I used to go to the grocery store once, maybe twice, a week, pile the cart high with my weekly provisions and be done with it - like taking the recycling - another weekly chore crossed off the mental list of things to do. Grocery shopping has never been fun, never something that I’ve looked especially forward to adding to my day.

Lately, however, I’ve changed my routine. Instead of once or twice a week, I’m going once or twice a day. I make myself late to work for a quick stop for a doughnut in the morning, reschedule my afternoon plans so I can swing by for a loaf of bread, and find myself orchestrating illogical, far-fetched excuses to run into town so that I can buy a pound of coffee. My heart quickens as I pull up into the familiar parking lot, mind and tires churning past the marquee that explains it all - “Match and Win a Million.”

The tear-off tabs of the game pieces litter the floor of my car. My kitchen cupboards overflow with an excess supply of tuna, microwave popcorn, and peanut butter. I’m addicted, a gambler of the most pathetic kind. I feel like if I just try harder, go to the grocery store more often, then there is no one who deserves to win the grand prize more than myself. Idling at red lights, I carefully plan how I will invest and spend my earnings.

The cashiers now know me by sight, though I nonchalantly pretend that I’ve forgotten yet another very important ingredient for tonight’s dinner. I make casual conversation with them, trying to make them like me to give me extra tickets. “Anyone won from this store lately?” Some cashiers smile, others roll their eyes. I am embarrassed for myself, because although I’ve paid correct change for my jug of milk, I wait for the receipt and the game piece. My face turns red and I duck out of the store quickly.

Sometimes, when I go back to the store more than once in the same day, I am too embarrassed to go to the same cashier twice. I wait in another line, even if it’s longer, hoping that the cashier won’t catch my eye. I can hear them snickering when I leave: “That's the third time today!” and long cackles of laughter. “Oh God,” I say to myself, “I’ve become a joke!”

To minimize my disgrace and to maximize my chances, I visit the Ingles all across the region. Canton, Waynesville, Sylva, Asheville, Bryson City - I’ve hit them all. Some days I pretend I’m a World War II general and have a map with red push pins marking my strikes. I analyze my strategy over and over and find it flawless. There is no doubt I will win.

One morning, the grocery store was especially quiet and only one register open. On my way out the door I spied a stack of game pieces at an untended register. I summoned every ounce of will power to prevent myself from grabbing the stack and making a run for the door. I later cursed myself for my lack of nerve, and all day at work I replayed the fantasy heist in my mind like a Bonnie and Clyde movie with myself narrowly dodging bullets, barreling through red lights, laughing triumphantly with my score.

I have tried different, less improbable, approaches. Last week my friend and I were in the express lane together, and, in a moment of brilliance, we craftily split our purchases so that we could get two game pieces. But Joan, the cashier, was wise to our scheme. With more than a hint of annoyance in her voice, she said we could put our ketchup and bird food together and she would give us two pieces. Under his breath, my friend asked how much she’d sell the whole stack for. “We're trying to win the million,” I added in a fierce whisper. She did not humor us with a response, though the man behind us in line told me to wait for him and he’d give me his piece too. My face was red and I felt silly, but I waited.

Like all gamblers, I don’t like the person that I’ve become, but I can’t stop myself at this point. Every day, I rush home and spread the game board out on the dining room table. My heart rises up and I hold my breath as I search for the number that will secure my future happiness. Time after time my heart falls. I let out my breath.

My 3-year-old daughter Ayden thinks this is a fun game too, and I have let her help me stick pieces where they belong on the board. One day, in a mischievous mood, she grabbed my new pieces and ran dancing around the living room. “Bring them back!” I shouted, “This is extremely important!” She stopped dead in her tracks, and my words hung in the silence as we stared at each other. In a moment of clarity I saw myself not as a sly huckster, but as mommy dearest. What have I become?

I am an intelligent, educated woman. I have read the odds printed in fine print at the bottom of the game board. I understand that my chances for a life of luxury are not good. I am angry when I see the Ingles bags peering out of my cabinets and my wallet bulging with more Ingles receipts than money. I think of Bob Ingles chuckling merrily from his table at the Biltmore Forest Country Club, my paychecks funding his membership, Laura Lynn’s estate, and the very million dollar giveaway itself. “This isn’t a game,” I tell myself, “It’s a scam. A lottery!” This is my third time playing the “game” and I have yet to win $5. I am ashamed of myself. I am ashamed of Bob Ingles.

And yet I play.

(Esther Godfrey teaches in the English Department at Western Carolina University. She can be reached at egodfrey@wcu.edu)

 

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