The Raffle

they all said she looked like a million--and that was precisely what he expected to gross when he put up his delectable prize

The idea of raffling off his wife came to John Norton in the shower, where many of his happiest inspirations had originated. He was bending over to reach for the soap, which Matilda either would not or could not put in the soap dish (she always took the first shower), when the notion struck him. For a moment, he stood still, or, rather, stooped still. Then he struggled upright, grunting and chuckling. The grunt was because he was a bit overweight, the chuckle because he was sufficiently objective to be able to appreciate the ludicrousness of the situation: a man doubled over naked behind the glass door of a stall shower, and yet, in that posture so manifestly debasing of human dignity, coming up with so splendid a conceit! He got out of the shower and began to dry himself, after carefully putting the soap in the dish.

Matilda was at her dressing table, 15 feet away, humming a tuneless, jerky song that always accompanied the plucking of her eyebrows--as if each wrenched hair were a banjo string. Five dollars a chance? he wondered, as he looked admiringly at her smooth bare shoulders and silk-sheathed hips. Worth every penny.

John had long been trying to figure out a decent way of parting from his wife. He had the highest esteem for her, and had no other entanglements that marriage made inconvenient. But she was an expensive luxury, and they were childless, and she liked to look at Tonight on television. If he could get Matilda out of his life, he could get Johnny Carson out of his bedroom. Moreover, Norton liked to travel, and his wife hated airplanes. Whereas Papeete dominated his flights of fancy, it was an ordeal for her to venture beyond Patchogue. John would have been quite prepared to settle for a routine amicable divorce, but inasmuch as he had no grounds for one, he feared that Matilda would drive a hard alimony bargain. If he was going to have to pay to clothe her body one way or another, he might as well stay married and get some pleasure from it.

The raffle would solve everything. John did not propose to tell Matilda about it right off, but when ticket sales had reached a reasonable level--would ten dollars be too much to ask? he speculated, as she bent to retrieve her tweezers and he had a glimpse of her full breasts--he would inform her. He had no doubt that she would approve the venture once she heard his terms. He was prepared to offer her half of the gross proceeds up to $200,000, and a percentage, on a handsomely escalating scale, of everything above that. Should ticket sales reach $1,000,000, (continued on page 177)The Raffle(continued from page 75) her share would come to around $683,000. His share, after deducting expenses, would be in the neighborhood of a quarter of a million, and that would be ample for him to chuck his job and head for Kennedy Airport. He was confident that he could attain that monetary goal. Had not Matilda been told time and time again at the country-club bar--there was a place to sell tickets--"You look like a million dollars!"?

There remained the matter, of course, of whether Matilda would accept the winner. In a way, that was her problem, not John's, but he had a sense of fair play. What if an already married man won her? (John had realized from the start that he could hardly expect to make a go of the raffle if he limited participation to bachelors.) Would Matilda mind being a mistress? Not at all, he concluded, provided she was installed in a sufficiently plush love nest. What if some creep won, like Mr. Greebley, the plumber? Matilda could handle Greebley. With $683,000, she'd figure out a way. Buy him a new truck, maybe, and send him packing.

John was basically a conservative, and he believed in doing things according to custom. The next morning, he presented himself at the offices of a fund-raising firm with which he'd had some dealings during the drive for the new wing on the parish house. The fund-raising establishment resembled a mortuary, and the youthful functionary who received John looked like a pallbearer.

"I want to raise a million dollars," John began. The young man jumped up and excused himself. A moment later his place was taken by an older man, who looked like a funeral director.

"A million dollars, you say?" the newcomer said. "Let's see--that would probably mean, in special gifts or memorials, one contribution of two hundred and fifty thousand, two or three of one hundred thousand, at least five of fifty----"

John interrupted. "I'm not interested in memorials," he said. "I want to raffle off my wife."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Look," said John. "Schools have raffles, hospitals have raffles, volunteer fire departments have raffles--why not me?"

"But your wife?"

"Charming woman," said John, holding out a snapshot taken the summer before on the beach at Quogue. "Healthy, sensual and fundamentally monogamous. She could make some lucky man extremely happy."

"I'm afraid this isn't exactly in our line," said the senior fund raiser, walking him out. "A pity. Er--how much were you thinking of charging per chance?"

"Five dollars," said John. "Anything less would be insulting to her."

"Sorry we can't be of assistance," said the fund raiser. He shook hands, leaving a folded five-dollar bill in John's palm.

• • •

Heartened that a professional in the field believed his scheme had merit, John had a small batch of tickets printed up and did some sample soft-sell soliciting among his acquaintances. He found them delighted, to a man, at being able to buy chances on a prize so refreshingly different from Thunderbird convertibles, color-TV sets and ranch-mink stoles. John's lawyer, who had long been fond of Matilda and whose own wife was known at the yacht basin as the Iceberg, bought 100 chances. "Be sure not to use the mails, now," he enjoined John. "Federal offense, you know."

John smiled. He had in his pocket a crisp fiver that he'd received earlier in the day from his suburban postmaster, Arthur Rudge, who could hardly keep from drooling whenever Matilda appeared at the other side of the barred window that separated him from his dreams. Just to stay on the safe side of the authorities, though, John made a mental note to give Rudge a second chance, for free.

Within less than two weeks, the demand for tickets had readied such dizzying proportions that John's printer felt justified in turning down three wedding-reception jobs and one fairly large-sized bar mitzvah. On the mere promise of a complimentary chance or two, John recruited a staff of part-time salesmen: the assistant golf pro at the club, the conductor on his commuter train, the husband of the president of the League of Women Voters, the dog-food delivery man, the school-crossing policeman (not to mention the chief himself, who was reported to have sold two dozen tickets one day in a single speed trap), and the assistant manager of the local supermarket, who usually handled the express check-out line.

Soon, as word spread, orders began to come in for bulk purchases, from Elks, Moose and American Legion posts. In the Bronx, a troop of boy scouts touchingly pooled their monthly allowances and bought a single ticket. An irate minister's sermon had gratifying results, particularly among his vestry. After a gossip columnist hinted at what was going on, John had a long-distance call from a Dallas man who said he represented a syndicate and wanted to know if there was any discount on purchases of a thousand tickets or more. When, through diplomatic channels, it was disclosed that the Sheik of Qaadh was interested in 50,000 chances, at the full rate, John decided it was time to level with his wife.

As John had surmised, Matilda, though at first taken aback, readily gave the venture her blessing. She was flattered to learn that every man she knew had taken at least one chance, except her sister's husband, whose terse comment, when approached, had been, "Once is enough." To be sure, Matilda winced when she heard that the postmaster had two tickets, but she brightened at John's pointing out that if 200,000 tickets were disposed of--a total that was, in fact, achieved within a fortnight--the odds would be 100,000 to I against old Rudge's hitting the jack pot. Matilda ended up so cheerful that she said she'd like to buy a chance herself.

"Sorry," said John. "I resolved from the start to confine this to men."

"Well, then, you buy one for me," Matilda said. "It's the least you can do, in the circumstances."

She had been so nice about the whole thing that John bought a chance, and when it proved to be the winning one, they took the proceeds and went to Tahiti--he by plane and she, after a leisurely stopover at I. Magnin in Beverly Hills, by chartered yacht--and there they lived happily ever after.