Friday, September 23, 2011

Staying on My Good Side


When my provocative cousin, Ron, boorishly blurted out at a family Labour Day reunion, “I’d like to re-open the issue of Grandma’s pearl earrings”, he had no way of knowing he’d just kissed several thousand dollars goodbye.

That was the amount of money I’d notionally set aside for him from my future lottery winnings.

“But you’ve never won a thing in your life!” protested John, quite tactlessly, as I was hiding the disputed earrings in the dresser drawer, later that evening.

John was not, strictly speaking, right. In July 1983, at a village fete in England, I won a cake of dubious provenance: It was made entirely of industrial margarine, manufactured from the spittle off a North Sea oil rig. Its glistening icing – rigidly bonded overtop – had the viscosity of latex and the scent of Vaseline.

I looked for a tag with a list of its more practical applications, like: “Useful for greasing door hinges and car springs. Also a moderately-effective spermicidal agent and hair-straightening pomade”.

But the only slip of paper I could find with this so-called Citron Gateau, read: “Prepared in Olive T’s spotless kitchen.”

I’ve never won anything else.

Every week John asks me, rhetorically and exasperatingly, when I hand over $5 for a try at the Lotto Max jackpot, “Do you have any idea how small your chances of winning are when you buy a ticket?”

And every week, with equally tiresome monotony, I lob back, “And do you have any idea how much smaller my chances would be if I DIDN’T buy one?”

I don’t get it: whenever I’m in the queue at the local lottery kiosk, I seem to be behind some cardiganed gentleman who scuffles up to the counter with his walker, hands over a wad of tickets, listens as each one merits a winner’s bell, and then with pleasure crinkled on his face and money crumpled in his hand, scuffles off again.

So far that’s never happened to me. My ticket always elicits a mechanical voice, filled with joyful Schadenfreude, that blasts out “NO PRIZE, YOU NAÏVE MORON” in both of Canada’s official languages.

Nevertheless, on sleepless nights, when gambolling sheep fail to relax me, I count imaginary lottery jackpot wins instead, and mentally dole out the proceeds.

Moving 40 million virtual dollars around in the dark when you flunked Grade 10 Maths and still can’t reconcile a bank account, is harder than it sounds.

Yesterday morning around 3 a.m. after several gruelling hours spent dividing the fictional winnings equitably among offspring, charities, and other assorted worthies, I suddenly began to fret about the broader tax and legal implications.

I needed to get this right, and to do that I needed a calculator.

Leaning over noiselessly, I slid the iPad towards me and peeled back its flexi-cover.

“What the devil are you doing?” John slurred groggily, as the iPad’s light hit him squarely in the eyes.

“Looking after one or two last bequests,” I whispered, hoping to soothe him back to sleep.

“Last bequests?” he cried, and sat bolt upright in bed. “You mean you’re dying, and not just playing Solitaire?”

At 8 a.m. when the alarm went off, I was predictably cranky.

“Make that radioactive,” said John.

Cousin Ron couldn’t have chosen a worse time to call.

John lunged for the phone.

“She was up much of the night,” I heard him tell Ron, “and I think it’s safe to say she’s not her best this morning. Why not leave a message?”

“…………..No, no, she’s fine. Just busy sorting out $40 million in lottery winnings, and arguing about it with lawyers, accountants, money managers.”

Ron’s sudden piercing squawk bounced off the kitchen walls.

I snatched the receiver out of John’s hand.

Ron couldn’t have been sweeter. The earrings were, of course, mine. In fact, he added in a voice oozing slime, that was precisely what he’d meant when he’d raised the subject at the Labour Day event.

I was dubious.

“No, really,” he assured me, “Diana insists they stay with you. That’s what Grandma wanted.” Diana is Ron’s cello-shaped avaricious wife.

“You and I really need to talk, Ron,” I told him, suggestively.

“Oh yes,” he burbled, “and you’ll have to tell me about your fabulous good fortune!”

As I put down the phone, I couldn’t resist looking pointedly at John.

“So who says I never win anything?" I asked.


© Alena Schram
www.opinionatedoldcow.blogspot.com




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