“You have to go to a convenience store,” Betsy said, in lieu of a greeting. “Now.”
Sisters speak in code. I understood immediately we were discussing the Lottery.
“How big is the pot?” I asked. I was on my way to the health club. It being January, I had a resolution to keep.
Guilt-ridden disclosure. My family is in the health club business. “Making it to the club more often” is thus never part of my New Year’s resolution. There is no reason for me to be out of shape, other than that I’m human, and lazy, and so gifted at making excuses that I could go into politics.
So yes, I was on the way to the health club. But my resolution had nothing to do with working out. I’d resolved to cut my hair, and the salon is at the club.
Betsy’s voice crackled over the phone. She was calling from Utah, which is why she needed me for the transaction. “It’s just over $610 million. I’m in for $20.”
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A gas station loomed ahead of me. “If you’re in, I’m in. I’ll get two tickets and call you back so we can set up the rules.”
We always have rules. We love rules. We don’t play until the pot is over $600 million.
I walked into the Deerfield BP. “I’d like to buy the winning lottery ticket for Powerball please.” Rule number one is to ask for the winning ticket. “I’m willing to buy 19 non-winners, too.”
Three others came in to buy tickets while I loitered at the counter. I explained to each that I’d just purchased the winner, but they were undeterred and bought tickets anyway. I felt kind of bad, watching them throw away their cash, but hey, I’d warned them.
Back in the car, I called Betsy. “Got ’em. I’ve marked one with my name, one with yours.” Rule number two: immediately identify, in ink, whose ticket is whose. I paused, snapped a picture of the labeled tickets, and texted her the image. “How are we playing?”
Rule three: Determine how to divide the spoils ahead of the draw.
We could each claim a ticket and have winner take all. I’m not good at sharing, so this always appeals to me.
The downside of not sharing? If Betsy holds the winning ticket, my happiness for her good fortune would be crushed by my mean-spirited, green-headed, poisonous envy.
“Well,” Betsy began, “if the jackpot goes up to $630 million, and we split the payout, we’d each get about $225 million. Could you live with that?”
I could. Certain of the outcome, we agreed to split the winnings.
Incredibly, we didn’t win. Instead of conceding, I applied the civics lesson I’d learned in 2021.
“We didn’t win because the draw was fraudulent. Which Attorney General do I call to fix this?”
Thanks to falsely losing at Powerball, I understand the allure of alternative reality. Who needs integrity? I’m claiming we won.
Sally Schwartz is a freelance columnist.