The Scratcher

Part One – 2021

The towers of downtown Los Angeles glimmered in the distance, their glass and steel reflecting the California sun. But the light seemed faded on Skid Row, as if exhausted by what it revealed. It clung to the cracked pavement in the alleyways, to tents and tarps, to the restless shuffle of those who had nowhere else to go.

Larry Hollis sat cross-legged on the sidewalk outside a liquor store, his back against a wall caked with graffiti. He wore a faded red flannel shirt and jeans stiff with dirt. His tennis shoes were split at the seams, the soles about to separate. A large Styrofoam cup rested before him, its lip bent from days of use, an invitation to alms from the passersby.

He took a deep breath and looked up and down the sidewalk. This new reality of his life had lasted far longer than he’d imagined, the days blurring together, dulled by the need to survive. The shame he once harbored had morphed to a leaden resignation.

A woman in a pencil skirt hurried past, dropping two quarters without breaking stride. A man in a Dodgers cap left a crumpled bill but avoided eye contact, as if kindness might delay him. That was how it went, each transaction as brief and impersonal as the slip of change through fingers.

Larry had been here most of the afternoon, watching the rhythm of the city. He thought of his past less often now: the classroom where he taught history, the rows of students eager or bored, his hope of scheduling a sabbatical to write a book. And then, what he called “the great miasma,” a descent into major depression that hit him like a tsunami. The doctors tried hospitalization, medication, talk therapy, even shock treatment, but it only tempered the worst symptoms, shifting the fog to a lighter shade of gray. His life unraveled until it was difficult to get out of bed. Eventually, he lost his job and his marriage. Friends stopped calling, and after his eviction they disappeared altogether. Too young for tenure or social security, and with the last of his savings drained by divorce, he had no source of income. He first stayed in a shelter, then drifted onto the streets.

It was near dusk when he noticed a man in a gray suit, his gait uneven, his briefcase dangling precariously from his hand. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes were glassy. He stopped in front of Larry, swaying slightly, and let out a small laugh.

“Man,” he said, his voice heavy with drink, “I thought I was unlucky.”

Larry looked up, unsure whether the man was mocking him. The stranger reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a wad of lottery scratchers, fanning them in his hand like a small deck of cards. He thumbed through them like a magician, plucked one, and dropped it into Larry’s cup with theatrical flair.

“Good luck, brother,” he muttered before weaving away into the stream of pedestrians.

Larry stared into the cup where the ticket sat atop coins and a few bills. A scratcher? He knew the astronomical odds with the lottery. 5 dollars to buy a sandwich would have been far more useful. He shrugged and left it where it was.

Just before sunset, he retreated through an alley to the abandoned warehouse where he’d been sleeping near other denizens of the street. In a corner was a discarded mattress, the space he had staked out as his own. He laid down his backpack, then sat on the mattress and emptied his cup: some coins, a few bills, and the ticket.

He almost tossed it aside but instead took a quarter from the pile and scraped the silver dust from the numbers on the front. He rubbed his eyes, checked the fine print, and read it again.

The message was unmistakable: Grand Prize Winner – $10,000,000.

His heart thudded and his breath quickened. Everything around him was the same—the distant sounds of sirens and traffic, the hollow space of the warehouse, the smell of concrete and unwashed bodies.

And yet, everything had changed.

Part Two — 2025

My name is Elaine Morris, and I’m a reporter for the Los Angeles Times. I’ve covered wildfires, elections, celebrity trials, and city hall scandals. But the scoop that I’ve longed for is the story of Larry Hollis.

The basic arc of his story was familiar to most Angelenos. A man who was once a teacher, undone by depression and cast adrift onto the streets. A chance encounter with a stranger, a lottery scratcher worth ten million dollars. And then, instead of vanishing into his newfound wealth, how Larry used his fortune to lease the warehouse where he’d once slept. With the help of the city council and other donors, he transformed it into a service center for those experiencing homelessness, offering beds, showers, meals, medical clinics, and job training.

But the man himself remained a mystery. He never granted interviews, never appeared at ribbon cuttings, never allowed himself to be a poster child. “A ghost in a flannel shirt,” people called him.

Until now, because he had agreed to see me.

__

Even though I’d seen pictures, the service center surprised me from the moment I walked in. Nothing about it spoke of its role as a rescue mission. Sunlight streamed through tall windows into the expansive lobby that was painted pale blue. A mural covered the far wall, depicting Los Angeles at sunrise, its skyline glowing, the colors vibrant with hope.

The young woman at the front desk checked my credentials, raising an eyebrow.

“So you’re the one who won the reporter’s lottery,” she said with a grin. “Larry’s somewhere on campus.”

I frowned. “Do you know exactly where?”

She shook her head. “He’s around. Just ask people.”

I did, first in the cafeteria where residents served steaming trays of rice, chicken, and vegetables. I asked a man clearing tables if he’d seen Larry.

“He’s somewhere on campus,” the man replied with a smile.

I searched a large activity room where people chatted around tables. Again the same shrugs and comments of “he’s here somewhere.” I began to feel like I was chasing a phantom.

Finally, I found him in the atrium at the heart of the center. It was a vast cathedral where sun poured through skylights onto dozens of people resting on mats. Some slept, cocooned in blankets. Others sat reading or staring upward as if searching for answers in the clouds visible through the glass.

And there was Larry Hollis.

He sat cross-legged on the floor with a group of others, dressed in a red flannel shirt and jeans. His beard was gray, his face lined, and he could easily have been one of the people around him.

When I approached, he looked up and nodded.

“You must be Elaine,” he said. His voice was soft and gravelly. “You found me.”

He didn’t stand as he reached out his hand to shake mine, so I sat beside him, my notebook and hand recorder ready. “Thank you for agreeing to the interview. Is this where you want to talk?”

Before I could ask another question, Larry gestured to the man sitting on his right, thin and nervous, clutching a plastic bag full of items.

“This is Marcus,” Larry said. “Lost his job, evicted from his apartment. His story is my story.”

“Pleased to meet you, Marcus,” I said, reaching out to shake his hand. He took mine nervously, then looked away. I turned back to Larry. “I wonder if…”

Larry interrupted again and motioned to a woman sitting on his left. She had a blanket draped around her shoulders, her dark face etched with premature wrinkles. “Meet Teresa, Elaine. She raised two kids while fighting to stay clean, but a relapse drove her to the street. Her story is my story.”

“Pleased to meet you Teresa,” I said, shaking her hand.

Larry suddenly stood. “Follow me.”

We walked around the atrium as he introduced me to a dozen other people. He knew all their names. A veteran with a limp. A teenage runaway estranged from her family. An older woman who had worked menial jobs her whole life, just one paycheck away from the street. A young man covered in tattoos who was missing most of his teeth. Each time, Larry said the same thing: Their story is my story.

I was frustrated. I had worked hard to prepare dozens of questions about his life as a teacher, about the night he scratched the ticket, about his decision to reject luxury and lease the warehouse. But each time I tried to steer the conversation, Larry redirected it to the people around him. It was as though he was dissolving into them, refusing the separateness the world had tried to give him.

I grew increasingly irritated. I needed a headline and a story that would justify months of chasing him, especially to my editor. But as I listened, my irritation gave way to unease. Larry’s refrain—their story is my story—was more than a metaphor. It was an indictment.

You see, I grew up in Los Angeles, my childhood secure and comfortable. I went to college and eventually became a reporter. But there was a day—more than a decade ago—when my father lost his job at the aerospace company where he’d worked for many years. I remember the tension at our dinner table, the forced way my mother repeated, “we’ll be fine,” as if saying it enough times would make it true.

We did stay afloat. My father found new work at the tail end of his unemployment benefits. We never lost our home, but for months I lived with fear that everything would come undone.

I had buried that memory, and as I made the rounds with Larry, hearing the back stories of so many people from different walks of life, it resurfaced, raw and insistent. The line between me and them was thinner than I wanted to admit.

Finally, Larry guided me to a small alcove on the side of the atrium. It had a table and two unoccupied chairs. He was silent, just motioning for me to sit.

“Why didn’t you leave?” I asked at last, my voice quieter than I intended. “You could have bought a mansion and disappeared into comfort.”

Larry’s smile was faint, almost weary. “Because this was already my home. And for me, home isn’t about walls or money. It’s about people. It’s about community.”

He leaned back, folding his hands, and for a moment I saw the teacher he once was, the man who unpacked history for his students. “Money gave me a golden opportunity. The chance to make a place where others could feel less broken. I consider that a privileged way to live whatever years I’m given.”

His words hit harder than I expected. Wasn’t that what journalism was supposed to do? To give people a place where their stories mattered? Yet too often I had reduced them to soundbites and lines in a column, staying at arm’s length, clinical and a bit uncaring.

Larry had done what I had not: he had erased the distance.

__

I finally got a chance to ask my host of questions, which Larry answered patiently. When we had finished our conversation, he gave me a warm farewell and I walked back through the atrium toward the exit. Sunlight shifted through the skylights, dust motes glittering like stars. Around me, the atrium pulsed with murmured conversations.

I thought about the article I would write, the profile readers had been demanding for years, and I realized the story didn’t belong just to Larry Hollis. It was the story of Marcus. It was the story of Teresa. It was narrative of all of them. And in every introduction, in every life he pointed to, Larry had already given me the headline.

Their story is our story.