134Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡRoe2sFeaWv
On the 26th of July 1952, I marked my destiny. In the middle of rush hour, I stood facing the lottery booth. It was situated along the streets of Harrison, Arkansas, and was crowded with desperate white citizens –maybe they too hoped for a way out of their own hell. But sad to say I would be getting that golden ticket, for that, for the first time, I felt sorry for these white folks. Sike! The faces they’d be making when they hear a black man stole their white lottery money. Oh how I wished to see it all. I heard myself giggle. It’s been so long since I laughed. So I took my time in the world. This might be the last time I’ll be able to mingle with the crowd. I heard the busy streets behind me and noticed how unpleasant the sound was. But I listened to every honk and curse of road rage, because one day I will be flying above ground, beyond working class men and their worthless traffic. I looked at the people crossing the pedestrian, jogging to their errands—literally running for their lives—and I noticed how depressing their faces were. But I looked at them with fascination, like one would to the masterpieces of Da Vinci, because one day I will be in front of the real Mona Lisa.
After a few minutes of savoring poverty one last time, the crowd that surrounded the booth slowly left. I marched towards my fate, unsheathed my lucky pen, graced the vicinity with my glorious die, and did what I do best: guess. I rolled the die, guessed the number correctly, wrote it down on paper, and repeated, until I filled out everything. I returned the five cent paper and was handed a receipt. Sooner or later, this would become my billion dollar check. After being a block away from the booth, I suddenly felt a slight cramp on my chest. No, it’s no heart attack, but it was oddly similar to one: a heart ache. The feeling when you bid your parents farewell at the harbor before leaving overseas to a significantly better and happier life. I thought this pinch in the gut feeling was like that, although I haven’t experienced that particular event—or maybe I have.
On my way home, life took a different angle, it seemed. I didn’t notice that my neck was slouched like a hump back until my eyes left the concrete and followed a bird. Maybe it was just my point of view or height that changed after straightening my spine. I didn’t notice the pleasant scent of the morning breeze until I breathed in deeply. Maybe it was the fruit vendor that opened last week that scented my path of oranges and lemons. I didn’t notice the way my pace shifted after every crack on the sidewalk. Or maybe it was the music that played that kicked me to a sprayer pace. I tried to rationalize my assumptions. But really, I was probably making up excuses for myself, because there was no bird that flew, no vendor that opened, and no music that played. I did see the world differently than I naturally would. It was like the high of lottery. My feet felt lighter, almost bouncy, like I was walking on cloud nine. I smelled a minty freshness in the wind despite traffic. I started to feel tall, and it felt good. I was ecstatic. I giggled as I skipped, jumped and shuffled along the train tracks. Unmindful of where my feet landed, I arrived at the busy streets of the central market. I heard their murmurs, felt their eyes, and saw how they evaded, but I didn’t care. My chuckles turned to a cackle, my cackle turned to laughter, and I laughed hysterically like a madman on a killing spree. They say “money can’t buy happiness,” to that I call bullshit. Everybody’s attention shifted to me, and I was just about to ignore them, but there was something in me that I was unable to control. A sudden anger welled-up inside me and erupted.
“What are you looking at?” the whole market froze. “Is it your first time seeing a black man smiling?” I addressed the crowd. “Then savor it! Savor the sight of a black man gone loco; as opposed to your miserable faces you try to hide! Your meaningless race of becoming rich is nothing but dust, an empty attempt of escaping your own hell! I know, because I am in one! And my hell is a lot hotter, more sinister than all of yours combined! Go on! Call the cops! Tell them I harassed you, yelled at you, or any of your excuses! I don’t give a flying fuck!” I manically declared. “Remember the name Coldwood. You might want to befriend him after the lottery announcement.” I added calmly, while looking them dead in the eyes.
I might be a black dot in this white canvas of a world, but that only means that I was destined to stand out. I escaped the scene. That was bold of me to challenge the police. They might’ve really called the police, though. So I decided to take a different route home, and ended up on an abandoned street. There was a parked car on the sidewalk, and I saw my reflection on its window. I stopped to look. My eyes widened with delight. No more was the calloused young janitor, bruised by life’s uncalled punishment. No more was the black, small boy belittled by society, deprived of hopeful ambitions. Instead I saw a man with a suit, a white suit. I was like the not-so-old man. My smile fell to an emotionless expression. I looked at my lofty reflection, then down at my worn out tucked-in shirt and fading brown pants. I looked back to the glass with high hopes, but to only meet myself again. I sighed. He always kept me grounded even as a memory, that old man. He was the only white person that treated me nicely, treated me like a person. I missed him already. It might sound weird coming from a stranger, but… he was like a father to me. My eyes glistened with tears, then, I looked away from my reflection. I didn’t want to cry, well, not because I regret what I said to those people. In fact, I’d do it again if I could. But, I only felt sad because I never had the chance to thank the old man. I might have doubted our only interaction, he may or may not exist, but I knew he gave me a real opportunity: this dice.
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