Once a week, Milwaukeans and Wisconsinites get into their cars and make a quest to sacrifice their hard-earned cash along a section of Fond Du Lac Avenue known colloquially as the Miracle Mile. They stand in line, sometimes with twenty or more people in front of them, at any of a number of convenience marts and liquor stores that have been uncommonly lucky in generating winning lottery tickets.
Five-spots in hand, and visions of PowerBall floating before their eyes, the lines they stand in go farther than just the asphalt of the road outside. Behind them in line are Coronado, Pizarro, Raleigh, and many more who sought out the Miracle Mile by one of its many other names: the Seven Cities of Gold, Sierra del Plata, El Dorado.
Over the centuries, brave men have sought out the city where gold coins and precious stones were there for the taking, hoping to find the city and leave with enough bags of precious metal to make them wealthy, or perhaps to come upon the city with an army at their backs, taking it for their own and achieving such wealth that they might challenge even the royalty of Europe. In the jungles of South America, battling both disease bearing mosquitoes and hostile native warriors, Pizarro and the others always thought that El Dorado was just over the next rise, or past the next river. In one expedition, Pizarro lost over 3,000 men before returning home. In today’s world, money is more often all that is lost.
But any loss is small compared to the wealth that would come from the fabled treasure of El Dorado. Imagine a life free of debt, where you can go to the store and buy whatever you desire. Each person in line at the Miracle Mile stands there, making plans for what they’ll do with the treasure: they’ll share some with their friends, but not with that guy that’s always annoying, and relatives will be grouped into the good ones who will benefit, and the bad ones that will be left without; they dream of buying a new house, a sports car, or telling their boss to take their job and shove it.
You may have heard stories of those who have glimpsed El Dorado. The sailor who was rescued and nursed back to strength in the city, or the guy you work with who hit it big. (What was it like? you ask. Man, I ate like a hog, got two magnums of Night Train, and that night at the club, all the babes got twenty-spots for tips. They thought I was a king! He sits back, rubbing his belly, lost in reminiscence of his glimpse of the royal life. You ask, Then what? He sits back up. Well, I spent it all. That’s why I’m still working this crap ass job.)
El Dorado has taken root in the mythology of America, and its seedlings grow around us, such as in Milwaukee, where they took root upon Fond Du Lac Avenue when a handful of insignificant markets languishing in the shadow of Wal-Mart had a string good luck.
Many of us, when we dream the American Dream, dream of the jackpot, and mobsters and lotteries alike have taken advantage of this dream. Is there another place where you seek out a windfall, a sudden fortune that rises you to wealth and luxury? If so, then you, too, have your El Dorado, your share in the American Dream.
So, I leave you now, so I can head down to Fond Du Lac Avenue. If you can get me a five spot, I’ll put our money together on the next ticket I buy, and when we hit it big, we can get a couple of magnums of Night Train and live the life of kings!