“Settle down back there.” Ken Nottingham had just dropped off his wife at her job at the insurance agency downtown and was headed to drop his two boys off at school. It was a hot, breezy September day and the windows were down because he couldn’t afford to fix the AC. He’d been out of work for almost a year from the ad agency in New York, and they were down to one car and tuna casserole for dinner.
“Can I see it, Dad?”
Every Wednesday, he bought a lottery ticket after he dropped off Shirlene and played the same mix of family birthdates on the Pick 6.
“Settle down and I’ll let you take a look.” He handed it to 10-year-old Brad who was still studying it when little Tommy asked to see it.
Brad taunted: “Ever wonder what it would be like to be a millionaire? –You could buy all the best video games, even a jet and zoom around the world.”
Tommy couldn’t stand it. He wrenched Brad’s thumb, just as a gust blew through the car. The ticket whisked out the window and high into the air.
****
Mark W. Blumquist had been an executive at Big Orange Insurance for 15 years, but alcohol took him down. He lost his family, his 401K, and his house to the bank, and now spent most nights under a bridge. That morning, he was walking back from the bodega sipping coffee and trying to shake his hangover. He had squeegeed car windows yesterday and made $53 dollars, enough to carry him another day and pay for a phone card.
He was enjoying the breeze but stumbled on a crack. On his knees, he noticed a slip of paper dropping from the sky. He read the date and stuffed it in his pocket. He would buy the Friday paper to see if he won anything. If he matched three numbers it was $20, but if he picked all six, the prize was $250,000 times the 2X multiplier.
Friday morning, just outside the bodega, he flipped open the newspaper. All six numbers hit.
****
When Ken Nottingham picked up his wife that evening, he told her how the boys lost the ticket. Shirlene didn’t make an issue, but insisted he stop at the next pharmacy, and she’d run in. She was excited—the ticket had the 5X multiplier. She stuck it under the Big Orange magnet on the fridge.
Ken was driving back from the supermarket Friday when he heard the winning numbers on the radio: 27-22-31-19-8. “OMG. We won!” He raced home. But when he pulled the ticket from under magnet, the blood rushed from his head. After he vomited in the toilet, he called Shirlene, but it wasn’t the conversation he’d planned. She knew his numbers hadn’t hit for 10 weeks, so she let the machine pick.
Ken was livid. “Instead of $1.25 million, we got Zip-Zero-Nada, baby!”
****
After taxes, Mark Blumquist collected $253,000, but it felt like a million. Trained in business and computer science, he realized the feeling would be fleeting, and it would be easy to squander. His first move was to hire an accountant and check into rehab.
Thirty days later, he was dried out and clear thinking. He did his research and was now a man with a plan and an office in Manhattan. His accountant not only gave his blessing, but invested some of his own money, and put Blumquist in contact with a friend at MIT. Once underway with development, a universal operating system for home robotics, they attracted $10 million in venture capital. That ballooned to $100M six months soon after they landed a contract with HomeBots International, which was also based in New York City.
****
Ken Nottingham couldn’t believe his bad luck, and when he found out a homeless man had won the lottery, he became obsessed. He spent every waking minute trying to track the guy. But the winner remained hidden. The chase only angered him more until he was snapping at everyone. His marriage soured, and he lost all his friends except one named Johnnie Walker Black.
Three years later, he was waking up on a Manhattan sidewalk atop a subway grate. It was September and his beloved Yankees were in contention. But the first thing on his mind was to find a drink. He’d root through trash and sip whatever might be left in containers, and then snag a paper and whatever he could find. That morning, he pulled out a half-eaten apple, a Daily News and a copy of Inc. magazine. He panhandled commuters for three hours, and earned enough to buy a cream cheese bagel, a Coke and a pint of Red Label for the afternoon. Of course, he’d take a few nips before then as a reward for his morning’s work.
Reading helped pass the time. His Yankees were just one game out from the playoffs, so he’d hang outside McSorley’s in the evening and watch through the window. If he panned enough from evening commuters, he might even snag a late-inning pint inside.
Nottingham didn’t normally read Inc., but while enjoying his bagel he came across a fascinating story about a businessman who made a splash with the operating system for HomeBot. They described him as a self-made man who had pulled himself up from the street after winning a cool half-million in the lottery just three years ago — and there was his picture: Smiling Mark Blumquist — A bell dinged in his head.
****
With a confident swagger, Blumquist emerged from the 59th St. subway, tucked Monday’s Wall St. Journal under his arm and turned down 7th Avenue. He always took the same route to his office. To his right was the blind and homeless man he knew as Kenny. Wearing dark sunglasses, Kenny rocked back and forth on his heels and shook a can with one hand and held a cardboard sign in the other that read: “There but for the grace of God go I. Please by a pencil.”
Blumquist was a compassionate man who always stopped for a few words about the Yankees before dropping a few bucks in Kenny’s can. This morning, after Blumquist dropped a five, their conversation ended differently.
“Thanks, Mark. Say the Lincoln is nice, but I’m really hurtin’. Can you up your generosity?”
Blumquist remembered the aches and pains and taste of life on the street — the bone-chilling cold, the sores from his shoes, the cuts on his hands and the hunger pangs “Sure. What do you need – a warm pair of socks, a cup of coffee, a hot meal?
“Yeah, all those would be good, Mark. But I was thinking something green and a lot bigger.”
“Well, I like people who think big. And it’s good to dream big.” He handed Kenny a Ben Franklin and walked away. “See you tomorrow,” he said waving over his shoulder.
Blumquist felt generous and the next morning he handed Kenny a $20 bill and five $1 dollar scratch-offs.
“What’s this, Mark?”
“A dollar and a dream. Five chances to win a million.”
“Funny. Should I scratch them now?”
“I gotta run.” Blumquist said. “Let me know tomorrow. If I don’t see you, I’ll know you won.”
The next day, Kenny was still there with sunglasses and his can hawking pencils.
“Sorry you didn’t win,” Blumquist said, handing Kenny $50 and another five $1 scratch-offs. “But the Yanks are in the playoffs, so that’s something to celebrate.”
“Hey, can you score me a ticket to one of the games, Mark?”
Blumquist held box seats but didn’t want this man with outrageous B.O. to mix with his customers.
“That’s asking a lot. Hey, let me ask you a question: When was the last time you took a shower?”
“That’s kind of personal, isn’t it, Mark?” Kenny hesitated a moment, then volunteered, “If you must know, I wash my pits every night before the bus terminal closes.”
“Let me see what I can do,” Blumquist said before trotting off.
The next day, Kenny was still sleeping it off. Blumquist kicked Kenny’s shoe with the hole in it. “Didn’t win again, I see. Still wanna see that Yankee game?”
Kenny rolled over and spit hard on the sidewalk. “Sure.”
Blumquist handed him five scratch-offs and a business card to his haberdashery on 5th. “Be there at 5:15 p.m. – unless, of course, you win the lottery.”
Kenny did show, and Bert, the salesman, greeted him warmly, outfitting him with slacks and button-down shirts. Bert then sent Kenny to a shoe store.
The next morning, Blumquist found Kenny in the same worn jeans and flannel shirt but sporting new leather boots. Kenny patted his backpack. “They’re in here. I’d never earn a dollar in those clothes?”
“I get it. But you could someday if you play your cards right.”
“In the meantime, could you help me buy new jeans and another shirt. These stink.”
Blumquist handed him three $20s, the five scratch-offs and the address to his club. “Meet me Thursday at 5:30 p.m. cleaned up and in your new clothes, and I’ll buy you dinner.”
For three years, Nottingham had harbored hard feelings for the man who stole his winning lottery ticket. He always kept a stiletto in his pocket and dreamed of what he’d do to the man who sent his life into a tailspin. Now he was drinking scotch and toasting the future with the man.
“You can take your sunglasses off now, Kenny,” Blumquist said. “You’re not really blind, are you?”
“Who said I was blind?” Kenny laughed.
“I know who you are,” Blumquist said.
“Hey, that’s my line. I know you’re Mark W. Blumquist, the multi-millionaire who pushed HomeBots into the stratosphere with your operating system. But what do you mean, you know who I am?”
“Well, I make it my business to know. Your wife and I were friends at Big Orange, so I know what happened. We kept in touch after your divorce. She contacted me last year and said she felt bad for you and wondered about the impact on the kids. She asked if I could help.”
“So you knew it was me all along?”
“No, of course not. I did some digging but couldn’t find you. It was really just coincidence. But I did see something of me in you when you said you were once a successful ad exec, and then you mentioned your last name last week.”
“So you’re having an affair with my ex?”
“Oh heavens, no. But Shirlene moved into purchasing and rose through the ranks when she landed HomeBots as a client.”
“Nice. Well, I’m hoping you’ll still make good on that Yankee game.”
“You’ll be my guest in my skybox.”
“Wow, that’s generous of you. But to be honest, Mark, I’m still feeling short.”
“Bert told me you were a 42 long.”
“Funny, but that’s not what I mean.”
“Listen, I’m sorry what happened to you, Kenny. But you can’t expect me to just hand you a fortune. Life doesn’t work that way. It’s finders keepers and weeping about it doesn’t serve you well.”
Ken felt a pit in his stomach. He rubbed the stiletto in his pocket as he listened.
Blumquist continued: “God knows, I know what it’s like living on the streets. But I’m offering you a way out. You have talent, Ken. All you have to do is clean yourself up, and I’ll put you to work.”
Ken Nottingham did not say a word but pulled the five scratch-offs from his shirt pocket. The first was not a winner, nor the second, third, fourth or fifth. A puff of air escaped from his mouth as he nodded knowingly. He raised his glass and met Blumquist’s gaze with a smile: “That’s a very generous offer, Mr. Blumquist.”
Credit: Photo by Fabien Bazanegue on Unsplash
