With an itch comes a scratch

Is this what desperation looks like? The car idling beside a Dumpster at the Shell station at 6 a.m.? The dome light on? Me in the driver's seat, hunched, head down and concentrating, striking the universal pose of one who scratches a scratch ticket?

Here I am, chasing the worm on the way to work as the sun rises and wipes out the stars with its pupil-shrinking interrogation lamp.

You know what would really be helpful? Twenty grand, dropped onto my lap, right now. I said that to my wife a couple weeks ago as we discussed the American Dream's second cousin twice removed who goes by the name of Hard Work and Little Return.

Why not a million? she had suggested.

That would be too confusing. How about $400,000? We pay off the mortgage, get a couple reliable cars, buy the boy a life supply of Swedish fish and stuff some money into a college fund.

The world is awakening around the Shell station. A woman is power walking. A guy with a Caterpillar hat blowing at his coffee.

I've seen lottery ticket scratchers my whole life. I worked the day shift at a liquor store in my early 20s. "Give me three 'Money Manias' and a pack of Marlboros." This is the way some souls start their day. Then they go back to their cars and scratch, and then they're gone, presumably still independently unwealthy.

This is probably why I had steered clear of scratch tickets. I feared I'd be bearing my heart to a stranger behind a counter. "Yes, I'll take a scratch ticket because I'm miserable." Granted, some lottery regulars can pull it off with aplomb: "Give me a scratch ticket because wouldn't it be so hilarious if I became a millionaire right now?"

I enter the store. It smells of coffee and mop water. At the counter I squint at the bulwark of scratch tickets, 20 or so lurid-looking tongues sticking out from their dispensers. I slap a five on the counter. The clerk is a middle-age woman with bags under her eyes. Her nametag indicates she is a Lillian.

"What have you got for $5 tickets?" I say.

"'Cool Millions,' 'Price is Right,' 'Wild Millions. … '"

"You pick," I say.

"Two million would be really perfect," my wife had decided.

"Can you imagine?" I said.

I step back out to my car with my scratch ticket. Getting rich this way lacks the dignity of, say, discovering a cure for muscular dystrophy. It lacks the heroics of sacking the Mongol Empire and bringing home gold in great store. Anyway, if I win, I'll take it. Jeez, how do you turn on the dome light in this car anyway?

"You know, they say money doesn't buy happiness," I had said to my wife, "but I'd like to give it a shot. I'd love to hire a fleet of dump trucks to dump beautiful earthen fill to take the edge off of our idiotic-looking septic tank mound that continually reminds us of poop and pee rather than flowers and trees. Also, we could buy our mothers houses of their own."

The dome light is now on. Lillian chose a "Wild Millions" for me. It has a zebra and an elephant and a series of safari hats. I scratch the four little moneybags and then begin to scratch at the safari hats. That weird grey scratch paper gets lodged under my thumbnail like soap scum.

Dear Lord above, please: I promise that if you see to it that I win anything with five, six, or seven digits, I'll head to the rough side of town. I'll look for a woman pushing a baby carriage, maybe with a toddler tagging behind keeping hold of her pant leg. She'd probably be a single mother. I'd walk up to her and say, "Hi. Here's a chunk of money. Just don't tell the father of these children. OK?" Then I'd walk away and head to the nearest bar and drink eight Guinnesses in celebration of how pleased I'd be with myself.

I scratch one, two, then three safari hats. Nope, nope, nope.

Even just 250 grand would be really helpful right now, dear Lord.

Another safari hat. Nope.

Tell you what: Five grand would pay off the credit cards.

Another safari hat. Nope

Lord, three grand would get us a trip to San Diego.

Another safari hat. Nope.

Lord, a thousand dollars would help pay the propane man.

Another safari hat. Nope.

I'll be completely honest with you, Lord. I really want the $2 million that my wife had mentioned. I'll give half to that mother with the two kids. I'll pay off the mortgage and see what we have left for our mothers.

Another safari hat. Nope.

Dear Lord and the entire communion of saints, please — just $500, and I'll give $50 to Lillian.

On the tenth and final safari hat I win — $10.

Lord, thanks, I guess.

I have a new plan. I'm going to invest the winnings in two more scratch tickets. You know, expand my portfolio.