ArcaMax

There's a joke that goes, "I wouldn't tell anyone that I won the lottery, but there would be signs." Most recently, I told a friend that I'd buy her a vintage car that could park next to my brand-new-to-me DeLorean.

My fantasy of coming into money -- maybe through the lottery, or forgotten Bitcoin, or a long-lost magical trust fund -- always involved giving it away. Or at least, sharing it. Depending on my age, that giving varied wildly: donations to dinosaur digs, underwriting NPR (not just for the tote bags), or funding a neighborhood block party where everyone left with new appliances.

When I was a kid, I dreamed of a cul-de-sac where I'd buy a house for myself, my parents, my best friends, and my husband. As an only child privileged with her own room, I figured everyone would want their own place. I mean, if it worked for Frida and Diego, right? (It didn't exactly work out for them, but that's a different column.)

But lately, my dreams of wealth are less architectural. They're about not worrying about medical bills. They're about being able to pay for soccer or swim practice. They're feeling grateful when the air conditioner springs on. It feels like a simple thing, but I know that it's still a luxury for many.

That's what makes it so jarring when we see real-life money fantasy fulfilled and hoarded. I think about a Bill Burr bit, where he asks: "How can corporate executives get million-dollar bonuses when their employees can't get a filling?" It's a joke, but it lands like a gut-punch. Because it's not abstract yacht lounging, it's teeth. It's people having to wait to chew without pain until the next paycheck.

Politicians don't talk about this. Or if they do, they find a scapegoat. They say our struggles are because of immigrants, or laziness, or bad budgeting. Or they'll say, 'Well, we're not in power now, but if we knock on doors and if you chip in ten bucks before the midnight deadline, then there might be change.' You know, in like three or four years. Maybe.

Politicians are never honest about what really oppresses us. And it's not the teacher asking for a raise, or Elmo. It's not the single mom on SNAP, or the guy picking peaches in 105-degree heat. It's not a college grad asking for interest to be less on college loans. It's not the mom who spends years paying off their children's birth. It's not us.

It's a different percentage of people. You know the ones. They've already won the lottery, and they keep cashing the ticket.

So no, I haven't won the lottery. You'd know if I had. There'd be signs: my neighbor's teeth fixed. My friend's car humming next to mine. A cul-de-sac slowly rising like a village from the dust. And me, behind the wheel of a moderately restored DeLorean, windows down, the radio on full blast, driving back to the future we all deserve.

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Cassie McClure is a writer, millennial, and unapologetic fan of the Oxford comma. She can be contacted at cassie@mcclurepublications.com. To learn more about Cassie McClure and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate website at www.creators.com.

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