Smart people are logical, and they tend to say things like 'the lottery is a tax for the stupid'.
Their words are harsh, but not borne of venomous spite. Such statements are derived from their ability to understand statistics and probability as well as their inability to comprehend an amazing tingly feeling that can't be quantify by earthly equations.
The feeling of hope.
That's how my grandpa puts it when I explained the improbability of him winning it all. Every Saturday, gramps spends exactly $14 on his lucky numbers at our local Quart N Pints. My mom goes on his behalf most of the time, but sometimes I go. The nice lady at the counter recognizes gramps just by his numbers, and I'm now known as the lottery grandson.
It's true, I said of the unlikelihood. I read on the internet that you're more likely to be struck by lightning on a flight.
"I read about winners in the papers all the time." says he, pointing to the folded Chinese news by his side, which I also grabbed from Quarts N Pints. "Have you ever heard of anyone getting zapped on board a Cathay?"
Rhetorical, and slightly savage.
"You're young. What would you do if you won it all?"
We pondered on that question the next Saturday, when I got my own Powerball and a 6 pack of Tiger lager on my lottery errand. We were both millionaire candidates until the drawing, and we took that role seriously.
"That business would bleed money!" Grandpa chuckled, when I told him that I would run a sports pub at that empty corner lot, and gave everyone a free round whenever Arsenal scored a goal.
"Who cares!" We both laughed, remembering money will no longer be an inhibitor of dreams. We continued to inflate this bubble of hope, feeding it with details of my upcoming business. How do you get a liquor license? What's a fair price for a beer? Do the staff wear Arsenal shirts on the weekends? Our conversation never carried to what gramps would do. We both know it'll be frequent seafood dinners, with most of it saved up for the grandchildren. We were content with just the hopes of my pub.
And no, we didn't win. Of course, we didn't.
They say it's the hope that kills ya.
No, no it's not. It's the failure to hope that does us in. For $2, I got to spend a few hours walking my gramps through my dreams. For $2, my gramps finds out what recent hobby his grandson has immersed himself into. The hope had given us a banger of an afternoon.
That's not a bad consolation prize, i thought as I tossed the losing ticket in the bin. Even a logical person must see that. read more
