Scratch That

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I could have been a thousandaire in Detroit.  An extended layover had me pacing down its airport halls, zig-zagging between kiosks to kill time and winding up in front of a lottery ticket vending machine.

Winning money in Detroit seemed cruelly funny to me.  I heard a news story recently – or maybe it was a rumor? – that a house goes for $1 in the most dejected quarters of the city.  Detroit was in a bad way – it was somewhere you just didn’t go. Before I even landed, I assumed that it was my first and last time visiting.  But…what if my numbers matched?  I could own 10,000 houses – or maybe 5 really nice ones.  I could upgrade my flight to first class.  Could I be mayor of Detroit?

I waited until my flight was just about to board and then I scratched.  While everyone else got antsy and gathered up their bags, I dragged a dull penny back and forth across my ticket, brushing away the tiny bits of silver veil that lay between me and fortune.  A matching pair of numbers appeared early on (would I have to stop back on my return flight to collect my riches?)  The line of passengers advanced as I pressed my penny to the last square, scratching even slower this time, prolonging the hope that I just might win.

I bought a losing lottery ticket in Detroit.  I bought a shot glass, too, although I can’t remember the last time I took a shot, let alone at home.  But Detroit is rugged – or at least my notion of it is – and so the Motor City-emblazoned glass seemed fitting.  I imagined a wearied auto worker throwing back a finger of whiskey after stepping off the assembly line. Now we’d drink together in spirit.

I carried the glass in a little bag with my silver-stripped, unlucky ticket as I walked onto the plane.

After all, it wouldn’t have been fair for me to win the lottery in Detroit.  To collect 10 grand in a city I’d regarded with such disdain, so confident I’d never return, without ever setting foot outside the airport.

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