Sometimes, Lotto Fever Can Turn Into Fear and Loathing

I had an especially fretful weekend. If you knew me, you’d know that’s saying something.

From the time I left the office Friday night until I dropped in Monday afternoon, one thought haunted me: What if my office mates hit the lottery?

Could I possibly handle it if people I’ve known for years hit the big one and split $193 million? Could I fake the happiness that would be required as they danced deliriously around the office?

I’d certainly try, but it’s doubtful I’d pull it off.

More likely, I’d have to go sit in my car. Or take a long drive. Possibly, toward a cliff.

Small of me, I know. But isn’t that exactly how you’d feel? Would you really want your next-door neighbor cashing in millions of dollars and smiling all the time? Of course, you wouldn’t.

Compounding my anxiety was that I had every chance to join my colleagues in their quest. Early Friday evening, my friend Jerry was still circulating in the office, squeezing $5 from another co-worker so he could buy more tickets.

I could have chipped in. But, geez, five bucks?

OK, I’m small and cheap.

It’s always bugged me that the lottery is designed for one winner. I know they have multiple winners, like this week, but wouldn’t it be better to guarantee that outcome if the kitty got over a certain amount--say about $50 million?

“The public told us they wanted bigger jackpots,” says lottery spokeswoman Cathy Doyle Johnston.

I tell her of my fear that friends might win. “By nature, I’m an optimistic, positive person,” she says. “I can walk away from a slot machine and if someone walks up right behind me and wins $1,000, I think, ‘They must have needed it more than I do.’”

Well, good for her.

By the time Jerry left Friday night, he’d lined up more than 40 contributors. With $5 from each, that meant he’d be buying more than 200 tickets. I panicked; that sounded like a lot. I would have rested easier had I known the number of tickets sold statewide would be around 104 million and the odds of winning the big prize were 1 in 41 million.

Still, I visualized Jerry sitting at home Saturday night, eating some popcorn, awaiting the results and then discovering he had struck gold. I pictured some leaping and whooping and a hat flying into the air.

It was more than I could stand.

Sometime Sunday, I heard the news that three winning tickets had been sold. That worried me because it increased the chances my friends had hit. Then, a report said one of the winning tickets had been sold at a convenience store in Orange.

Orange?

Oh, no. Jerry lives in Anaheim. What if he’d had a lucky feeling, drifted over to Orange and bought all the tickets there? I know for a fact that the man frequents convenience stores.

I waited at home Sunday for the phone to ring, but it didn’t, and that buoyed me. Surely, I thought, someone would have called to say they’d won--if only to begin rubbing it in, because that’s what I would do.

As of this moment--while I’m confessing to my pettiness--it’s Tuesday afternoon and the Orange winner hasn’t been identified.

But, whoever it is, thank God it’s not Jerry and my friends.

I know that, because I came in to the office for a while on Monday afternoon. It was a holiday, so not many people were around.

“Please tell me Jerry didn’t have one of the winners,” I said to a colleague.

“He’s working the night shift tonight,” my friend replied. “That tells you all you need to know.”

Just like that, the cloud lifted.

A calm settled over me, and I appreciated my wonderful and kind office mates with greater passion than before, knowing none of them was an instant millionaire.

Perhaps it’s wrong, but the thought of Jerry coming in and working the night shift, instead of being in some Porsche dealership pricing new convertibles, filled me with my first real joy of the weekend.

I couldn’t wait until Jerry showed up for work, so I could tell him how sorry I was that he hadn’t won.

*

Dana Parsons’ column appears Wednesdays, Fridays and Sundays. Readers may reach Parsons by calling (714) 966-7821 or by writing to him at The Times’ Orange County Edition, 1375 Sunflower Ave., Costa Mesa, CA 92626, or by e-mail to dana.parsons@latimes.com.