The Lottery

            Dwayne was one of five contestants.

They sat, waiting for what was inevitable.

            They were finalists; one of them would win.

            “Where are you going to go if you win?” the old woman asked.

            “Atlanta,” Dwayne said.  “What about you?”

            “Boston,” she said.

            “I’m heading to Toronto,” the young woman said.  She was confident at first, then became reserved when she saw the collective reaction of her competitors.

            “Hopefully…”
            Dwayne looked at the book the middle-aged man next to him was reading.  It was not familiar.  The man looked up and saw the question on Dwayne’s face.

            “It’s about a man who burns books.  It’s set in the future.  The man is a fireman – he starts fires instead of putting them out.”

            Dwayne smiled and nodded.  He’d lost interest after the man said it was set in the future – the present was all that mattered to Dwayne.  He was focused on his chances of winning.

            “Where you hoping to go?” Dwayne asked, mostly in an effort to cover the fact that he hadn’t been listening.

“Seattle,” the man mumbled.  He must have known that he had the least chance of winning this lottery.  Seattle was the destination that was furthest from where they sat.

“Oh,” Dwayne said to him sympathetically.  “That’s rough.”

He turned away and watched the young woman wipe her daughter’s mouth.

“You have to use your napkin, Sweetie,” she said.

He looked down at the little girl’s half-eaten slice of pepperoni pizza and recalled his own pseudo-Italian treat with a shudder.  The airport parlor professed to serve it New York style, but it was more like freezer-burned then re-heated grocery store brand pizza.

As they sat there, in silence, waiting for the announcement, a bond seemed to form.  Suddenly, Dwayne cared about the middle-aged man getting to Seattle.  The young woman wanted the old woman’s trip to Boston to take place.  And the little girl – the little girl offered him a bite of her cold pepperoni pizza.

(He took it.)

It was then, after the forming of the bond, that Dwayne began to calculate.  The eyes of his friends/opponents told him they were doing the same.

The old woman could not win.  Society did not care enough about her.  She would wait all night and no one would offer her as much as a stale donut or even a cup of bad coffee.

The young woman would have been a shoo-in if she were prettier.  She had intelligence in her eyes, no streaks in her natural blond hair, breasts large enough to be noticeable, but not so big as to seem augmented.  But the child and the conspicuously absent wedding ring destroyed the image of perfection she may have had and cast a disparaging shadow upon her.  If she were prettier, the kid wouldn’t matter.

So, as he saw it, it was between himself the other man.  These things are supposed to be random, but Dwayne knew better.

Once he had dismissed the ladies, Dwayne turned his attention to his remaining competition.  The man was already looking at him.  Apparently he and Dwayne had drawn the same conclusion about the rest of their competition.  The man gave Dwayne a passive once-over and turned away grinning: he thought he’d won

Dwayne, for his part, was more meticulous.  He studied his competitor thoroughly:

The man’s clothes were immaculate.  The contestants had been waiting (im)patiently for several hours already, yet somehow the man’s tan slacks maintained their crease.  The man had downed three cups of coffee (that Dwayne had seen), yet his jacket remained spotless.  The man’s briefcase was real leather; his watch was a real Rolex; his ring had a real diamond in it.

Dwayne was not dressed so impressively.  He had come to the event presumptuously expecting to travel, so he’s dressed for travel: loose-fitting sweat pants, a long sleeve t-shirt and a sideways turned baseball cap.  His authentic Movado watch was hidden by his sleeves because he hadn’t purchased the watch for them – he’d bought it for himself.

The man was an obviously successful late middle-aged White man.  The man proudly wore his fraternity ring in lieu of a wedding band.  The man’s wing tip shoes reflected a glare into Dwayne’s retina that made Dwayne want to shade his eyes.

But he didn’t.

He didn’t because Dwayne didn’t want to deceive the man into thinking he was intimidated by the man’s dapper appearance.  He wasn’t intimidated because he’d spotted the chink in the man’s armor.

The white man’s hair piece was slightly, but noticeably, off-center.  Though it may be considered a minor oversight by some, it represented dual shortcomings.

First, it represented the man’s need to fit in with what was expected of him.  The hair piece represented a fear of not fitting in.  It was not a fear that Dwayne shared.

The second shortcoming represented was the ability to make a major oversight.  With a hairpiece, a few inches to the left can be so noticeable as to become excruciating to witness.

Besides – a real Rolex, a real diamond, real leather… fake hair?  Authenticity cannot be purchased.

By Dwayne’s calculations, he’d won.

And the best part was, the man didn’t know.  (How quickly presumed friendship becomes even the slightest modicum of animosity when the opportunity presents itself to prove someone wrong.)

A voice came over the loudspeaker.

“Attention passengers.”

They held their collective breath.

“Now boarding flight 1265, service to Atlanta.”

“Yes!” Dwayne celebrated.

Forgetting himself for a moment, Dwayne began to dance MC Hammer-style directly in front of his defeated competition.  After a few moments he remembered the silent pact they’d made a few minutes earlier to support whoever won and to hope for the best for everyone else.

Discontinuing his happy-go-lucky jig, Dwayne picked up his carry-on bag and walked to the terminal.

He cast one last look at his single-serving friends as he reached the door.

“Adios, compadres.  Chalk one up for the Black race.”

“We won, Mama?” the little girl asked her mother a little too soon.

Dwayne was still in earshot, but because he was consumed with thoughts of his apparent victory he heard nothing.

When she was sure the Black man was too far to hear, the young mother answered her daughter.

“Yes, Baby, we won.  We always win.”