OCD 11-7

He'd gotten hooked playing the lottery soon after starting his job as a supervisor at the Xerox colour toner plant. He hadn't forgotten where he started from, as a packer on the blue line, and this was one of the ways he kept in touch with the guys on the line he'd worked beside for years. Besides, he wasn't one to take on airs like so many supers who'd pass through the plant.

That was 15 or maybe 16 years ago. Whichever, it was a long streak of losing week after week. Not even a win to buy tickets for the next week. Just not destined for that kind of good luck. In fact, it seemed that everything had to be earned with patience and effort. He wasn't savvy enough to spot an opportunity. Hell, he missed the punch line on most of the jokes told in the lunchroom. And he was anything but smart enough or good-looking enough to attract attention. Just an average shmoe in pretty much every way imaginable.

Misfortune wasn't so elusive. In his twenties he'd suffered a nervous breakdown and was diagnosed with an OCD anxiety disorder. His manifestation was writing strings of numbers on Post-it notes, no apparent connection to anything. His shrink said she thought his condition was related to his having a slightly above average IQ—he'd smiled when he heard that—and being stuck in a mindless, repetitive job. She didn't have to suggest that he get another job, because it was patently obvious that the man couldn't sell himself to save his life. Drugs, she'd said. He'd need medication. And he went through a pharmacopeia of drugs, which became progressively less effective, especially as his supervisory anxieties began to overwhelm him. He'd accommodated this ever-changing regime by expanding his note-taking to include abbreviations.

He had a couple of episodes—minor enough that an ordinary sick day covered his absence. On the second occasion, his shrink, apparently reaching the bottom of some list, prescribed dopamax. She didn't call it that. That was the slang he'd picked up somewhere. Anyway, it changed his life. Not for the better. Quite literally, it made him stupid. He made stupid mistakes at work. He got easily confused. And he couldn't make sense of his notes anymore. He had to go on a medical leave for a couple of months, and that was not a career-enhancing development. His hospital shrink immediately took him off Topomax and prescribed Cognitive Based Therapy backed up with a mild anti-anxiety med. He worked diligently with the CBT, and that helped but the effects of the dopamax persisted even after he was released from hospital and allowed to return to work.

He bought his first lottery ticket the day he got out of the hospital, taking his recovery as a sign of better luck, and to everyone's surprise and freudenfreude he started winning. Small stakes, but enough to pay for his ticket and more importantly enough to bolster his self-confidence. One Saturday morning, his life turned right side up. He'd won the lottery. The prize—one million smackeroos. $1 million. One million Washingtons; 10,000 Benjamins. He was a millionaire. Overnight. On a lime green Post-it note, he scribbled two dates: '11-7' and 'Jul 13,' then stuffed the note in his back pocket.

He spent the rest of the weekend working through countless thought records as his moods swung wildly from one extreme to another. By Sunday night, he'd convinced himself that this was real and that he could start working out new plan for his life. He didn't tell anyone at work and there was no one else in his life to tell, so it was a tight secret. Although he didn't share his news of good fortune, the guys at work picked up on the change in his demeanor. He'd become noticeable. One of the secretaries in the front office whom he'd quietly pined after for years even spoke to him a couple of times in passing when he happened to be called up to the office area. She'd even smiled, and he'd never recalled a pretty woman smiling at him in any way that didn't suggest pity.

Time slipped by in a way it never had before. The knowledge of the life-saving lottery win made him feel different; alive; energized; hopeful. He began to enjoy the full range of mundane and uninteresting parts of his life, as if he knew that he was soon to transcend all this and wanted to drink deeply into his existence before it changed. He was in no hurry to turn in his winning ticket. It was valid for one year, and thanks to his meticulous note-taking he was on top of it.

Then occurred another development that fully absorbed him. The secretary—she'd agreed to see him. It was not a hurried or reckless affair. It was premeditated, and apparently it was regarded cautiously by both parties.

Months passed and mid-summer had arrived again. She had gone to Milwaukee to visit her sister for the weekend, so he was alone. He took the opportunity to organize his notes—something he hadn't done in weeks, if memory served. Had a small stack of 2"x2" yellow sticky notes and then a handful of notes in assorted bright colors—blue, orange, lime green, purple, etc. Usually, when he'd finished with a particular note, he would mark a strong diagonal line in red across the note, but he hadn't got to this task in quite some time, so there were likely many notes that were no longer relevant. The brightly-coloured notes were of greater significance, and that made the sorting easier.

He worked his way through the blue, orange, purple, and then came to the lime green Post-it note. There was only one. He remembered that this was an important note, but for the life of him he couldn't place the significance. '11-7' and 'Jul 13.' There was a slight tear in the note between the two sets of numbers, which presumably, he thought, were both dates.

The dopamax haze revisited him from time to time, and for a couple of minutes he was back in it. Then, 'Jul 13' burst into his mental field of vision and he thought immediately of the ring. When he remembered the ring, he remembered that it was Elizabeth's birthday and that he had wanted to surprise her like she'd never been surprised before.

She was returning from Milwaukee next week and would be back tomorrow on the 12th. He looked again at the lime green Post-it note and knew right away that July 13th was not just Elizabeth's birthday but also the day he planned to propose to her. He breathed a sigh of relief at resolving that mystery in time, but there was this other number on the note. Now, '11-7' could be November 7th. Was that the anniversary of his winning ticket? No. He remembered distinctly that he'd discovered his win in the summertime, about this time of year. So, what could be the significance of '11-7.'

After an hour or so of wracking his brains to remember, he put it aside, and to relieve the anxiety he was feeling, he set up a thought record and recorded his thoughts and feelings as he'd done so many times before when he stress and worry overwhelmed him. He finished the thought record filling in the blanks with as much detail as he could, and by the time he'd finished, he was ready to have a drink, listen to some trumpet jazz, and fall asleep on the sofa.

Around 3 a.m., he woke up in a sweat. He knew what '11-7' meant and he was frozen in catatonic space physically, mentally and emotionally.

The thaw came gradually and painfully. '11-7' was July 11th. He'd used the European date format, because Elizabeth was from the U.K.

It was now 3 a.m. on July 12th. The lottery ticket had expired.