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Apr 28, 2004 The notion of the lottery is alluring; the notion of winning it is ludicrous. Americans have tricked themselves into thinking there is a pot of gold in every Seven Eleven and Amoco station in the country. It takes a single dollar to win a fortune. Two dollars, if we’re feeling lucky. Or if we really want to take a leap, there’s bound to be a crisp fifty in the back of our wallets to boost the odds. The lottery seduces us, but feels no sympathy when it leaves us without gas or lunch money for the week. In 1948, Shirley Jackson wrote her famous short story “The Lottery” about a small New England town’s grisly belief that harvest season would yield abundant crops only after the sacrifice of a fellow villager. How would this group of tightly knit neighbors decide who would be killed? The fairest way: through a lottery. The “winner” is stoned to death by the remaining townspeople. There is no way to beat odds like that. Someone must hit the jackpot. In the real world, the rewards of the Illinois Big Game Lottery are much more appealing, but the odds of drawing that magic number are close to zero. Any one player is four times as likely to be struck by lightning than to be struck with the dumb luck of drawing six random numbers in the correct combination. Still, the $300 million jackpot is enough to draw people out in droves to slap down their hard earned singles for their chance at the score. Each month, my co-workers collect dollars in an envelope bearing the signature of each participant. This often-staggering amount, which could be put toward something practical like a new water cooler, is then spent on lottery tickets with the winnings to be divided equally. The results are invariably disappointing and disheartening as I watch their shining eyes scan the winning numbers and watch their leering grins whither in defeat. But no matter, right? There’s always next time. Each month I see my co- workers squander their modest paychecks on a fantasy. Each month I see them more despondent (but somehow not disillusioned), clinging desperately to that crescent of hope that maybe next time will be different. I’m not sure which I’d rather participate in, our lottery or Jackson’s. At least in hers, I’d have a shot at winning something. ------------ About the author: Aaron Gudmunson was born in Belize City, Belize while his parents were serving in the Peace Corps. He currently resides in northern Illinois with his girlfriend Samantha and their two cats Otis and the polydactyl Andalusia Quinn. He has been writing since he was able to hold a pen. You can see and hear him at his band Blaked's website www.blakedmusic.com. Email: gleesphere@hotmail.com Tell a friend about this site! ------------ |
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