I won a prize today. Yesterday I received a glossy junk-mail flier advertising one of those parking-lot car sales where a consortium of dealers buys overstocked automobile inventory on the cheap and resells it just under the MSRP to make people think they’re getting a deal. I don’t need a new car and, in fact, I had already shredded one of their earlier advertisements. My initial thought was to do the same with this one—except this time they offered loot.

Scratch off the dot on the outside, and if the number matches what’s on the inside, you’ve won one of the prizes listed there. I was only mildly surprised to find out I had won something because I figured it was one of those gimmicks where everybody won, but then again I couldn’t be sure because the odds of winning any of the five possible prizes were in excess of 200,000:1. Statistically speaking, this meant that only about 10 people in Lancaster County should have won anything. I’m fairly certain there were more winners than that.

The five prizes included a 42″ TV, $500 in cash, a 41 piece tool set, a $50 gift card to Walmart, and something else that evidently wasn’t very exciting to me or I would have remembered it. The only thing I wasn’t interested in at all was the 41 piece tool set, since I bought approximately that many tools when I moved a few months ago. Even the TV was something I could probably make $500 off of.

Obviously the only reason I received this flier, prize or not, was to get me to do something. Getting me to buy a car is what the salespeople wanted, but I suspected the company was going to want either some personal information, or have me sit through a 45 minute sales pitch or something. I scoured the brochure for any mention of what I needed to do or give up in order to get my prize. I read every line of fine print. Three times. Nothing. Just “stop by and show the brochure to any sales associate to claim your prize.”

Since there would be some collecting of personal information for tax purposes, I decided ahead of time which prizes I would accept, and under what terms. The TV, the cash, and the other thing were all things I would give up my soc# for, seeing as how I could get at least a few hundred dollars out of them. The $50 gift card I would take only if I could get it without having it be reported to the IRS. Technically it should have been, but I thought if I complained enough about privacy concerns they might let it slide, though I was prepared to walk. The tool set was an instant walk. I wasn’t going to waste any time on that.

The event was being held in the parking lot of a local mall. It was easily within driving distance from work, and I could pick up lunch while I was out there, too. Going during my lunch break also gave me a legitimate excuse to play the time card—a dominance tactic I wanted to make sure I had access to, because I expected the salespeople would be merciless sharks.

I put on my best “I’m in charge here” attitude, and entered the tent. (It’s really more like acting an entirely different “I’m in charge here” character rather than an attitude I tack onto my existing personality. I’ve played him before. He’s kind of a dick.) Sure enough, many folks were sitting at tables, filling out a survey. The last thing I was about to do was physically sit down; I would have filled out the survey standing up if I had to. But I also knew with 100% certainty that according to the advertisement I had in my hand, there was nothing I had to do to claim my prize. I was not going to cave on this point.

It took me a minute to figure out who the sales people were. They weren’t dressed flashy or even different from anyone else. (I was surprised at this. I expected sharp suits and flashy ties, but maybe it was too cold.) They were, however, all wearing the same type of black earmuffs. This detail having been noted, I approached a middle-aged bemuffed gentleman with a large nose and graying hair, and held up the flier.

“I received this in the mail yesterday, and the numbers matched. I’m here to claim my prize.” I had been reciting that line all morning, so I was rather pleased that I pulled it off without tripping over my tongue.

“Okay, let me just get you to fill out one of these surveys…” He trailed off as he turned and walked to a table. The turn-and-walk. A standard car salesman power play. Walk somewhere without looking back and the customer follows, establishing a hierarchy of status. Even though I was expecting it, I was a little ticked when he did it, but I wasn’t going to fill out a survey much less buy a car, so I followed him over to the table.

“You know, I’m here over my lunch break and I don’t have a lot of time. I’d just like to pick up the prize.”

He looks at me and says, “Well, maybe you can come back when you have more time.”

No way. I’m here on a mission. “How long does it take?”

“About half an hour.”

I gave my best half-annoyed wince (although I think I over-played it a bit), and tried plan B. “Is the survey a stipulation of claiming the prize?” I held up the brochure again as a indicator that my information source was this lone flier.

“Yes.”

“Can you show me where it says that?” I handed him the glossy mailer—forced it on him, really, by thrusting it out so close to his body that he was reflexively obligated to take it. A quick one-two punch of dominance: a challenge, and forcing him to react to my movement in a manner similar to the turn-and-walk.

“Yes, I can,” he said, taking the brochure. He made a very leisurely and slow motion to remove a pair of reading glasses from his inside coat pocket and carefully unfolded the brochure as if it were an original map of the new worlde. He proceeded to scrutinize every single line of type on both sides of the brochure (which was the size of a small poster when unfolded). Another power play. I mentioned I was in a hurry, so he was going to make me wait. Fair enough. I wasn’t in a hurry at all. I could have called off work that afternoon if I really had to. So I stood like a statue, gaze never leaving his face as he perused his own company’s mailer. Take your time.

Although it was probably less than a minute, it felt much longer, just waiting. It went on for long enough that I started thinking—wait, did I really read the brochure that closely? What about the front? I didn’t really look at that side, but I didn’t see any fine print there, either. What if I missed a line? I was convinced that I was about to shot down with a line of 7pt small caps Helvetica, but he finished reading without a word.

“Huh,” he said with what I assume to be mock surprise. “This one doesn’t have it on it.”

Damn right it doesn’t, I was thinking. Now how about the payoff? But I bit my tongue and simply nodded.

He consulted a piece of paper and said, “You’ve got the tool set.”

Gah! Figures. The only prize I have no interest in at all. Before I had a chance to respond, he says, “Wait here,” and pulls the turn-and-walk again. Bastard.

This time he’s three steps away before I decide to try and stop him. I already know what the answer to my next question is, but I wanted to make sure that he knows that I left him. I jog up behind him and get him to stop with a shout of, “Sir!” He turns. I ask, “Can I get the cash value of the prize instead of the prize itself?”

The salesman looks at me like I have three heads. “No.”

“Okay, thanks. I’m not interested.” Turn. And. Walk.

He follows me. I got a quick glimpse of his bemused expression right before I turned to march out. I wasn’t expecting him to keep after me, but then again, I had no further business there, so if he had anything else to ask me, he could do it while I walked back to my car. I glanced to my left just enough to verify with my peripheral vision that yes, he was indeed following me out of the tent. He trailed me a quarter of the way back to my car before I heard his movement behind me stop. I wasn’t about to pull a Lot’s Wife. I kept going and didn’t relax until I was in line at Qdoba.

I won a prize today; I turned down a prize today. I didn’t need it, I didn’t want it, and I really didn’t want to pay taxes on it. Maybe next time I’ll get the cash.

-Ted