When I don't win the lottery

I found a story from last October where a winner of the lottery was shot to death by police during a fight at a bar just outside a Seattle Seahawks football game. After I got over the shock that this sort of thing occurred outside Oakland, I read on and learned that the man fired a handgun during the incident (which made me find other articles to verify that it was Seattle and not Oakland). While some claimed he did so into the air “to break up the fight,” the police (and many witnesses) claim he fired at a fleeing vehicle, then crouched behind a car and pointed it at them. The article concluded by mentioning the victim had used some of his winnings “to buy a house for his mother and cars for his siblings.”

Even assuming he fired the weapon only to snap the combatants out of their rage, he still was carrying the gun and thought firing it would be a good idea to resolve the situation. So while he may have been good to his family in light of his good fortune, it may be presumed he held some questionable ideas. Whether he was deserving of winning is another question, but one could argue that, judging from this, he had some serious karmic payback coming to him.

I do not, as a general rule, play the lottery. That’s not saying I have never purchased a ticket over the 20 years that California has been running one, but the few times I have done so resulted in nothing, so there was no reinforcement to make me continue. Simple enough from a behavioral science perspective.

However, on a more philosophical level, I cannot claim to be completely comfortable with the notion of hitting that kind of financial home run the first time I step up to the plate, without having worked my way up through the proverbial minor leagues; if I haven’t done something to earn it, either literally or figuratively, then not only cannot I not feel good about it, but I worry about the retribution the universe will eventually unleash upon me. (I’ve seen way too many episodes of “The Twilight Zone” to know how that works.)

I back it up with political concerns regarding how lotteries exploit the poor (which, let’s face it, they do—it’s not like the typical lottery player has a lavish portfolio of investments and savings), and how the justification for the implementation of the lottery here—to benefit the schools with part of the proceeds—has completely fallen by the wayside in the lottery advertising and thus (to the extent it was ever the case) in the minds of those playing. However, part of me worries that were I to play and win a large sum it would change my life not by alleviating concerns but by augmenting them; even if nothing bad happened right away, I’d always be wondering when it would be coming.

On another hand (if I may misappropriate that expression here), perhaps I have read Shirley Jackson’s “The Lottery” too closely.

Anyway, if you’re like most people to whom I have attempted to explain this, at this point you’re probably thinking I am completely insane (which is more or less accurate, but not for the reasons you’re thinking). How could one be so neurotic about a shortcut to the good life?

I used to work in a department where each week someone organized a collection of a dollar from anyone who wished to participate in a group purchase of tickets, and each week I’d decline. I claimed I didn’t want my bad luck to bring down the others. Telling them I was philosophically opposed to the lottery might work, but more often confused them, so I developed the luck joke. However, still sometimes they would try to convince me to chip in and it was always using the same argument: “Wouldn’t you feel bad if we won and you were left out?” At that point I’d smile politely and at least pretend to go back to working. (And in truth, no, I wouldn’t. If they all suddenly left due to sudden riches, at least their insipid questions would leave with them.) Last I’d heard, they still hadn’t won anything more than a pittance (which merely went back into more tickets the next week); the mind reels at how much those same dollars would have accrued in interest over the years, but there’s no excitement to that.

I think a lot of people take some comfort in the idea that there is some higher power that rewards the worthy and punishes the unworthy. That’s the backbone of a number of your more popular religions. More concretely, we appear to have a built-in sense of what is deserving of reward, and generally it seems to involve either intense suffering or utter selflessness. The producers of “Extreme Home Makeover,” for example, seem to seek out those who meet both criteria, which is why audiences are not merely envious of the new homes but sympathetic with the recipients (and the show does well despite the annoying host and other stars). The producers of “Pimp My Ride” make at least a token effort to find worthwhile individuals, but those whose rides get pimped tend to get picked for their ability to appeal to the younger MTV demographic, where the focus is much heavier on envying the ridiculous upgrades (and the show does well because of the charm of the host and the wacky personalities of the workers at West Coast Customs). When watching “Makeover” I tend to be moved (even though I know I’m being manipulated by editing) because the recipients are duly presented as deserving; when watching “Pimp” I tend to wonder how long before the young person’s revamped vehicle gets stolen or how long before the flat-screens in their sunvisors prove sufficiently distracting to cause an accident (because you know they watch while driving).

However, all that understanding of our innate sense of reward and punishment goes out the window when there’s millions to be won without having to live in some remote and unforgiving locale without getting voted off. Perhaps others simply have a better ability to delude themselves into believing they have somehow suffered and/or given of themselves sufficiently.

In any case, on some level I fear what might come of my life in the wake of suddenly coming in to such a sum by luck alone. It might not involve meeting a gruesome ending like the Seattle man. It might be something as simple as never getting to trust anyone new I meet. (That would be the T.Z. ending, of course—driven mad with my own paranoia.) If only I could attribute all of my problems to an inadequate bank account, rather than to the inadequacies of my personality—or, perhaps, more often, to the inadequacies of others’ personalities—then I’d find playing the lottery more alluring.

For whatever reason my standards are inexplicably consistent. Clearly I need a more convenient way of viewing the operation of the universe in this regard; this notion of “there is some modicum of justice meted out to the deserving” needs to be replaced temporarily with the heartless “everything is just random chance and there are no inherent consequences,” just like others apparently do while playing the lottery. (It’s an intriguing combination of creationism—er, Intelligent Design—and evolutionism, when you think about it.)

Thus, I am not insane enough.

Hmm. The more I think about it, the more convinced I become that if I suddenly became filthy rich I would not merely suffer paranoia but arrogance as well. Heck, that’s a given. If the way people with really expensive cars drive (as though they believe they own the road) is any indication, great wealth would make me more of a jerk than I already am. It would only be a matter of time before I went off the deep end and started hunting the poor for sport, a la Dr. Moreau.

Of course, as long as I pitched it appropriately, it could be developed into a successful reality show, which would make me even richer. And I wouldn’t go near a Seahawks game, so the cops would never be near me.

Excuse me while I run down to the 7-Eleven for a quick pick. (The Mega Millions is up to $200,000,000 tonight.) As Daffy Duck said, “Consequences, shmonsequences; as long as I’m rich.”

~~~

Back in 1989, Camper Van Beethoven included on their album Key Lime Pie a song called “When I Win the Lottery” (which is quite a good song, and you should look into hearing it at your earliest convenience). The protagonist of the song is a less-than-popular member of the community, an ex-con mechanic who aspires to win the lottery. Like many who dream of such fortune, he notes he would use some of the money in philanthropic ways. Well, at least, ostensibly so.

In the verses he explains how he would buy the affection of the women in his neighborhood by getting them new TVs and silver-plated six-shooters, and how he would make a large donation to the city “so they have to name a street or a school or a park after me.” By the end of the song he has explained his plan to buy the American Legion hall and paint it “red with five gold stars” just to piss off the hypocritical, self-righteous veterans. (Don’t get all bent out of shape if you haven’t listened to the song and paid close attention to the entirety of the lyrics. Back to our topic at hand, whatever that will prove to be.) In short, the protagonist is not one to be admired, but on the whole, he’s not necessarily more despicable than the others in town who look down their noses at him; he doesn’t deserve to win the lottery, but then again, who does?