" Lottery Ticket "
By
kid mercury
I did everything they told me to.
I worked out: I hit the gym, I pumped iron. I even ate protein supplements. "Gimme the best stuff you got," I said to the young, muscle-bound boy working at the nutrition store. He handed me a large box, packed with some grainy white powder, a material quite reminiscent of sand. On the box was a large man, enormously built, wearing nothing but a skimpy bikini. His body was apparently freshly waxed, and a light, seemingly angelic glow emanated from it.
Price of protein supplement: $77.24.
The price of quality is undeniably woeful.
But it didn't stop there. I learned to play guitar. No, I was not the second coming of Jimi Hendrix. Hell, it was not as though I was a top hat away from being Slash. But I could play songs, popular songs, and sing along. I played well, and I sang even better. Not being a natural musician, I invested a considerable number of hours to amass the little guitar playing skill I possessed. But I succeeded.
Price of guitar: $176.89.
Price of strings: $4.99.
I am not one to settle for mediocrity, an illness that, in my humble opinion, endangers far too much of humanity. So my self-improvement, my value-added attributes, would not end merely with a pluck of six strings and a hoist of circular metal plates. I ventured even further, educating myself in Isshinryu karate – a martial arts style hailing from Okinawa, an independent island off the land of the rising sun. Acquire a skill, I was told. Acquire a skill. So I did. I learned to kick and punch. I learned to twirl weapons, turning combat into a dance. Much to my surprise, I also gained an appreciation for the philosophical aspects of martial arts. My instructor's wisdom became the ideology behind my mindset: "A martial artist is nothing more than a goal setter. Set your goals; track them. By you accomplishing your goals, you improve yourself. Self-improvement is emancipation, the emancipation we've all been looking for."
Obedience is my greatest flaw.
Monthly cost of martial arts lessons: $72.00.
Six years worth of martial arts lessons: $72.00 * 12 = $5,400.
I should note that there are still $44.00 in late fees that have yet to be paid.
So, in sum, I had managed to acquire proficiency in a few extracurricular activities, thus entitling me to present myself as a well-rounded person. Yet still, my goal eluded me. Motivation to continue my pursuit was declining, and bitterness was on the rise.
"Dude, look at the way you dress." And with those magical words uttered by my friend Donnie, a man who had successfully accomplished the very same goal I aspired to, I changed my wardrobe entirely. Out with the Kmart, in with the Banana Republic.
"There's no way I can get a discount?" I said to the clerk at the register. "I mean, I'm buying thousands of dollars worth of clothes."
"I'm sorry."
"You sure there's nothing you can do?"
"Some things are just out of my hands." I smiled. I knew exactly what she meant.
I stood there, wondering exactly how foolish I was for even contemplating such an extravagant purchase. "But this is a goal," I told myself, "and goals are necessary for self-improvement, which is necessary for emancipation. " So, by subjecting myself to the imprisonment of credit card debt, I reasoned, I was really freeing myself.
I handed her my credit card.
Purchase of completely new wardrobe: $4,672.31.
Less proceeds from sale of former wardrobe: $29.87.
Total clothing expenditure: $4642.44.
Months passed. My goal was still unaccomplished. I simply could not understand it: I was smart. I was funny. I was a witty conversationalist. I had made myself a well-rounded individual, while also succeeding at academics. What was the problem?
"Man, I don't know, but it really sucks to be you."
Donnie, while he was my consultant on the issue, never skipped an opportunity to exploit the inherent humor in my predicament. "You need to wipe the cobwebs off Mr. Happy and put that son of a bitch to use 'fore he forgets what he's here for."
"Yeah." What was I supposed to say?
"Well, I gots to jet. I got a hot date with some chick I met outside of McDonald's. Fucking hot, man. Fucking hot. Looks like a slut, so I think I'll come home with a smile on my face tomorrow."
"And an STD." I hope he gets gonorrhea. Motherfucker.
Donnie smiled. He looked down at his crotch. "Are you ready, Mr. Happy?" He left my apartment, and went on his way.
Just to clarify, I have been laid. It just hasn't happened in the last four years. I even had a girlfriend once; now that I think about it, she was a pretty good catch. Definitely not the hottest or prettiest of girls, but she was skinny and tall, making her somewhat desirable in the conventional male sense of the word. She also could play piano, another bonus. But that was years ago, when I was young and my heart was an open book. The truth is that I was quite confused at the time; I eventually lost all emotions for her, and I saw college as an opportunity to be born anew. But at this point, I'm starting to think that not every new beginning is worth ending the beginning from which it was born.
"Dude, man, the McDonald's chick was a good fucking lay," said Donnie immediately before submerging his lips into the clear, red bong. He exhaled a long chamber of smoke and passed the bong to me. "Sweet body. 34C man, 34C. That's what I'm talkin' about. I'm supposed to go out with her again on Saturday."
Great.
"Man, I think you just need to be friendlier," he said, sensing that I was more concerned with my sexual inactivity than his animalistic rendezvous with the McDonald's woman. "You're always walking around with a mean look on your face. Ain't nobody gonna fuck you like that. Just smile and be friendlier."
"You think I walk around with a mean look on my face?" I'd been told that before.
"Yeah. You also don't get out enough, man. Super Nintendo in your apartment ain't gonna get you a piece of the action. Get out. Go to bars or something. Socialize. At least try, man."
Perhaps Gonorrhea Boy had a point. Relaxing in solitude, soothing as it may be, was not going to satisfy Mr. Happy in any way.
"Like you should really just try for some bitch, you know. Set a goal. Like, 'I will get this girl in my pants by next week.' You gotta approach this whole thing with some tenacity. This whole picnic in the park approach ain't gonna do shit for you, man."
"I been tryin' in some ways, though," I said, trying to redeem myself."I mean, I think I'm a pretty good catch. I'm smart, funny, I got some skills I can show off with, I dress well…I spent a lot of money on just improving myself so I can get laid."
Total dollar spent trying to get laid up to this point: $10,224.32.
And that doesn't include the $44.00 late fee.
Donnie sat there pensively, as cigarette ashes fell onto his dirty, hole-ridden shirt. Suddenly, a light bulb flashed in his head: "You ever smoke around bitches?"
"What?"
"Weed. Or even drink around them. Or pills, man. Something to fuck with their heads."
I was getting the picture. A smile came across my face, as I envisioned Donnie's future: exiting a courtroom, trying to hide his face from the cameras, after just being convicted for date rape.
"Uh, I'm not exactly into committing any crimes, Donnie, if that's what you had in mind."
"Man, shut the fuck up. I ain't talkin' 'bout rapin' a bitch, you fuckin' moron. I'm talkin' about makin' the atmosphere inviting. I'm telling you, man, you can't just waltz on in without doing some prep work. Where the fuck you been, dude?"
I pondered his words, his ideas. They made sense.
"Look. You got a fuckin' goal. Now go get it." And with that he opened the door, sending me on my way.
The next day I made some phone calls and placed an order for some drugs: an eighth of marijuana, a case of beer, a couple of ecstasy pills, capped of with just a tad of psychedelic mushrooms.
Total expenditure on drugs: $85.00.
I would have bought more, but drug dealers don't accept Visa.
And then I saw her.
Her: the woman that could change everything. She could make things right, make things better.
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