LUCK

I need fresh basil.

To sprinkle over a veggie pizza.

I am standing in line; three customers back from the cash register.

Basil. $2.29. (This is not a rant about the absurd price of a dozen green leaves, though it ought to be.)

I reach into my wallet as the elderly lady in front of me announces, "50 tickets, please. I have the numbers. I'll write you a check."

Grabbing three dollars, I glance at the cashier behind the register.  Lady Aged begins shuffling precisely tabulated  lists of numbers between her curled fingers.

The teenage cashier shoots me a nervous this-might-take-a-while look.

I shoot a look right back at her. What-is-this-woman-doing?

 

Teenager points to the sign beside the entrance/exit of the store.

  

TONIGHT'S JACKPOT: 148 MILLION.

Hey, you never know.

I look back at the cashier, who, I have now noticed, bears a striking resemblance to Kate Middleton- without the smile.

  

I am confounded; is this woman really going to spend FIFTY dollars on lottery tickets? And am I going to be STUCK behind her while she calls out FIFTY tickets worth of lucky numbers?

The cashier nods, reading my thoughts. 

 

I ought to be less obvious.

Behind me, annoyed customers begin scampering to other lines.

I am stuck.

By my imagination is not.

What are the chances that one of Lady Aged's fifty tickets will actually win the monstrous bucks?

What will she do with all that money?

How many kids/grandkids/great grandkids/friends/siblings/neighbors/sycophants does a person accumulate by the time she's 90+ years?

If I'm extra patient, maybe she'll slip me a ticket across the electric eye of the conveyor belt as she's leaving.

Maybe that ticket will win the monstrous bucks!

I'll have to buy something to wear for the morning talk show circuit, when I travel from show to show gushing about the generous, spontaneous, lovely Lady Aged, who allowed me the chance to send my kids to college, feed fourteen African villages, and fund sixteen children's charities- all on account of one 3 inch piece of paper!

  

Lady Aged begins reciting numbers- ignoring me and the big, busy world around her.

I want to cry.

Instead, I think about the lottery.

  

How the chances of winning the big bucks are even smaller than the chances of my four month old puppy relieving himself on the grass instead of the oriental rug.

How I never, ever buy a lottery ticket.

Because it's dumb.

Except for that one time when I was driving to Disney and every billboard in six states shrieked, "Powerball! 686 MILLION DOLLARS," and I stopped at a convenient store to run a baby boy to the bathroom and found a five dollar bill in the parking lot and handed it to the clerk saying, "Five tickets, please. Random numbers."
 

That was dumb.
 

Lady Aged is still reciting.

I want to scream.

Epiphany.

Lottery luck only works if you choose your own numbers.

I could use the birthdates of the kids. Or should I use the birthdates of my siblings? Anniversaries of best friends? House numbers? License plates? Blood sugar and cholesterol counts?

I'm buying a ticket.

I reach into my wallet. I grab the single dollar in that dark leather pocket.

One chance to solve all our financial worries. And world hunger.

Or a Hershey Bar with Almonds.

Lady Aged shuffles off toward the exit with nary a glance to yours truly- who has aged sixteen months listening to her Bingo call of numbers.

I smile at the Duchess, but she doesn't return the favor. "Just the basil," I say. "And one lottery ticket, please. You can pick the numbers."

Duchess taps a button on the register. "The machine does the picking," she says.

I reach for the 3 inch piece of paper.

What are the chances that one machine in one store in one town in one county in one state will pick the lucky numbers, and win the monstrous bucks?

Hershey Bar never looked so good.

QUING Hereby Decrees:  Luck Happens. To Indianapolis.