I may not be like you, but I understand you. I was also, once, for certain a non-billionaire. That was until the Mega-Millions jackpot broke a billion dollars, and then kept rising. That was until we purchased five, count them, FIVE, possibly winning tickets from several of the most depressing stores in my area of rural upstate New York. Winning tickets are always sold in this sort of place. The more rolling hotdogs on display, the better your chances. Magda shares my excitement about our (possible) new position in the world. We’ve already set up imaginary charitable organizations. We already drive an imaginary electrified 1978 Ford Bronco. We wave at the people from inside of it.
We are now, officially, potential non-non-billionaires.
Our very good friend, and occasional reader of this blog, Nate (this will undoubtably be the last one he reads) rolled his eyes.
“You don’t think you have any chances of winning do you?”
Nate is a math guy. A wizard of those letters that aren’t letters at all but are called, apparently, ‘numbers.’ Or whatever.
I told him I had a better chance of winning than if I bought no tickets at all. He rolled his eyes. I didn’t even tell him about the hotdogs.
Like many very smart people, Nate is annoyed by magical thinking. My response is that all thinking is magical. We are in the end, electrified, perambulating meat sacks, gifted with thought by some bit of astral magic. But his question struck me to the very core. Do I believe I have any chance of winning at all?
Yes.
And not just because I am a magical thinker. Belief that we might win is not believing we will win (though come Tuesday night we’ll see about all that.) Belief is that moment between the jump and the landing. Anything is possible during the jump, the weightless moment before returning to earth. Is it possible one might never come down?
No.
But in that brief disconnect from earthly bonds, while practically indistinguishable from other things that fly, it seems that gravitational rules might just stop applying and your imagination sores. Naturally one usually comes back down. But how can one hope to fly if one never leaves the ground?
This metaphor doesn’t do my point justice since, statistically, no one has ever not come down. But I think even my friends with their feet planted firmly in the world of statistics would agree that the chances of winning the mega millions are much better than simply jumping up and flying away. Since winning actually happens.
One of the many experiences I purchase along with each ticket, along with a tiny iota of hope, is the opportunity to connect with the teller at our local gas station-cum-market-cum-pizza place-cum-hotdog stand. Normally they see a down-stater, an outsider, hoping to seem like an insider, purchasing their gas. They have little time for this transient transaction. I’m literally buying the means to get away from them.
But this time I give them a conspiratorial grin, and say “I have a good feeling about this.”
Instinctively they mirror my glee, “I hope you win! It’s always those Californians. It would be nice for someone from around here to win.”
Someone from around here.
They see me. We are from around here!
“I have that same feeling when I get the scratch tickets.” One teller told me, “There’s that moment of dreaming. I always have a good feeling about it!”
“Right!” I say, “Just before it all comes crashing back down to earth!”
I grin again.
This grin is not returned. Clearly I’m not from around here. People around here believe in what’s possible, not what’s probable.
As I leave the store and cross the parking lot I’m conscious of my feet making firm contact with the asphalt, as always. At least until Tuesday night.