Draft Pages 2 (ugh, very rough)

My most-recently-bethrombosised colleague was addicted to gambling. This is another symptom my colleagues view as weakness. But it looks to me as though the self-delusion in which one must engage to become addicted to gambling (an affair that is always stacked miles against the player) is of a similar sort to the kinds of lies and half-truths we must all erect to ourselves, our customers, and those that our employers actively shroud us in.
This particular colleague was so convinced that he would hit the jackpot—any jackpot—that a myth circulates here about his one almost win. Sal, this colleague, bought a Powerball ticket one day. He was is not a man who does research, or who plays odds smartly. In fact, his skills at assessing risk or income-potential are so lacking that he does not even attempt to penetrate the market the way the rest of us do, carrying with us a stack of business cards, writing letters, dreaming big of a day when we work by appointment. In the eleven years he has worked for this company, he has sold hundreds, hundreds of cars. He has never once followed up with a customer, instead prefers to skate those who “belong” to others. He bought a ticket of random numbers, picked by the lottery machine. And the next morning, as all sucked on coffees to ease our hangovers or our depression or perhaps just to increase the odds of having a heart attack and getting to retire early, Sal whooped with such vigor that everyone (not me, this tale predates my employment) thought he was having another heart attack. Rushing to his red-faced side, the smile that had paralyzed his face was broken by five words, “fuck you all, I quit.”
True, however, to Sal’s unparallelled ineptitude (and simple bad luck), The Pine Times later issued a statement that there had been a misprint in the paper. Sal hadn’t, in fact, won the lottery. His numbers, 24, 13, 46, 18, 9 were off by one digit. The winning ticket was 15, 13, 46, 18, 9. A sad sack Sal returned to this ugly building to beg for his job back. Since


Author: April Line Writing

Writing about whatever the f*ck I want.

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