January 10, 2013--Snowbirding: Gitanes

I wasn't sure if he was disheveled or shabby chic.

We were hanging out at the Delray Beach News Shop gossiping with co-owner Richard and the stream of customers who that morning seemed more interested in lottery tickets than newspapers or magazines.

If you ever want a glimpse of one side of human nature, stop by the shop when the jackpot is creeping toward $100 million. Fascinating is who buys tickets (a hint--everyone, even the man who pulls up in his white, armor-plated Rolls Royce) and the kinds of bargains folks make with Chance to, I am sure, attempt to enhance their odds of winning.

At least half the people begin their bargaining with Fate by saying:

"If I were to win I would (a) pay off my children's mortgages; (b) send my nephew to a good private college (c) buy my parents a condo on the beach; (d) freed of need, quit my job and work as a volunteer in the Delray Hospital neonatal unit; (e) . . ."

I ask Richard when there is a lull if he's ever had a big winner and he just smiles. Or, if he thinks all the altruistic promising has ever helped anyone. To that, he keeps smiling and says, "It only helps them think about themselves, at no cost, as generous."

The man with the Euro-stubble didn't apear to want a paper or even a scratch-off, Instant Million lottery ticket. I had never seen him before and thought, like us, maybe he was just interested in being there and listening in on the chatter.

"Got any . . . ?" I couldn't make out what he was asking for.  Neither could Richard who asked him what he was pointing at.  "Those. Over there. Those cigarettes."

"I can't make out which ones you're pointing to."

"Next to the ones in the brown box," he said, squinting. "The Gitanes."

"I'm afraid we don't have any of those," Richard said. "They stopped delivering them to us. I don't know why, but I can't get them anymore. I used to sell a lot of them. Especially this time of year with all the foreign visitors."

There was a line forming to pay for newspapers and purchase lottery tickets. "Jackpot's nearly $90 million," Richard said to us in explanation.

"You don't have those damned smokes?" I looked closer at him and decided he wasn't in any way chic or foreign.

"Not for some time."

"You said they won't send you any more? Is that what you said?" He was beginning to sound belligerent, as if it were somehow Richard's fault that he could no longer get his hands on any Gitanes.  "And who's that they you keep referring to?"

"I really don't know." Richard sensed that this was not heading in a good direction and was trying to be both civil but not encourage more interaction."

"I'll tell you who they are. I mean, who he is."

Richard, Rona, and I looked at him skeptically. Again, not wanting to draw this out but still curious.

"Barack Obama. That's who. He's behind it. Regulate this. Regulate that. The next thing you know you won't be able to take a piss without getting his approval."

With that he thankfully stormed out of the shop and stood on Atlantic Avenue, flailing his arms and  talking to himself and anyone passing by.

We exchanged long glances with Richard, who, having seen it all, simply shrugged.

"Just you wait," we heard him say to no one in particular. "The next thing you know you'll look up in the sky and what'll you see?  I'll tell you what you'll see--black helicopters. That's what. Black helicopters waiting to take you away. That's what's become of America."

"Wouldn't you know it," Richard said slyly as we watched him wander off, "he's such a super-partiot but smokes French cigarettes."