Wallyworld was closed when Chevy Chase finally managed to arrive, and so was the closest bar-be-cue joint by the time I got there. I breathed in slowly through my nose, like I was taught to do in yoga. It wasn’t the end of the world, this was a first world problem, but just what I wouldn’t do for some pulled pork and slaw. My one and only coworker had grated on my nerves all day, badmouthing our President and leaders, poking his nose in ALL of my business, pretending he knew me better than I knew myself. It’s a dang wonder I hadn’t thrown my stapler at him. On top of that, I had an appointment with my accountant after the grueling day at work. I despise doing adult things like that. If I never have to see another lawyer, doctor, or banker, that would be just fine by me. As a matter of fact, I decided on the spot, if I ever hit the lottery, they’d be the first people I’d do away with. As quick as I could get me a financial adviser nailed down (Monte B, I’m looking at you), the next person I’d hire would be someone to manage my other business. I would never have to schedule another appointment or ask questions about my money. I could literally just drift along on the high seas from the balcony of my yacht. I could be awakened by my massage therapist every day, and sip French 75’s while my chef prepared me a spinach, mushroom, and cheese omelet. We could sail to wherever my adopted sea turtles were hanging out and I could go ashore whenever I felt like shopping for new books and shoes. Or we could port and I could just order some things off Amazon, like I do now. Sitting there in the empty parking lot, the neon sign no longer blinking and buzzing, I shut my eyes and imagined I could feel the wind on my face, the salt on my lips, and the coconut drink in my hand. I wanted it so badly. I was going to be 70 before I could retire. SEVENTY. Nobody in my family lives to see 80!!! I’d been working full time since I was 17, had never drawn a dime of unemployment. I deserved a break.

Well, nothing was going to change sitting here getting mad about it. I started home, and on a whim swung in the oldest gas station in town for a Mountain Dew Icee. I had a bottle of Vodka that needed a friend. I sat the cup down on the counter and sighed, looking over the lottery tickets behind the plexiglass. Bright colors, bold graphics, designed to catch your eye.

“Which’ns you want?” the grey haired, snaggle toothed lady asked me.

Well, I didn’t know. I didn’t think I wanted any, I was just looking at them, but since she’d went to the trouble of asking….I’d played the Powerball exactly one time. But I figured I could manage scratch offs.

“Gimme five of those Triple Sevens,” I instructed her. “What’s the Powerball up to?”

She jerked her thumb at the screen rolling with green numbers.

386 million.

That was enough. I always say I’ll play whenever it’s over 286 million and never do.

“Put ten on that,” I added. The computer shot out a curling receipt. I would have to #1) keep up with the blamed thing, and #2) remember to check my numbers. I didn’t even know when they were drawing, but I had Google.

That was another thing I got tired of: people asking me if I’d seen this or that on the news, then acting flabbergasted when I told them I didn’t watch the news, that it was depressing. Not one thing in my life would be different if I watched the news. They blow weather totally out of proportion; every rain is a flood, every little bit of snow is a blizzard, and every thunderstorm is a tornado. I’d be afraid to leave my house for the murderers on the loose and rabid dogs and possums. Not to mention the flu epidemic! Don’t use public bathrooms, don’t touch door handles or copy machine buttons. I could make my assistant watch the news, and brief me. On second thought, I didn’t plan on speaking to anybody ever again if I hit the lotto, so that wouldn’t matter. Strike that. She can get busy on my card catalog and deleting some of my 7,300 emails I’ve never bothered to open.

I sighed. Wouldn’t it be nice to only have to worry about the weather, and where you were traveling to next? I sighed again. And again, for good measure. Not that my life was so bad. But any life can use improvement. And my closet could sure use some new shoes.

I opened the front door to a very exuberant puppy dog and scratched him behind his ears. I’d only been gone fifteen minutes, but if you asked him he would tell you it was fifteen weeks. Sweet thing. He didn’t even care I didn’t have barbecue. He always gets the hush puppies first thing. I went to the kitchen and plopped part of the Mountain Dew shushy into one of my favorite glasses and stirred in a couple shots of vodka from the local distillery. Then I flopped down on the couch to watch Big Bang Theory reruns.

Sometimes my life copies Penny’s so precisely I want to email the writers and request royalties.

I idly thumbed through my Facebook feed and decided to check about the Power Ball drawing. It was tomorrow night. Better wash my face then. Couldn’t pay to have a facial to undo what residue my makeup left behind.

I rubbed my dog’s ears and fell asleep on the couch, as had been my habit for the last few weeks. I get good and warm under my blanket and it’s just too much trouble to move.

The following day at work, I daydreamed all day about my winning lottery ticket. I went so far as to make a list of all the places I wanted to travel.

• Ireland (castles. The land of my people. Maybe I could be like Scarlett O’Hara and buy my own town)
• Scotland (maybe I would run into a strapping Highlander)
• Australia (please clear my path of snakes)
• Galapagos (because of the giant turtles, of course)
• Bora Bora (in one of those huts on the water where you can watch fish from your bed)
• Paris, the city of light…with a translator firmly at my side. I wanted to see all the museums and eat all the cheese
• Venice (riding around in a gondola and taking pictures is fine by me)
• Alaska (the weather should suit me just fine. And lack of people)
• Greece (all the old stuff)
• San Francisco and up the coast to Seattle
• Nova Scotia (I read about a Christmas Tree farm there and it was fascinating)

Maybe some other tropical places. I started thinking about seafood and pastries and got sidetracked. And then I began building my wardrobe and all was lost. I didn’t even have passable luggage anymore. And would I have enough to buy a home in New Orleans? Or Savannah? Or maybe St. Augustine, I hadn’t been there yet, but I was sure I was going to love it. All that old stuff…and where would I live? Not here. Perhaps I would settle on the Oregon Coast in a house with a widow’s walk. Or maybe a snug little cabin up in the Idaho wilderness. Better buy some quilts….

I drifted off while adding to my Wayfair shopping cart.

The next day, it was all over my Facebook how the winning lottery ticket had been sold in my little ol’ hometown. I’d already sorta forgotten about buying it, I’d gotten so carried away with my fantasies of spending money I didn’t have on things I would only need if I were to hit the lotto. I clicked a link to show me more, while humming Brandy Clark’s “Pray To Jesus & Play the Lotto”.

There stood a local newscaster out front of the store where I’d bought my ticket from the surly cashier. My jaw dropped. The money hadn’t been claimed, she reported, so the identity was unknown as of now. The story ended with the winning numbers displayed. I dug around in my purse, finally coming up with the ticket.

And I felt all the blood rush to my face.

Don’t pass out, don’t pass out, don’t pass out.

Step 1. Call a lawyer.

Step 2. Wait. Find a lawyer I trust.

Step 3. Abandon hope of finding a worthy lawyer and call Monte instead.

Step 4. Don’t have Monte’s number, but call on all my wits to find him on Facebook, then his company’s name, then his number.

He was in a meeting.

Well, if I’d made it this long, I could certainly wait another hour or two.

I tried to read but my hands were shaking too badly. Then I got scared I was going to have a heart attack before I ever got to spend the first red cent. I couldn’t simply drive myself to Nashville to claim it, I would need a driver.

Or better yet, a PILOT.

My fortune wasn’t going to last no time, I could hear my elders scoffing.

And I didn’t care. #YOLO

None of this would have happened if the barbecue joint hadn’t been closed.

Writers are weird. I know this. I know I’m a tad peculiar. I’m a bit standoffish, and I’m not much for small talk. I can’t write on command, and when a story is done, it’s just done. I don’t KNOW what happens to the characters. When I started this one, I didn’t know it was going to turn into this. It just happens. But this is pretty close to what I would do if I were to hit the jackpot. I’ll probably never have to worry about it, though. Because I really don’t ever play. I do have a ticket for the Power Ball in the front cover of the last book I read. I doubt it’s worth the paper it’s printed on. All I know is that it wasn’t the jackpot