The Odds: a short story

When cynical Sam buys a lottery ticket for the first time, life changes quickly

Photo by Erik Mclean on Unsplash.

‘You ain’t never gonna win the lottery,’ I told Grandad. ‘You’re more likely to be struck by lightning twice and be attacked by a shark.’

‘At this rate, I’m more likely to be attacked by a loan shark,’ he quipped.

I didn’t laugh. Instead, I ranted to Grandad that the lottery was a tax on the poor and the stupid. That I’d calculated that, since 1994, he had spent over ten thousand pounds on tickets, and had only ever won eighty quid. That it was a daft thing to be spending his pension on. He was on Pension Credit because he was so skint. Besides, just look at us: people like us weren’t winners.

‘Take it you won’t want a share of the jackpot when my numbers come up then, Sam?’ he joked.

‘Course not,’ I scoffed, though I was even more broke than he was.

I’d been sacked from work three years ago, because of the sexual harassment case, and had sunk into what the doctor said was a deep clinical depression. I still think the boss man wanted me out because I didn’t fit in, and this was a handy excuse.

Because I hadn’t sexually harassed Chanelle, not really. I’d just been persistent and determined. Weren’t women meant to like that in a man?

Photo by Ryan Brooklyn on Unsplash.

A few days later, I was in the Topp Dogg corner shop buying three packs of biscuits: Oreos, Milk Chocolate Hobnobs and Ginger Nuts. I was gonna eat all three packs in bed in one giant biscuit binge, knowing full well that I’d feel a deep, disgusting sense of shame afterwards.

Since being fired, I’d become morbidly obese, but had so little pleasure in my life that junk food was painfully irresistible. It was a vicious cycle: I’d stuff my face to block out the feelings of self-revulsion, which I’d then feel more strongly after the binge. I didn’t have friends, let alone a girlfriend, and my self-esteem was in the shitter – but at least I had sweet, crumbly biscuits.

There was an old dear ahead of me in the queue. ‘Twenty Silk Cut and a EuroMillions Lucky Dip,’ she croaked to the bloke behind the counter. ‘It’s a hundred-and-thirty-four million pound rollover tonight.’

‘That’d change your life, wouldn’t it luv?’ he said.

‘And then some!’ she laughed.

Despite myself, I imagined what I could do with that money. Get out of this East London shithole, for starters. Buy one of those posh mansions in Essex, where all the West Ham players lived, with an underground garage. Snap up a brand new top-of-the-range Ferrari, Bugatti and Porsche to house in it. Tell that twat Dave at the Jobcentre to stick his Universal Credit up his arse.

I’d start taking Ozempic, hire a stunning female personal trainer, lose the weight for good and get the loose skin surgically removed. Finally get a girlfriend, or maybe date a few sexy blondes at once: the sort of hotties who would never look twice at me now, what with me being five foot four and about as wide.

Install a gym in my mansion, along with a swimming pool and cinema. Buy a wardrobe of smartly tailored clothes to fit a short king. Go on a luxury holiday abroad for the first time in my life, flying First Class and enjoying the Champagne bar, as the fit air hostess turned my plane seat into a bed. Buy a West Ham season ticket in the 1966 West stand, pay to meet and have a laugh with the players.

Drive to every game in the Ferrari, enjoying other men’s jealous glances.

Make sure Chanelle knew I was living it up in style, and that she hadn’t destroyed my whole world.

The old dear shuffled out of the shop, and I placed the biscuits on the counter.

‘That’ll be two pounds fifty,’ said the bloke.

I handed over a fiver. Then, on a whim, echoing the old dear, I said, ‘And a EuroMillions Lucky Dip, please.’

Hell, the man was right. Winning £134,000,000 would change my life. Having £2.50 wouldn’t.

Photo by American Heritage Chocolate on Unsplash.

I forgot about the ticket until the next morning, when I woke up in an uncomfortable bed full of biscuit crumbs. I hadn’t changed the bedclothes in maybe a year, partly because I was so huge and everything was an effort, and partly because I was too depressed to think clean bedding would make any difference. The previously-white sheets were now yellow and had started to smell. So had the folds of skin on my torso and groin.

After hauling myself to my feet and waddling to the toilet, which was thick with filth and spattered with the dark brown contents of my insides, I remembered the ticket. Because I’d never played the lottery before, I didn’t have the app installed on my phone, so I idly Googled last night’s numbers and fished out the ticket from my wallet.