by Peter Loewer

The Curmudgeon has a facetious look about his visage,” said Cityfella to Mrs. Storekeep as he waited for the morning mail to be sorted with the deft hands of the second in command.

“Just before you arrived I gave him his Sweepstakes Prize Selection Kit from The Publisher’s Clearing House — in fact, there’s one for you coming up. The prize is up to $10,000,000.00 so I imagine he’s thinking about it as we speak.”

She put the pile of the various weekly shoppers aside in order to reach Mrs. Cityfella’s copy of Harper’s Bazaar and neatly file it with his Progress Energy bill — including its usual notice of all the good things it does for everybody’s welfare — and a copy of The New York Times, plus his phone bill from AT&T.

Cityfella opened the brown envelope from Port Washington, NY, and began to sort through the cards and the enclosed computer-generated letter, and immediately started to smile.

“Now you know why I’m smiling so,” said Curmudgeon, “because this promise of so much money tells me just what my life-long dreams should be.”

“What?” asked the local Tax Collector as she piled her tax records on the counter next to the newspapers and sat down on the small stool below the bowling trophies.

“Well,” he said, “to begin with: Imagine returning to my place of birth with $10,000,000! I could pay off all my bills . . . invest for the future (that’s a good one), plan for my children’s education (where?), and still have plenty of money left over to treat my family to some pretty fancy luxuries. Think of the looks on my various neighbors if I drove home in a brand-new luxury car.”

“What’s a luxury car?” asked Mrs. Storekeep. “Most of the trucks that roll around these roads cost more than most luxury car, especially with all the extras they usually contain.”

“What luxuries?” asked the Tax Collector with a knowing gleam in her eye.

“I could,” continued Curmudgeon, “build a new home in the area’s best neighborhood . . . complete with a gigantic swimming pool and a wet bar in the patio.”

“And you would have 1 in 1,215,500,000 chances to win,” said Cityfella.

“The mosquitoes and the midges would love the patio bit,” said Mrs. Storekeep as she glanced at the shelf loaded with various repellents for the summer to come.

“And if I win,” said the Curmudgeon, “at 9:30 one morning a Cadillac limo could pull up on front of my home — “

“ — not unless you pave it,” said Cityfella.

“. . . and my entire family could be chauffeured to the Atlanta Airport where we would board a private jet that would carry us to any place in the world — ”

“ — that would let you in — ,” said Mrs. Storekeep.

“And, I think, you still have to go through security checks,” said Cityfella.

“And,” said Mrs. Storekeep, “remember you’re a bachelor, live alone, and your only relatives are two sisters in Cincinnati — who never visit.”

But the look on the Curmudgeon’s face showed he was no longer listening, but in a voice tinged with emotion started a rundown of just what he could to with a pile of money.

“I could solve the mysteries of the Mexican pyramids and actually know what happens after the Aztec calendar for 2012 comes to an end. I could know how to guarantee success at my job — ”

“What job,” muttered the Farmer who up to now had been quietly sitting over near the front window reading his copy of The Wall Street Journal. “The only job he ever had was the time he bought stock in that company that planned to buy iceberg chunks and float them down to various countries in the Mideast that were running short of their water supplies, like France planned for Africa.”

“I could have seven cars, one for each day of the week — ”

“I think,” said the Tax Collector, “there’s a county council meeting I should be attending.”

“Seven in a neat row, each with different colors — ”

“I’ve got some fertilizer to order — unfortunately not as ripe as what you have around here,” said the Farmer to Mrs. Storekeep, “so have a great day,” and he ran to the door.

“A huge wall-covering TV with a dish on the roof that would pull in Japanese soccer matches — ”

Cityfella picked up his mail, put the sweepstakes stuff in the waste basket by the front door radiator, and waved good bye to Mrs. Storekeep.

“ — Not to mention life size statures of Batman and Superman to stand over near the wet bar — ”