The pre dawn morning was crisp and I’d just finished a frustrating game of tennis as the sun rose over the courts at Druid Hill Park on the border of West Baltimore. The first red-winged blackbirds sang po-to-twee and the Canadian geese honked before splash landing on the nearby reservoir but I was too angry at my inconsistent backhand and wild ground strokes to care.
After my match I drove to the grocery store to buy paper towels and toilet paper, precious commodities in a pandemic, along with frozen shrimp and tuna and shallots for a dinner I was imagining for later.
At checkout I loaded my items onto the grocery conveyor belt. The cashier stood behind plexiglass. She was older and blonde and she wore a black facemask for protection.
She scanned my items and bagged them for me, and the total amount came to $66.66. I thought it a funny occurrence, and said the number out loud.
The cashier looked at me quickly. “My son used to play that number all the time when he was alive,” she said. “The Devil’s number! I played it a few times too and won.”
She tore my receipt from the register, circled the coupon with a neon yellow highlighter and placed it in one of my plastic bags.
“Thank you for shopping, “ she said. “Be safe.”
