lottery

Luther couldn't believe his eyes. Or his ears. He checked the six Powerball numbers again and again. He checked his Powerball numbers, the five for the white balls, 1 to 69, and one red Powerball, 1 to 26. He held the play slip in one hand, and the ticket in the other. Both hands were trembling. One $2 wager. He hadn't played Powerball, or any state lottos for seven years. Seven years, three months, and five days, if anybody's counting. He hadn't bought any scratchies either, or Cash For Life, Take Five, any of that. No football parleys. He'd been "clean and sober," as his Gamblers Anonymous confederates might describe it. 15, 20, 40, 48, 52, and 16, if you must know. Power Play 10x. Luther wrote the numbers on an index card. He pulled up the website and recited the numbers on the screen. He read the matching numbers on the index card. He said those out loud too. Deep down, he knew he had these numbers memorized; they could not be pried from his consciousness, subconsciousness, or memory. Numerical amnesia would be impossible. Now his hands were shaking and he was sweating, his forehead and underarms were perspiring.

Should I call someone? Who? What would I say?

The Grand Prize times ten would be so incalculably astronomical as to be unfathomable.

Don't go there.

You should call someone, anyone. Dad. Louise, Barbara, Ethan, Evelyn, Camille, Katharine. Sponsor. Sponsee. No, not text. Of course not.

Luther began to compose a resignation letter in his head. Dear Board of Directors, Dear Chairman of the Board, Dear Suckers, Dear Fuckers. Dear Cocksuckers, Hey you, Yo, To Whom It May Concern, Dear Torquemada.

He went to his laptop and typed the numbers in a Word file. Then he went to the website again and managed to copy the winning numbers and paste them into the Word file. They still matched.

Was this flutter the AFib he was warned about nine years ago? It had never bothered him in the least all these years. Why would it. The cardiologist said, One valve or chamber was mildly "generous" in comparison to the others. He hadn't understood the doctor in the least, but he never forgot the intriguing application of generous.

He began to pace in his studio apartment. Apartment pacing was not going to work. Even though it was nearing midnight, he put his coat on and stepped into the blowing snow and frigid cold. And walked.

As he trudged up Harborview Way, he fumbled in his right pocket for the ticket. Once he located it by touch, he fingered it, rubbed it like a talisman.

Nearing the crest of the hill, Luther slid on a patch of ice under the snow and he went sprawling, spread-eagled as if he were trying to create a snow angel. As he tried to brace himself, his hands shot out from his pockets, including his right hand, which had been caressing the lottery ticket.

In the ensuing mayhem, he lost his grip on the ticket, in a nanosecond his hand opened up. Before he was barely conscious of what had just transpired, the ticket got swept up in a snowy gust. The little slip of paper with 15, 20, 40, 48, 52, 16 got swept away. Caught in an eddy of air, not visible in the night.

Luther screamed. He cried. He shouted. He wailed.

He bolted toward the snowy gust. And he fell again.

He ran toward it, and then bent to the ground. He sifted through the snow, any snow, like a gold Rush Forty Niner.

Hundreds of millions of dollars.

They found him on all fours, frozen against an embankment.

A yard to his left, in the glistening sunlight, the winning ticket fluttered, a paper butterfly, out of season, on the powdery snow.

The winning numbers that Luther had memorized were for the wrong week, the week before.
 

eyes wide closed

I've been a napper for as long as I can remember. I was a preemie, and my mother says I've always needed more sleep. I invoke that to defend any nap, anytime, all these years later. About twenty years ago, a colleague and I would leave our workplace and drive to Snooze Alley, as my co-worker labeled it. Near a strip mall a mile down the road from our office, we would eat our lunches in our respective cars and then take a little snooze. Chris would go all in, reclining his seat all the way back. I was not that radical. Nevertheless, we never overdid it. Our snoozes never made us late for returning to the office. Close, but not quite. A good 15 or 20 minutes was fine. This was before the term "power nap" came into vogue. Chris and I believed in the restorative benefits of our nearly daily habit. In Japan, sleeping on the job is a sign of diligence. It's called inemuri, "sleeping on duty." It says, in effect, that this person is working so hard they need a break. But it is fraught with cultural distinctions. Men get away with it more readily, as does upper management. No inemuri on the assembly line. The culture also dictates that inemuri practitioners obey unwritten norms regarding form and space. In other words, don't sprawl out under the conference table, or take up half the subway seat or park bench. I suspect drooling is frowned upon. Don't you agree that America could use a healthy dose of inemuri? I do. Along somewhat different lines, the Japanese have traditionally put employees out to pasture in ways that differ from ours. Sometimes an employee regarded as a has-been is assigned to become a window watcher, a member of the “madogiwa zoku,” or the “window seat tribe.” They sit by the window, with nothing to do, and get paid for it. This would not be allowed in our Puritan-work-ethic-driven society. I guess the idea is to force the members of this glum lot to resign. I suppose they could simply sit by the window and snooze, combining the best of inemuri and madogiwa zoku. These practices make me want to go to Japan, or to evangelize such practices in America. America has forgotten the virtue of laziness. People in hot countries enjoy their siestas. They've been around a lot longer than we have. In the long run, they are not lazy. They are sensible and human. This year, France instituted a law that limited after-hours emails. Workers have a right to disconnect. Volkswagen did this with its employees in 2012. Glad I have a 2007 VW Rabbit. Time for a nap. See ya.

Knowledge is power

I rolled up to Colonial Laundromat. From Bubble-Up car wash, I hear a voice. He's talking to me in rapid-fire fashion. Shades of the Midway. Step right up. Something about $15, wash and wax and polish your car, $20 inside and out, while you do your laundry, $50. Hunh? I walk up to him. One five or five oh? I ask. One five, he says. Twenty, inside and outside. I have to go up the hill, I tell him. Which I do once I start my wash. I come back. I go for it. Inside and out. What's your name? Knowledge, he says. You should have a T-shirt that says Knowledge is power. I take him up on it. This entrepreneur with a bit of the showman and the entertainer. Philosopher, too. You gotta love what you do, he sings out as he makes some change at the laundromat. As I dry my clothes, and he does my car.

the vacant roof

Today no rooftop workers, neither Amish nor Mennonite nor Sicilian nor Catalonian. Where'd they go?

raise high the rooftop, ye carpenters

Today's quirky urban surprise in Syracuse: a crew of bearded men, each wearing a blue shirt and a straw hat, rebuilding -- actually adding on to -- the roof of an unsavory commercial building, an entity that seemingly sells cigarettes of questionable origin and caters to customers who are decidedly not refugees from Neiman Marcus. Are the rooftop carpenters Amish or Mennonites? They work steadily, quietly (in terms of no profanity, no shouting), and diligently. They make use of a chainsaw, possibly plugged in (which makes me wonder about their embrace of the uses of electricity, or not, according to their religious tenets). They work on the A-frame skeletal structure that will support the roof extension. And as they work, a clutch of neighborhood regulars (or bus stop patrons) sits on a retaining wall across the street, one of them with a tall boy (presumably a beer) in a paper bag. These wastrels watch with idle amusement. They do not know what to make of this foreign activity that goes by the name of "work." The rooftop workers seem to be oblivious of their audience. They are fully engaged in the task at hand. The viewers get their fill of free entertainment, just another uncounted hour of just another day absent of ambition, cognition, and fruition. 

wastewater, or wastetime, or wastespace

I worked many years in the environmental field.

I still do some consulting work via @kocakwords in that area.

Questions:

If we have wastewater, can we also have wastetime? May we? Where does time go when it is wasted? Or is it metaphysically and physically impossible to waste time? Are their emissions related to wastetime? Are they harmful or beneficial? How are they measured? Do we even want to measure them?

What about space? If there is wastewater, is there wastespace? Is that what people mean when they angrily assert, "You're fired! You're just wasting space around here!"

Or is it, again, impossible to "waste space"? And if you can waste space, what are the impacts? Can they be mitigated? May they?

Just wondering.

mercurial authorial

So yesterday over a cup of tea (me) and Coke (him), Father Jim tells me of his longtime friend, "a terrific writer who writes every day." I immediately felt fraudulent and inferior in the sense of posing as an impostor writer. Sure, that's harsh. I make a living at it more or less (the "more or less" referring to "make" or "living," take your quick pick). But my penmanship and compositional habits are more mercurial than that quotidian standard. Alas, I am not a standard bearer (maybe a standard barer, one who finds it hard to resist a pun).

Is it laziness, lack of discipline (the zen word "practice" is so much more appealing), or natural rhythm? I mean, I can't even seem to manage one haiku per day. Being more of a binge character, I find my waves tend to ebb and swell dramatically. I'd rather give you thirty haiku bits in one day, with a long-winded essay on the side or a meandering prose stream, than a tightly regimented one of anythng per day.

Mercury: thief inconstant quicksilver merchandiser sprightly quick volatile unstable eloquent changeable moody rapid

Misnomers and Mr. Nomers

So, several weeks ago I met the guy who owns our building. Being a suitably affable marketing guy (who never wears a suit), I amiably chatted with him. His name is Peter M., a genial and talented Captain of Modern Industry. I discovered we went to the same college, etc.

Turns out he's a trustee of the college. I'm not. It may have something to do with the variance in our levels of alumni donations over the years. I'm just guessing.

Peter comes down to our floor to visit fairly frequently.

I notice he's been calling me Peter.

At first I thought I heard wrong, but, no, he says, "Hi, Peter."

Trouble is, I've been replying, "Hi, Peter" in true Doppelganger Loyalist fashion.

I'm a J. Alfred Prufrock on this one. A wimp.

I couldn't bring myself, after several nominal misnomers (or mister nomers, if you prefer) to correct him.

I didn't know how to begin. Call me Pawlie (not Peter) Kowardnuts, if you must.

Ballet Daughter warned me: You'd better nip this in the bud. It'll only get worse.

Today I took action.

I told Shannon, Peter's assistant. And she told Peter. Brave, eh?

Peter came by later in the afternoon, rolling his eyes. We're good. however, he departed my "office" area saying, "See you later," noticeably but good-humoredly not saying my name.

If he only knew about Pawlie Kokonuts.

Whew.

My Summer Vacation

My summer vacation was short because I had taken a winter vacation and a spring vacation. My summer vacation consisted of parts of four days amidst pine needles, by a lake, in a cottage, called a "camp" in these parts. The morning alarum was the whimpering of Maggie, a yellow labrador-German shepherd puppy asking to be let out. At 6:40 a.m., or later on two mornings, a walk along Long Point of Brantingham Lake, foggy mist curling up off the lake, the sun trying to burn through. Chickadees. Lots of blue jays. Then back down the opposite end of Long Point, up and down macadamed inclines. One day her gnawed-at leash broke. She stayed close, unlike the late but beloved Rosie, who would've been gone, chasing the wind. All this in my pajama bottoms, sandals, t-shirt, baseball cap. No bears. Return to the cabin: toast and tea. A nap. Still in pajamas. (Have I already told you the ol' Groucho Marx line? "I shot an elephant in my pajamas. How it got there, I'll never know.") Play Yahtzee. Trade obscenities. Young'uns howl. Eat. Sleep. Play Scrabble. "Assise." "Cruster." Walk. Eat. Sleep. Dangle feet in lake. Sleep. Finish Samaritan by Richard Price. No cellphone coverage. Buy fly paper ribbon strips; mostly feckless. Nap. Read. Return home. Two messages from work on cellphone when in range. Dread. Horrid dread. Work Wednesday. Somehow get through it all. Back up to camp Friday for a cameo return.

The aim of leisure is not to make us better drones.

The Revenge of the Busness Gods

Late as usual to work, I get in the car. Yesterday I gladly took the bus, but this morning I had already missed the 8:04 bus into downtown, so I proceeded to embrace the auto alternative (AA) (how many countless times since puberty have I quote embraced the auto alternative unquote?). Turn on AC , drive down the avenue, mail the subscription invoice to The Economist magazine with the word Cancel in purple ink written twice on it, via my work-supplied tres au courant Uniball Vision pen. I think The Economist is a terrific and first-rate 'zine, especially the weekly obit, but during my trial run I did not find time to read it; I barely have time to read the cartoons in the weekly issue of The New Yorker I subscribe to.

Rewind the narrative. Leave car running, walk six to eight steps to mailbox, insert mail, return to idling car, which is locked! All doors are locked, with cellphone sitting in plain view on the front seat, passenger side. I have never done this. Until now. It briefly reminds me of the time Violet G., in Dover, New Jersey, left her car running in her in-house garage below our apartment and almost killed us all with carbon monoxide, including newborn One and Only Son. (This was one time FirstSpouse's tendency toward paranoia proved invaluable, infinitely so. I owe her thanks for that. Infinitely so.) Walk up the avenue, and I mean uphill, in the heat, wondering why, and how. And fretting slightly over being ever later to work. Knock on our door. Fortunately, CurrentSpouse is not asleep yet from night-before work. She opens the door.

"What happened?"

"I was at the mailbox, and . . . "

"You mailed your keys," she replied in the fashion that longtime partners have of finishing each other's sentences.

"No, left 'em in the car, running. There's something wrong with me neurologically. I've never done that."

"You're just getting old," she said evenly and without rancor.

Grab her spare key off the rack of keys near the door (just about the only steadily organized aspect of our household). Walk fast and jog part way down the hill. Feck it. Slow down, I tell myself. Enjoy the whole episode. Roll with it. I feel light, almost laughing, not scolding myself for this lapse. "No judgment," as the beloved late Anthony DeMello pronounced frequently in the tapes I used to listen to in 1993, driving anywhere.

This is grace.

No ticket on the car. Nor is it towed away. (Glancing thought: In some cities this would look like a looming terror threat; such are the times.) Open door of idling car. Enter, sweating. Crank AC to max. Soothing.

Drive to work, with good success on the several traffic lights.

Manage a smile, upon entering work, greeting Mary V., at 10th-floor reception desk.

This is my little secret with the world. No high drama, no "poor me," no endless and tedious recounting to co-workers. The grace of anonymity.

Just gratitude to be in The Game (although the bus does indeed beckon me to return).

P.S. Didn't you read "busness" as "business"? I would have.

P.P.S. Change "gods" to "goddesses" if you are so inclined.

(Photo credits: Bus is in 'Yeats Country,' with mystical Ben Bulben in the background; and Pawlie Kokonuts walking in Sligo City.)