Roanoke Times
Copyright (c) 1995, Landmark Communications, Inc.
DATE: SUNDAY, April 1, 1990 TAG: 9004010071
SECTION: VIRGINIA PAGE: B1 EDITION: METRO
SOURCE: Ed Shamy Staff Writer
DATELINE: LENGTH: Medium
Like most addicts, Ed doesn't fiddle around scratching a loser to see how much he would have won. Once he knows he's holding a losing ticket, Ed chucks it like it's throbbing with angry encephalitis protoplasms.
His pupils dilated, his breathing shallow and rapid, Ed knows what it is to experience that momentary rush of lottery expectations. Ed also knows what it's like to have his hopes just as quickly dashed; he knows all too well the stark view of a lottery ticket with no winner aboard.
Lottery tickets cost $1. Ed can process six losers in a minute. At one every 10 seconds, Ed can spend $6 per minute, or $360 per hour on the lottery.
Our counselor told Ed the purpose of the lottery isn't to win money. It's pure entertainment.
"For $360 an hour, I could entertain myself with a seagoing yacht!" snapped Ed. "Entertainment I can photograph. I can record. I can remember and savor and share with somebody. This is entertainment?"
Ed was on edge because he'd budgeted $100 for lottery "entertainment" over the past two weeks. He ended up losing $83, winning back just $17.
The other Lottery-Anon members shook their heads. Some were nervously fingering lucky pennies, others had fingers stained with scratch-off gunk.
Ed started sobbing. His hands trembled.
He was just beginning his cold-turkey treatment, his wallet chained shut with a chastity belt on loan from Lottery-Anon.
Ed's eyes rolled back in his head and he spoke in tongues.
"Taught Bennie a lesson, didn't I, huh? Bennie won't have the lottery to kick around anymore. No. Can't subject us to his dreaming. Now he knows he won't win the big one."
The other members shot glances at each other. Each, in turn, had been through a Lotto-withdrawal delirium. This was Ed's turn.
"This last week, $36 in a row. They tell me my chances are 1 in 4, 1 in 5, and I drop $36 in a row. Then I give a ticket to my kid, she's 4 years old, and she pops a two-bucker. A winner."
Ed is flat on his back, kicking and pulling at his hair.
"We sent her off - to a military academy - in Nebraska. We wanted to teach her a lesson. Daddy wants to lose. Daddy wants Uncle Bennie to see the Lottoscam. Off with you!"
Suddenly, Ed stopped. He lay still as death on the floor, and Lottery-Anon eyes widened. Was Ed . . . ? Had Ed . . . ? Say it ain't so, Ed!
It wasn't so. Ed started crying. Dead men don't cry.
"I'm sorry, Ruby. You deserve better. I wanted so bad to help you, Ruby, and I had $100 and all you're getting from me is a crummy 17 bucks. You need a home, Ruby. Oh, Ruby!"
Ed wailed mournfully and buried his face in his palms and his shoulders shook and he cried.
Then he was calm, and enlightenment lit up his face.
"For $360 an hour, I can help you, Ruby. Next time I get the urge to buy a lottery ticket, I'll stop. I'll give the money to you."
Ed pulled a pencil stub from his pocket. He scrawled in shaky hand on a wrinkled envelope, slowly, and with the awkward letters of a child: Mill Mountain Zoo, P.O. Box 13484, Roanoke 24034.
He stuffed in a crumpled bill and sealed the envelope.
Then Ed, drenched in sweat, collapsed in a heap.
Lottery-Anon members rushed to his side and revived him. They hugged Ed. They called him family, they invited him to a monster truck race.
"Now that," said Ed, weakly, almost inaudibly. " That's entertainment."
by CNB