The Big Win

Some 14 months ago I undertook the enterprise of radically reordering my list of personal contacts. This event was triggered in no small part by the receipt of a small notebook, handsomely wrapped in black leatherette and emblazoned in fine silver with the words “Ohio Plumbing Expo 2010”.

The item in question had been liberated days earlier from the stationary cupboard of my great aunt. A former leading light of the Midwest plumbing community, her death had meant a quick mobilization on my part in order to claim essential items she’d have wanted in my possession. This had to be done with remarkable haste ahead of the arrival of my vulturous family, who would no doubt descended in their multitude upon her home to divide the spoils between them.

The system I devised for organizing my contacts into this new diary introduced a simple traffic light system to proceedings. Addresses written in red ink were for those individuals who I was under no circumstances to talk to again. These people, who had done me great personal insult, remained in the book only as a reminder to myself to avoid those sorts of individuals in the future.

Before one could be inked in red there was a 6 month probationary period, with the fate of inking avoided only upon the receipt of a full apology, both in writing and published in one of the national broadsheets, along with a sizeable charitable donation made in my name.

Those written in orange pencil would almost undoubtedly end up in red, I just hadn’t yet collected enough evidence of their treachery to press the case against them to its inevitable conclusion. Automatic relegation to orange would occur due to any number of offenses, often due to my mood on any particular day. A member of the rarified green community could, for example, forget to send me a handwritten Christmas card but retain their status due to an abundance of holiday cheer. But try forgetting to return a borrowed book during tax season and it’s out with the orange pencil, my former amigo.

My address book at the time of the Big Win consisted of 6 greens, 32 oranges, and some two dozen reds.

Once my heartrate had settled and my hands, still clutching the winning Dolly Parton themed scratch-off, had stopped shaking, I immediately turned my attention to how I would communicate my new fortune to those suddenly less fortunate than I.

Telephone calls, or heaven forbid, text messages felt tremendously vulgar given the occasion. And yet, waiting for it to simply come up in conversation wouldn’t do either, failing entirely to express the scale and urgency of this, the Big Win.

And it was then, pouring myself a fortifying beverage, that an idea took hold. A festive newsletter, sent right away in clear defiance of tradition in the middle of this an unseasonably warm June, was sure to catch the attention of my audience-at-large. What’s more, with my address book now ideally formatted, I would be able to illustrate the enormity of this great coming-into-wealth in a way suited to the relationship I held with each one.

Excitedly I took up a pen, emblazoned with the green wrench that is the trademark of Cincinnati’s preeminent plumbing personal equipment distributor, MUCKIT TOOLS & TRADE. How I wish my great-aunt could be here to see this I thought as I flattened out a piece of paper and started writing.

My dear companions. I took another sip and crossed out My dear before continuing.

You might be wondering why I’ve sent this note,

Well the fact is you are someone upon whom I dote.

And upon this day of celebration,

Which could well end with inebriation,

I wanted to write to let you know

That once again dear Dolly has stolen the show.

Some $20,000 she has given to me,

From a ticket purchased off the 33.

In these winnings you will share,

Metaphorically of course (I must stress this I swear).

And although from henceforth you will hear from me less,

With the memory of me I forever you bless.

Well that will serve the green list nicely I thought as I processed it through the scanner-printer unofficially bequeathed to me by dear Aunt Dorothy. As the last of the six sheets piled up neatly on the tray my mind had already started racing on the content of the next note, to be sent without delay to those occupying the amber purgatory of my address book.

With this note I decided to get straight to the point.

By now you must have heard the news,

That I have come into some money.

It feels like some kind of ruse,

That I should get this pot of honey.

And yet a more worthy person I cannot fathom,

To claim $20,000 and after a fashion,

Discover some of life’s true passions,

All laid before me once I cash in.

You and I have never seen eye-to-eye it’s true,

You think me a grasping little shrew.

Well Auntie’s gone now and I’m a winner,

So sit down, shut up and enjoy your dinner.

I threw down my pen and advanced on the scanner. Perhaps I went a little far, I thought. Perhaps I lost my cool there at the end.

But no, these people deserve my scorn. For years they had whispered behind my back. “Useless little boy”. “Hopeless little man”. Well who was useless now. Someone with a fortune and the world at his feet. That’s who.

I frowned, and turned my attention to the final piece of paper that dominated the desk top. To the people I had promised never to talk to again. A deep gulp of my dwindling drink, and I began.

Dear family,

Aunt Dorothy died last week. Alone in a cold house. Surely the greatest of injustices for a once great plumber such a her. And she sure knew injustice. You ingrates, leaving a woman like that, our matriarch, to fade away while you lived out your little lives. I bet you wish I’d gone with her. You never understood what we had. How we cared for each other.

Well the joke is on you. All of you. I’ve come into money and there’s nothing you can do to take it away from me. Not her money, not any more, my own money. Loads of it.

If only you’d paid closer attention. We could have shared in it. Well sorry kiddo. Your luck has run out. Although having said that I am required to inform you that the reading of the will is taking place next Thursday and you are required to be there.

Regards.

And with that the job was done. I transcribed out the addresses carefully and one by one tore out the pages of the little diary until it's leatherette shell lay empty on the desk. I smiled and, rising from the desk, took one last look around Dorothy's house before taking up her car keys and driving away.