After my shift ended, at exactly 11PM, I ran back to my sweet spot. I knew that this place was reserved specifically for me because I could still see an imprint of my butt denting the shore. I sure have a fine bottom. I revisited that position and reached inside my pocket where I kept my precious die. I admired it again, now under the peak of the moon light. Its scratches shined while I slowly turned it from side to side. Then I started to play with it. I made up a game where every time I guessed the number correctly, I’d get 10 million dollars. So I had one out of twenty chances of getting this right the first roll. I fidgeted the die, blew on it, kissed it, mumbled gibberish while lifting it up, swirled it inside my hands, and threw it. During that weird ritual, I searched for my number. As the die jumped above sand, all I thought about was twelve. 209Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡqifDdQGnCQ
“Twelve, twelve, twelve,” I mumbled. Maybe this was my lucky number. Everything moved so slowly in that moment. There was stillness in the air, the noises in the resort turned to a muffled buzz, and even the waves became mute. Only the thought of twelve echoed loudly in my mind. The die came to a halt as it was buried under the sand. I carefully crawled toward it and tried to look but couldn’t. The number was covered in sand. I gently blew on it and saw a glowing twelve. My body felt the rush of a thousand bulls, and in response, leaped out of pure bliss. It was exhilarating.
“I’ll become a millionaire someday!” I howled into the night, knowing no one would notice that a black teenager was creating a disturbance in the resort. From a distance, they could only hear a shout and see a silhouette. No accent can be distinguished, nor skin color be seen. That’s why I liked this spot. I was free under the persimmon tree, by the lake.
The days were spent differently after I got the die. My neck would be sore after repeatedly turning towards the clock. I counted each passing minute. It’s like an addiction. Once it hit 9PM, I was gone with the wind. Every end of a shift, I returned to that place of solitude and with the die a loyal companion. I sat there silently at first, thinking of what my next lucky number should be. It’s a long process. Peace usually comes with it. My mind was able to focus on twenty choices, down to fifteen, down to eight, and eventually to two. As opposed to life’s hundred billion problems, this was much more tolerable. The moment I got stuck between two numbers was when I felt most calm. It seemed ironic, but, like I said, I did this at every end of my shift, which gave me all the time in the world. Once I got my number, the exciting part. The funny ritual became my own ritual. A fidget, a blow, a kiss, a whisper and a lift, a swirl, then to a roll, a habit that helped me guess my throws correctly. For the next one hundred days, I did this. And—somehow—I was able to predict the first numbers spot on without a mistake. Every. Single. Time. Each correct guess only made my heart full. I was too darn good at it. I thought I was only lucky, but a 100% chance rate of accurately guessing 100 times in a 1 out of 20 likelihood die would only mean I was never guessing to begin with. I was a billionaire, hypothetically. But I wasn’t content with being a billionaire in my own made up game. I wanted for it to be real. I think the lottery would be a nice place to start.
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