Permutations and Combinations: Permutations and Combinations 04

During lunch, Old Ma could think of nothing but the lottery.

Ten yuan for five strings of numbers—was he being swindled? Back when he was in business, he had considered himself a man of the world, and everyone said the lottery was a scam. He had never heard of anyone actually winning five million.

The more he thought about it, the angrier he became; his eyes widened until they were round, and his face flushed a deep red. Neither his wife nor his son knew what could have provoked such rage, so they didn't dare utter a sound during the meal.

Afterward, his son left for school without mentioning money, and his wife quietly went to the kitchen to clean up. They both knew that while Old Ma was generally good-natured and easygoing, once he lost his temper, it was like a volcanic eruption—that stubborn, fiery spirit of a Northeast Chinese man still ran deep in his bones.

Old Ma’s bowl was still half-full, and his small liquor glass was dry. Staring at the half-bottle of sorghum spirit, tears welled up in his eyes. He poured another glass and downed it in one gulp. The burn brought tears to his eyes, but he left the house without touching a bite of food.

When he arrived at the small lottery shack, the noise inside was noticeably louder than before, though from the outside, it remained a squalid, brick-built hut. As he looked at the building, the image of the mustached man’s smiling face hovered before him. Old Ma had intended to kick the door down, but the memory of that smile and the cup of tea seemed to possess a magical power, instantly draining him of his impulsive, northeastern aggression.

Just then, a boy of about five or six emerged from the back room. He had a round head and looked quite adorable.

Ignoring the group of people gathered inside who were busy debating, the boy turned to Old Ma. "Are you here to buy a ticket?"

Without waiting for an answer, the boy sat down at the machine and began operating the buttons with practiced ease.

"No, no, I bought one this morning," Old Ma said. He instinctively reached into his inner pocket, pulled out the ticket he had bought earlier, and waved it in front of the child. Recalling how he had felt at lunch, he felt a wave of embarrassment, then quickly asked, "Why isn't the man from this morning here?"

"Oh, you mean my dad?" Old Ma studied the boy for a moment; aside from the mustache, he really did look just like him.

"The tickets bought this morning won't have results until tonight. Why don't you calculate your odds while you wait?"

The boy kicked a piece of cardboard that had just been painted. "Look, it’s all written there."

*Congratulations to local lottery player Qian Xiaotong for winning the first prize of the Sports Lottery Seven-Star Draw. Jackpot amount: five million!!!*

Staring at the black characters on the red sign, Old Ma felt an overwhelming surge of adrenaline. The blood rushed to his head, leaving him momentarily dazed. The smoke inside the room seemed to blur his vision, as if everything had returned to a state of primordial chaos.

The fact that a few yuan could turn into millions shattered the values Old Ma had held for the first half of his life. Even gambling or robbery couldn't compare to this. Memories of his past—the struggle of running his business, the humiliation he endured to get permits for his auto repair shop, and finally, the betrayal by his own apprentices—played out before his eyes like scenes from an opera. Gradually, Old Ma became obsessed.

The hallucination nearly cost him his life. Fortunately, a cigarette flickered into his field of vision. A fellow gambler, having just won a few hundred yuan, had bought a pack of premium cigarettes and handed them out to everyone in the shack before leaving. Like someone waking from a dream, Old Ma subconsciously took the cigarette, smiling without noticing who had handed it to him or even what the person looked like. As he did, his memories began to fade, and his vision cleared. His racing heart forced him to take a few deep breaths, and he began to adjust to the thick, stifling smoke of the room.

Stepping out of the smog-filled shack, Old Ma carefully smoothed out the lottery ticket he had been clutching so tightly—the one he had intended to throw away—and tucked it into his pocket before heading home.