Jackpot

Fight the truth as you may
there are two kinds of people
in the world:

those who buy lottery tickets

and those who've accepted their bad luck.

Why is it that I often find myself
plagued by the stubbornness of the former
usually when I'm in a rush to be somewhere?
They fumble with their numbers
dates of births, deaths
marriages and divorces
driving convenient store clerks mildly insane
with their onslaught of losing picks
that will ultimately fund State highway construction.
It's a sad dance that's more painful to watch than perform.

There wasn't enough gas in my tank
to get to work this morning so I stopped
at the station at the end of my road.
I was already running a little late
but figured I could make up for lost time by passing
a few crawling sedans despite the double-yellow.
Filling up took longer than expected.
I strode inside deliberately to pay and get back on the road.
There were two people in line ahead of me
after I grabbed a bottle of orange juice and a buttered roll.
I saw the flimsy tickets in their hands.
My hopes of being on time to work died.
I wondered why anyone would buy lotto tickets at 6:30 a.m.
The rest played out like a script I wouldn't fire my agent over.

Middle-aged man, graying at temples: "What's it up to?"
Kid behind counter: "Twenty-seven Mil."
Man, between sips of coffee: "I hope I'm back here to claim it tomorrow."
Kid, half-heartedly: "Good luck."
Middle-aged woman, rotund: "I thought you said it was five numbers."
Kid behind counter, shifting gears: "It's four."
Woman, authoritatively: "I want my money back."
Kid, perturbed: "The machine won't let me do that."
Woman, offended: "But you lied to me. These aren't my Lucky Numbers!"
Kid, sarcastically: "I'm sorry, you must've heard me wrong."
Woman, authoritatively again: "I want to speak to your manager."
Kid, from finish line: "He's not here."
Woman, grasping at straws: "What time will he be in?"
Kid, killing time: "Nine."
Me, stepping forward with cash in hand: "Here's forty-two bucks."
Kid and Woman turn heads my way in unison.
Me, like a half-asleep Bogart: "This should be plenty. I don't have time for this."
Plumber exits, stage right.

I got to work three minutes early
only because I went around a school bus illegally.
Survival of the fastest.

There's a girl I know who feels guilty
because her great grandfather was a key figure
in the Nazi Party, one whose name you hear on TV.
I hold firm that she shouldn't feel so bad;
there are far more common casualties inflicted
every day upon humanity by the down and out
and sore loser population.
Consider yourself warned.