On
by Blake—Age 28—Atlanta, GA
Last night on my way home from the law office where I call to collect on past-due bills, I stopped at a BP in a sketchy part of Atlanta to buy some candy. As I came in I saw an older black man yelling at the attendant glassed in behind the counter. I went on past, paying no attention, and spent two minutes picking what I wanted—I hadn’t eaten anything all day. Afterwards I came to the front where the man was still stationed, yelling. He had one of those lottery ticket forms where you pencil in your numbers. He was yelling at the attendant that he had won. Motherfucker, I wanna get paid, he said. The attendant, an older Indian man, kept trying to explain in broken English that what he had wasn’t a lottery ticket, it was only an order form, but the other man kept getting louder, insisting that here were the winning numbers, he’d won Powerball, give him his money. I maybe should have left but eventually the man looked at me and stepped aside. While I waited for my total, the man turned and showed me his paper. He explained how here he had the winning numbers and still they wouldn’t cash the ticket. I almost began trying to explain it to him, but instead I just kind of made a shitty face. I’m pretty sure he was crying. I found it hard to tell whether he was trying that hard to fool someone or if he’d actually thought he’d gotten a real ticket. As I paid and left the man went back to yelling, banging his fists now on the glass so that the whole building seem to shake. The attendant just went on staring forward, as if seeing nothing, with his hands down by his sides. I left them alone together. I went outside and got in my car. I drove home and ate my candy and looked at the ceiling and thought about money.
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