of minors, and redeemed far fewer—putting me somewhere in the ballpark of sixty felonies. Despite the persistent glare of the bowling alley clerk, I was never held to judicial account for these crimes. Economically, however, the band lost something close to $75. But it didn’t matter. We laughed it off. The next time we came back, we were going to hit it big for sure.
$ $ $ $ $ $ $
“Oh, I’ve come close a couple of times, off by just one on a couple of the numbers!” oozed Nelson. He was bouncing up and down on his feet, presumably from the second 44-ounce soda he was working on.
“Oh dear, that has happened to me so many times,” laughed the elderly woman on the other side of the counter. “I figure I’ve put in so much money over my life, I’ve got to win it soon, right?”
“Uh-huh,” said Nelson. “That’s why I play now. The more you play, the better your odds!”
Nelson did not play the lottery. He knew that one’s odds of capital-w Winning were essentially zero, regardless of the number of tickets they buy—near-zero times any number is still near-zero. Nelson did, however, like to play the lottery customers.
“Now I started just buying Quick Picks, but I’ve come to believe that it’s not really random. Every time I got one of my grandkids’ ages, I noticed I got more numbers.”
“Yeah?” prompted Nelson, on the balls of his feet.
“So now I do a Quick Pick, one with my birthdate and my husband’s put together, and one with my five grandkids’ ages,” she finished.
“Wait, so what do you do about the Mega Number?” I asked from the grill, where I was changing out the lunch hot dogs for the afternoon selection of rollables.
“I always pick 1,” she said. “I figure if it’s my lucky day, 1 makes sense.”
“I like that!” said Nelson. “I’m going to have to put one together with my birthdate, my girlfriend’s, and our anniversary.” Nelson did not have a girlfriend.
“Aren’t you the sweetest! I hope you win someday!”
“Thanks, ma’am!” chirped Nelson. “And I know you’re going to win someday soon,” he said in a syrupy drawl.
“So here are those numbers,” she said, reaching into her bag for a ratty piece of paper. “I want those two and a Quick Pick, dear.”
“You got it!”
I diverted my attention back to the grill. Ron had come in earlier with an armful of cardboard signs advertising pizza rolls for $0.99, fresh off the rollers. He made it clear that Nelson and I were to display the signage prominently throughout the store, because he’d tried the pizza rolls and thought that they had the potential to be real big sellers. The stains on his strained, short-sleeved, 1970s-era button-down implied that Ron may not have been the world’s greatest gourmand, but that he was likely in touch with the sensibilities of those who would eat at the 24-Mart, so we rolled our eyes and silently got to it. I was completing the job by finally getting these faux-Italian flauta monstrosities ready for consumption.
The door chimed. In walked one of our regulars who routinely ate the 24-Mart food.
“Afternoon, everyone,” he said.
“Hiya, Sam,” replied Nelson. As always, Sam looked like a caricature out of 1960s Alabama. His graying hair was cropped high and tight, and his important items were perfectly kept in the pocket of his crisp, short-sleeved button up, which was tucked into his jeans. The only thing out of place was his pair of gleaming white Kirkland Signature tennis shoes. And as expected, he moved purposefully to the Lotto counter.
I don’t know if they still exist, but for the uninitiated, most 24-Marts have (or had) a small counter sponsored by the California lottery. Few people ever notice them, in part because they tend to be small and tucked away, but mostly because no one would ever think to look for one. If you want a Scratcher or a Quick Pick, you just go straight to the main counter. And, really, most people who have specific numbers in mind just ask the clerks to print those tickets directly. The Lotto counter is for the most hardcore of players—those who demand bubbling in their own six numbers to be run through the scanner at the main counter, and who don’t want to expose their fortune to the possibility that some bumbling clerk foils their best laid plans.
I watched as Sam stood with unbelievably perfect posture at the counter, deliberately pulled a notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket, and focused on the task at hand. The woman at the counter, waiting for Nelson to process her tickets, chimed in, “Well you sure have a system over there!”
“Oh yes,” replied Sam. “I’ve been following the numbers for over a decade now, and I’m pretty close to a solution.”
“Oh really?” she asked. “I always thought it was random and I was just the silly one picking my own numbers.”
“I don’t want to say too much,” drawled Sam, measuredly. “And it’s not perfect yet. But there’s definitely a reason to it.”
“Well don’t hold back on us too much!” piped in Nelson.
“All I can say is, pay attention to the first numbers announced after the Fourth of July. Those are pretty far from random,” chuckled Sam knowingly.
“OK, wait,” I called out from the grill. “How do you explain the whole TV show where they draw the balls from the machine?”
Sam laughed. “Youth!” he shouted. “If they faked a moon landing they can definitely fake this.”
“Yeah, Hank,” chided Nelson. “I’m shocked you believe everything you were taught in school, punk rocker.” He handed the woman at the counter her tickets. “Here are your Quick Picks, and here are your others. Have a lovely day, ma’am, and don’t forget me when you win big!”
“Oh, don’t you worry!” she replied. “I wouldn’t want that karma.”
Nelson laughed. She shuffled toward the door. The door chimed. I evaluated the grill. It seemed sufficiently full for the afternoon and was already giving off the unmistakable aroma of frozen pizza, so I shuffled back toward the counter, where Nelson was slurping the final drops of his Diet Coke, certain to return to the fountain sometime soon.
“So wait,” I said. “Sam, if you know all about this stuff, who killed JFK?”
“It was Johnson and the CIA, right?” interrupted Nelson, practically jumping over the counter.
Sam laughed again. “In a quarter-century there will hardly be anyone left to tell the truth, with what they’re teaching you kids in school.”
“So the Cubans?” I asked.
“You’re thinking too small, son,” he chuckled. “But at least along the right lines. The Rooskies were the only ones capable of carrying out that operation.”
“Makes sense,” I humored him.
“Yeah. I mean, Ruby was as Jewish as they come, right?”
I suppressed an inward groan and looked over at Nelson, whose sparkling eyes met mine as he erupted in laughter.
“In any case,” said Sam, striding toward the counter, “they got what they wanted. Civil unrest at home, American kids dying in Nam. Nothing’s been the same since.”
Nelson’s eyes were decidedly less sparkly as we made brief eye contact again. Sam approached the counter, furrowed his brow at the two of us, and handed me his Lotto sheets.
“You’re asking the right questions, even if you don’t know anything yet,” he said. “But keep at it. And, heck, working here, you’re going to catch on to how the Lotto works faster than most of us.”
I ran Sam’s sheets through the scanner and his fourteen tickets began printing. Without being prompted, he handed me a twenty and two ones, and I dispensed his two dollars in change.
“Oh, pizza rolls!” he said, noticing the tented advertisement on the counter. “I’ll take two,” he said, sliding his ones back across the counter.
“Ah, Sam, I hate to break your heart, but I just put those on so they’re gonna be cold for a bit longer. The hot dogs on the left are in their prime though.”
“OK,” he said, leaving the dollar bills on the counter. “I’ll take two of those. Leave the change,” he gestured toward penny tray. “But I can smell those pizza rolls, and you’d better have some warm ones next time I’m in, you hear me!”
“You got it, Sam!” barked Nelson as he joined Sam in the back of the store to refill his soda.
I watched as Sam dressed his hot dogs impeccably: a line of mustard on the left, a line of ketchup on the right, and a dollop of relish in the middle of each, folding them with care into 24-Mart branded foil.
“Gentlemen,” he said, nodding as he passed the counter. We bid our farewells. The door chimed. Nelson began cackling.
“Who the fuck even are these people?” he laughed.
“Why do you encourage them to throw their money away on this shit?” I asked.
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“Sell them their shit quietly like a normal fucking human?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asked. “Seriously. How else do you get through this job?”
“Yeah, I mean, I get that the irrationality is hilarious, as a rational observer,” I posited. “But you’re actively encouraging them to throw their money down the drain.”
“How do you know that’s what they’re doing?” he retorted.
“What do you mean? The odds of winning are astronomically low. You know that.”
“Yeah but what if they get something out of it even if they don’t win?”
“What the fuck do you mean? They lose $2 every time they come in and buy a ticket.”
“Think about it this way,” he started. “That old lady? She’s got grandkids who probably don’t visit her. Coming in here is the highlight of her day, regardless of whether she wins or loses. So why not make it fun?”
“You’re Nelson Peters, right?” I asked. “The guy who laughed for three straight minutes in a pitch-black high school theater after Sarah McMullin’s wardrobe malfunction in the Spring musical? The guy who got suspended for baiting our eighth-grade teacher into a knock-knock joke involving ‘ligma’?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I am. And that’s the same guy who revels in selling lottery tickets and cigarettes to idiots.”
It made sense, and there wasn’t much I could say in response, so I just laughed. Nelson started laughing too. We laughed for over a minute until the door chimed and Nelson had to sell a pack of Camels to a tweaker.
The tweaker left. The door chimed.
“So you know that Sam lives in his van, right?” asked Nelson.
“No way,” I said. “Dallas said as much last week but also admitted it was just a rumor.”
“Yeah, but deep down you know it’s true, right?” asked Nelson, still giggling.
I considered the evidence. Sam looked put together, but was also crazy as shit. He didn’t wear a wedding ring. I knew nothing else about the man, but I was willing to go on base rates.
“Rumors are usually exaggerations,” I said. “There’s no way that guy’s homeless. Look at how crisp his shirts are!”
“Just because he knows someone with an iron doesn’t mean he doesn’t live in his van,” countered Nelson.
“If that motherfucker lives in his van, I’ll eat a whole box of pizza rolls,” I said.
“You really want to take that bet?” asked Nelson.
“Why not?” I asked. “He drops way too much on the lottery to be homeless. And anyway, it’s not like there’s any way for us to find out for sure, one way or another.”
Famous last words.
The next week, Sam came in and went through the usual routine. I didn’t think anything of it, but Nelson announced that he was going on break just before Sam came in. I vended Sam’s tickets and briefly chatted with him about the ins and outs of the moon landing case before bidding him adieu. After the door chimed, Nelson came back into the shop bearing a triumphant look.
“Get ready to eat some fuckin pizza taquitos, bitch,” he announced.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Remember how you said you’d eat a box of pizza rolls if Sam lived in his van?”
“Yeah?”
Nelson reached into his back pocket and pulled out a digital camera. “Evidence, bitch. Get to eating!” he laughed.
I grabbed the camera from him and started mashing buttons. As the photos sped through the screen, it became apparent that I would not need dinner. Nelson had snuck out to Sam’s van and taken pictures through an open window, which revealed very clearly that Sam lived there at least part-time.
“Sam’s living in a van DOWN BY THE RIVER and Hank’s eating pizza rolls until he pukes!” cackled Nelson.
“Uh… did it ever occur to you that you’re celebrating a man’s poverty?” I asked.
“Did it ever occur to you to lick my balls?” retorted Nelson. “Now get to the pizza rolls.”
He took pity on me and let me stop after five, mostly because we didn’t want to have to explain to Ron why we wrote off an entire box. Of course, I had to verbally agree that I was, in fact, a pussy to get Nelson off my back for the rest of the shift. But even worse, I had to admit… the pizza rolls were actually pretty good.
“Oh dear, that has happened to me so many times,” laughed the elderly woman on the other side of the counter. “I figure I’ve put in so much money over my life, I’ve got to win it soon, right?”
“Uh-huh,” said Nelson. “That’s why I play now. The more you play, the better your odds!”
Nelson did not play the lottery. He knew that one’s odds of capital-w Winning were essentially zero, regardless of the number of tickets they buy—near-zero times any number is still near-zero. Nelson did, however, like to play the lottery customers.
“Now I started just buying Quick Picks, but I’ve come to believe that it’s not really random. Every time I got one of my grandkids’ ages, I noticed I got more numbers.”
“Yeah?” prompted Nelson, on the balls of his feet.
“So now I do a Quick Pick, one with my birthdate and my husband’s put together, and one with my five grandkids’ ages,” she finished.
“Wait, so what do you do about the Mega Number?” I asked from the grill, where I was changing out the lunch hot dogs for the afternoon selection of rollables.
“I always pick 1,” she said. “I figure if it’s my lucky day, 1 makes sense.”
“I like that!” said Nelson. “I’m going to have to put one together with my birthdate, my girlfriend’s, and our anniversary.” Nelson did not have a girlfriend.
“Aren’t you the sweetest! I hope you win someday!”
“Thanks, ma’am!” chirped Nelson. “And I know you’re going to win someday soon,” he said in a syrupy drawl.
“So here are those numbers,” she said, reaching into her bag for a ratty piece of paper. “I want those two and a Quick Pick, dear.”
“You got it!”
I diverted my attention back to the grill. Ron had come in earlier with an armful of cardboard signs advertising pizza rolls for $0.99, fresh off the rollers. He made it clear that Nelson and I were to display the signage prominently throughout the store, because he’d tried the pizza rolls and thought that they had the potential to be real big sellers. The stains on his strained, short-sleeved, 1970s-era button-down implied that Ron may not have been the world’s greatest gourmand, but that he was likely in touch with the sensibilities of those who would eat at the 24-Mart, so we rolled our eyes and silently got to it. I was completing the job by finally getting these faux-Italian flauta monstrosities ready for consumption.
The door chimed. In walked one of our regulars who routinely ate the 24-Mart food.
“Afternoon, everyone,” he said.
“Hiya, Sam,” replied Nelson. As always, Sam looked like a caricature out of 1960s Alabama. His graying hair was cropped high and tight, and his important items were perfectly kept in the pocket of his crisp, short-sleeved button up, which was tucked into his jeans. The only thing out of place was his pair of gleaming white Kirkland Signature tennis shoes. And as expected, he moved purposefully to the Lotto counter.
I don’t know if they still exist, but for the uninitiated, most 24-Marts have (or had) a small counter sponsored by the California lottery. Few people ever notice them, in part because they tend to be small and tucked away, but mostly because no one would ever think to look for one. If you want a Scratcher or a Quick Pick, you just go straight to the main counter. And, really, most people who have specific numbers in mind just ask the clerks to print those tickets directly. The Lotto counter is for the most hardcore of players—those who demand bubbling in their own six numbers to be run through the scanner at the main counter, and who don’t want to expose their fortune to the possibility that some bumbling clerk foils their best laid plans.
I watched as Sam stood with unbelievably perfect posture at the counter, deliberately pulled a notepad and pen out of his shirt pocket, and focused on the task at hand. The woman at the counter, waiting for Nelson to process her tickets, chimed in, “Well you sure have a system over there!”
“Oh yes,” replied Sam. “I’ve been following the numbers for over a decade now, and I’m pretty close to a solution.”
“Oh really?” she asked. “I always thought it was random and I was just the silly one picking my own numbers.”
“I don’t want to say too much,” drawled Sam, measuredly. “And it’s not perfect yet. But there’s definitely a reason to it.”
“Well don’t hold back on us too much!” piped in Nelson.
“All I can say is, pay attention to the first numbers announced after the Fourth of July. Those are pretty far from random,” chuckled Sam knowingly.
“OK, wait,” I called out from the grill. “How do you explain the whole TV show where they draw the balls from the machine?”
Sam laughed. “Youth!” he shouted. “If they faked a moon landing they can definitely fake this.”
“Yeah, Hank,” chided Nelson. “I’m shocked you believe everything you were taught in school, punk rocker.” He handed the woman at the counter her tickets. “Here are your Quick Picks, and here are your others. Have a lovely day, ma’am, and don’t forget me when you win big!”
“Oh, don’t you worry!” she replied. “I wouldn’t want that karma.”
Nelson laughed. She shuffled toward the door. The door chimed. I evaluated the grill. It seemed sufficiently full for the afternoon and was already giving off the unmistakable aroma of frozen pizza, so I shuffled back toward the counter, where Nelson was slurping the final drops of his Diet Coke, certain to return to the fountain sometime soon.
“So wait,” I said. “Sam, if you know all about this stuff, who killed JFK?”
“It was Johnson and the CIA, right?” interrupted Nelson, practically jumping over the counter.
Sam laughed again. “In a quarter-century there will hardly be anyone left to tell the truth, with what they’re teaching you kids in school.”
“So the Cubans?” I asked.
“You’re thinking too small, son,” he chuckled. “But at least along the right lines. The Rooskies were the only ones capable of carrying out that operation.”
“Makes sense,” I humored him.
“Yeah. I mean, Ruby was as Jewish as they come, right?”
I suppressed an inward groan and looked over at Nelson, whose sparkling eyes met mine as he erupted in laughter.
“In any case,” said Sam, striding toward the counter, “they got what they wanted. Civil unrest at home, American kids dying in Nam. Nothing’s been the same since.”
Nelson’s eyes were decidedly less sparkly as we made brief eye contact again. Sam approached the counter, furrowed his brow at the two of us, and handed me his Lotto sheets.
“You’re asking the right questions, even if you don’t know anything yet,” he said. “But keep at it. And, heck, working here, you’re going to catch on to how the Lotto works faster than most of us.”
I ran Sam’s sheets through the scanner and his fourteen tickets began printing. Without being prompted, he handed me a twenty and two ones, and I dispensed his two dollars in change.
“Oh, pizza rolls!” he said, noticing the tented advertisement on the counter. “I’ll take two,” he said, sliding his ones back across the counter.
“Ah, Sam, I hate to break your heart, but I just put those on so they’re gonna be cold for a bit longer. The hot dogs on the left are in their prime though.”
“OK,” he said, leaving the dollar bills on the counter. “I’ll take two of those. Leave the change,” he gestured toward penny tray. “But I can smell those pizza rolls, and you’d better have some warm ones next time I’m in, you hear me!”
“You got it, Sam!” barked Nelson as he joined Sam in the back of the store to refill his soda.
I watched as Sam dressed his hot dogs impeccably: a line of mustard on the left, a line of ketchup on the right, and a dollop of relish in the middle of each, folding them with care into 24-Mart branded foil.
“Gentlemen,” he said, nodding as he passed the counter. We bid our farewells. The door chimed. Nelson began cackling.
“Who the fuck even are these people?” he laughed.
“Why do you encourage them to throw their money away on this shit?” I asked.
“What else am I supposed to do?”
“Sell them their shit quietly like a normal fucking human?”
“Where’s the fun in that?” he asked. “Seriously. How else do you get through this job?”
“Yeah, I mean, I get that the irrationality is hilarious, as a rational observer,” I posited. “But you’re actively encouraging them to throw their money down the drain.”
“How do you know that’s what they’re doing?” he retorted.
“What do you mean? The odds of winning are astronomically low. You know that.”
“Yeah but what if they get something out of it even if they don’t win?”
“What the fuck do you mean? They lose $2 every time they come in and buy a ticket.”
“Think about it this way,” he started. “That old lady? She’s got grandkids who probably don’t visit her. Coming in here is the highlight of her day, regardless of whether she wins or loses. So why not make it fun?”
“You’re Nelson Peters, right?” I asked. “The guy who laughed for three straight minutes in a pitch-black high school theater after Sarah McMullin’s wardrobe malfunction in the Spring musical? The guy who got suspended for baiting our eighth-grade teacher into a knock-knock joke involving ‘ligma’?”
“Yeah,” he said. “I am. And that’s the same guy who revels in selling lottery tickets and cigarettes to idiots.”
It made sense, and there wasn’t much I could say in response, so I just laughed. Nelson started laughing too. We laughed for over a minute until the door chimed and Nelson had to sell a pack of Camels to a tweaker.
The tweaker left. The door chimed.
“So you know that Sam lives in his van, right?” asked Nelson.
“No way,” I said. “Dallas said as much last week but also admitted it was just a rumor.”
“Yeah, but deep down you know it’s true, right?” asked Nelson, still giggling.
I considered the evidence. Sam looked put together, but was also crazy as shit. He didn’t wear a wedding ring. I knew nothing else about the man, but I was willing to go on base rates.
“Rumors are usually exaggerations,” I said. “There’s no way that guy’s homeless. Look at how crisp his shirts are!”
“Just because he knows someone with an iron doesn’t mean he doesn’t live in his van,” countered Nelson.
“If that motherfucker lives in his van, I’ll eat a whole box of pizza rolls,” I said.
“You really want to take that bet?” asked Nelson.
“Why not?” I asked. “He drops way too much on the lottery to be homeless. And anyway, it’s not like there’s any way for us to find out for sure, one way or another.”
Famous last words.
The next week, Sam came in and went through the usual routine. I didn’t think anything of it, but Nelson announced that he was going on break just before Sam came in. I vended Sam’s tickets and briefly chatted with him about the ins and outs of the moon landing case before bidding him adieu. After the door chimed, Nelson came back into the shop bearing a triumphant look.
“Get ready to eat some fuckin pizza taquitos, bitch,” he announced.
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Remember how you said you’d eat a box of pizza rolls if Sam lived in his van?”
“Yeah?”
Nelson reached into his back pocket and pulled out a digital camera. “Evidence, bitch. Get to eating!” he laughed.
I grabbed the camera from him and started mashing buttons. As the photos sped through the screen, it became apparent that I would not need dinner. Nelson had snuck out to Sam’s van and taken pictures through an open window, which revealed very clearly that Sam lived there at least part-time.
“Sam’s living in a van DOWN BY THE RIVER and Hank’s eating pizza rolls until he pukes!” cackled Nelson.
“Uh… did it ever occur to you that you’re celebrating a man’s poverty?” I asked.
“Did it ever occur to you to lick my balls?” retorted Nelson. “Now get to the pizza rolls.”
He took pity on me and let me stop after five, mostly because we didn’t want to have to explain to Ron why we wrote off an entire box. Of course, I had to verbally agree that I was, in fact, a pussy to get Nelson off my back for the rest of the shift. But even worse, I had to admit… the pizza rolls were actually pretty good.
