The Lottery
I was born on September 14, 1949. My family and I celebrated on that day this past year, thanking God for my twenty years of life on this wonderful earth. Birthdays usually excited us; always included grandma and grandpa visiting the house, mother baked the traditional chocolate cake, and my younger brother spent his whole allowance on a small gift from the general store downtown. After the blowing of my candles, I wished for a flourishing next three hundred and sixty-five days, looking forward to what the next year will hold. But, today, my birthday determines the rest of my life.
December 1, 1969
Hundreds of men gather in rows and rows of rusty fold up chairs, each gripping a small piece of paper with bold, black numbers on it. The boy to the left of me did not look a day over eighteen. His card read 334, revealing that he was surely a November baby. This poor kid made the draft by only two days. The sweat dripping down his neck appeared to sit and collect on his collar that held his bright red bow tie. He had thick, dark hair that was properly parted to the left and his button down shirt was tightly tucked into his pants that were held up by suspenders. His outfit was well put together, but behind those bulky glasses were eyes full of fear. For a second, I stopped worrying about myself and said a little prayer for this terrified young man, hoping that his number does not get picked out of the jar sitting on the stage.
One by one, six men in dark suits, all with the American flag pinned on their left breast, walked up the steps and onto the platform. Four of them sat down, fixed their reading glasses and prepared a pen and paper, while the other two stood by the jar, waiting for the command to pull out a slip. I can now feel my heart beat in my throat and can even hear it pounding in my ears. The slip in my hand slowly begins to decay from my sweaty palms. “And the first number of the 1969 draft is...”
Time stops. Three numbers roll off of the suited man's tongue, slow enough to take hours. "Two hundred and fifty eight." About a dozen other men stood up while I sat there, lifeless. I glance down at the smeared numbers in my hand: 258.