When I realized that I had a winning
Powerball ticket, I was tempted to do what any other right-thinking
person would do – namely, run around in circles babbling
ecstatically... or treat everybody in the bar down the street to a
round of free drinks, price being no object (you want a shot of
Johnnie Walker Blue? Go for it!)... or at least pose for a photo
with the entire South Asian staff of the Kwik-E-Mart where I bought
the ticket. But a cooler head prevailed, and I consulted with a
financial advisor who told me, gently but firmly, that dealing with
an amount of that sort (four dollars) was below his pay grade. I
must say I felt demeaned, dismissed, and belittled! Isn't my money
as good as anyone else's? It just goes to show you what happens to
the little guy in this power-mad society. He seemed to be saying
“once middle class, always middle class”.
So, lacking professional help, I was
set back on my own devices. I had to think – what do winners do
with their money? And especially, what do “nouveau riche” people
do with theirs? My first thought was a Rolls Royce, but upon
inquiring I found that the RR firm is back-ordered until 2020 -- I
would have to wait in line behind a gaggle of triple-diamond Amway
distributors. And on some level I realized that my modest winnings
wouldn't even buy the ashtray in a Rolls Royce. In fact, they
wouldn't even buy the ashes
in the ashtray in a Rolls Royce (assuming that those ashes come from
a fine Habana cigar).
But I
didn't need that kind of negative thinking in my life, so I pressed
on. How about a yacht? Surely there's a sheriff's sale
somewhere liquidating the assets of some Russian oligarch who has
fallen on hard times (like being in a Russian jail, assuming that
qualifies as “hard times”). And after all, if you believe in
trickle-down economics, an oligarch-level yacht is guaranteed to
employ a few hundred people who might otherwise be selling potatoes
on the streets of St. Petersburg. But it didn't feel right, somehow
– I 've always wondered how those guys manage to do their yachts
justice, since they spend most of their time making more money rather
than relaxing. (I feel the same way about extra mansions, ranches,
ski lodges, and beach houses, by the way. Really, how much time can
you spend in each one? The staff enjoys them much more than the
owners do.)
How about a private plane? The problem
with that is that private planes have the annoying habit of falling
prey to what, in the business, is termed “controlled flight into
terrain”. Plus, the pilot would probably be a veteran of the Bay
of Pigs debacle, and I wasn't sure I wanted to be associated with
that sort of thing. Um... OK, how about jewelry? I love gemstones,
and the first place I always go when I'm visiting the Museum of
Natural History in Washington, DC is the gem room. But a lot of
jewelry design, quite frankly, leaves me cold. It starts with kitsch
and only goes downhill from there.
How about a Hollywood-style face lift?
Well, at age 71 I'm frequently mistaken for someone who's only 70, so
I decided that would be redundant. And when it comes to clothes,
well... there was a time when I could have been a body (not face)
model for Brooks Brothers, but those days are long gone. Why
emphasize the obvious? I can just see the tailor breaking down in
tears and dabbing at his eyes with the tape measure he wears around
his neck.
So I was at my wit's end, and decided
that I might learn something by studying photographs of past lottery
winners (the ones who went public, that is). And that effort bore
fruit – aha, at last! I have it! If there's one thing that
distinguishes lottery winners from the rest of humanity, and which is
a sure-fire sign of a winner, it's The Hat. No matter how else they
are dressed, and how unfortunate their hair is, and despite having a weight problem, you can always count on them to be wearing
The Hat. The minute the winning numbers are announced, The Hat seems
to magically appear on the winner's head, as if placed there by a
fairy godmother in a cloud of pixie dust. By the time they show up
at lottery HQ to collect their beach towel-sized check, The Hat is
already firmly in place, and destined to become a permanent fixture.
And it doesn't always have to be a particular style, although
Stetsons seem to be preferred (no matter what part of the country
they're from – the natural assumption being that once you have a
lot of money you automatically become a Texan); the main thing is
that it be distinctive, and that it shouts (no, screams) -- “I've
made it at last! I'm a winner! Look upon my newfound wealth, o ye
lowly, and despair!”
So I went in search of The Hat – not
just any old hat, but one that would be noticed – on the street, at
the opera, the country club, the annual Berkshire Hathaway
shareholders' meeting in Omaha... wherever. And I did find it, after
much searching. And the price tag was, let's say, quite reasonable,
considering what I was buying and its symbolic value. It came to
$389, which would have been a tidy sum in my days of penury, but
which was now a drop in the bucket. So home I went with The Hat in
its own custom-made silk-lined box. Only later did I reflect that,
taking the price and subtracting my winnings of $4, I wound up in the
hole for $385. But it was well worth it. That brief moment of
glory! Those fifteen minutes of fame (OK, fifteen seconds maybe)!
(OK, fifteen microseconds, whatever.) But I had the symbol, and
isn't that what counts? Now when I go down to the neighborhood bar,
I won't be any more able to treat the boys to a round than I was
before, but hopefully they will be awe-struck nonetheless. “Now
there's a real winner! How do we know? He's wearing The Hat.”
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