An Adjuster of Sorts
By KC Selby
Most people see a lottery winner and they’re jealous. Me, I only see work.
The latest winner sits behind a cluster of microphones, vibrating in her seat as if she’s about to spring up and start spending her millions right then. On Monday morning, there’ll be a file on my desk with her name on it—yes, I work Monday to Friday, nine to five, even though my work is… unorthodox. And it’s not because of my wife. I like the stability, the routine.
Fine. It’s mostly about my wife.
She thinks I’m an insurance adjuster. Although, I am an adjuster of sorts.
On the screen, they’re now handing the woman a comically large check with her multi-million-dollar payment in big, bold font for all the viewers to see. She’s beaming, barely visible behind the check, but she won’t be smiling for long. There’s a reason most lotto winners end up miserable. And yours truly is one of those reasons.
I click off the TV because it’s Sunday night and I don’t want to think about work yet.
***
On Monday, as predicted, there’s a file for a Clara Brooks waiting for me. I sip my coffee while I flip open the folder and scan her profile. Clara is being very public about her winning, so our approach has to be subtle.
Some winners choose to remain anonymous, trying to avoid their long lost second cousin once removed from knocking on their door for a payment, not realizing they’re signing their own death certificate. No one spots a trend of lottery winners getting knocked off if no one knows they’ve won.
Fortunately for Clara, everyone in our great state and beyond knows she purchased the winning ticket. Doesn’t mean we’ll let her keep her millions, though. Our research team has discovered a little gambling problem of hers. Piece of cake. I can con anyone into an unofficial, unwinnable bet and even though she’s got enough to live five lifetimes in comfort, she’ll want more. They always do.
I flip to the next page and see that Research has even found the name of her bookie and Accounting has allocated me a pretty penny to pay them off. This’ll be easier than I thought. I might even get to call it a day early.
***
A month and several file folders neatly wrapped up later, I’m pulling into the driveway for a well-deserved long weekend away with the misses. When I step through the door, I toss my briefcase—yes, it contains fake insurance company paperwork—aside and spot Betsy waiting for me in the kitchen entryway.
“Welcome home!” Her eyes are wide and she seems out of breath.
I haven’t seen her this excited since she won that Shiana Twain look-alike contest.
“What’s going on Bets?”
She pinches her smile into a straight line before answering. “Now I know you said it’s a waste of our money to buy tickets. That the lottery does more harm than good—”
“But?”
“But…” She looks down at her hands, then back up at me with a coy smile.
My eyes widened at the little slip of white paper in her grip.
“We won!”
Well, ain’t that my luck.
