Page 2 - Just Deserts
P. 2

Prologue

          None  of  us  were  to  keep  any  record  of  our  activities—for
        obvious reasons, as you  shall  see.  But the  only talent I brought to
        graduate  school  was  a  photographic  memory,  and  the  only  skills  I
        learned  there  were  note-taking  and  report-writing.  Now,  with  the
        passage of decades since the occurrence of the events I shall relate in
        these  pages,  and  with  the  demise  of  most  of  the  participants
        involved, my pledge of silence is broken. The cerebral archive already
        shows signs of time’s ravage; if I take any longer wondering whether
        or not to divulge these secrets, the seal upon them will be set forever.
          I  am  writing  pseudonymously,  of  course,  and  have  altered  the
        names  of  my  co-conspirators.  If  anyone  cares  to  uncover  our
        identities,  it  will  not  be  impossible  from  what  I  am  about  to
        reveal.  The  newspapers  always  carried  small  stories  about
        winners of particularly large lottery jackpots in those days. So, for a
        period of time I leave to your discovery, the field may be narrowed to
        a small group of UCLA graduate students who, having pooled their
        few  crumbs  of  disposable  income  into  a  biweekly  purchase  of
        California lottery tickets, finally won a huge prize.
          The  five  of  us  really  had  less  in  common  than,  say,  a  pool  of
        office-workers  who  see  each  other  forty  hours  a  week.  We
        happened  to  live  in  the  same  co-op  apartment  building  in
        Westwood; other than that our lives did not frequently intersect. As I
        recollect, Carlos was a year or two into the master’s program in urban
        anthropology; Doreen had been working her way through law school;
        Lester  toiled  in  the  vineyard  of  public  health;  Gerald,  the  oldest,
        spent days and nights in the library locating obscure citations for his
        doctoral thesis on Occam’s Razor; and I, your faithful narrator, had
        been  pecking  away  at  American  literature  under  the  unsympathetic
        gaze of the English department.
          But after our lucky numbers came tumbling down the chute, we
        immediately  had  something  to  be  shared  equally:  eighty-seven
        point two million dollars, distributed over twenty years. Each of us
        therefore received one one-hundredth of that amount per year: after
                                        1
   1   2   3   4   5   6   7