Chapter 7: Killing Time
Winning the lottery lost its surprise after a few days, but I still liked the thrill of buying the winning ticket. I'd make a terrible gambler: I had no brain for probability, and people could read me like a book.
"What's up with you today?" Jordan asked from the doorway. "You're grinning like a loon."
"I'm in a good mood, what can I say?"
"He's always in a good mood," Abby interjected. "Must be that whiskey bottle on his desk."
"Want some?" I asked.
"We're civilized people, we aren't going to drink at four in the—" Jordan said, but was cut off by Abby walking over and taking a gulp from the bottle. I'd been drinking the stuff for weeks but couldn't manage that.
"That's some good whiskey," she said with a self-satisfied sigh. Jordan looked like he wanted to say something. He was also easy to read, I thought, now that I'd had more time to know him. He was the sort of guy my dad would call hot-headed, but my dad was never sympathetic toward people like Jordan who were a bit too "clever" for their own good.
"I'd better get back to work, guys. Take it easy—TGIF," Abby said, and she took one of my British mints and left, pushing past Jordan.
"That was... it was..." Jordan stuttered.
"Unusual?"
"I have my own opinions about Abby, but... how do I put this... in the most Platonic sense possible, that's the most attractive thing she's ever done. I'm smitten."
"You should ask her out, Jordan."
"Heck no. I'd need a liver transplant by the night's end. Anyway, I'm gonna get some more work done. Don't stay too late, Mike."
I pondered what he said as I left Infinitech, ready for my day to wind down just as it was beginning for the rest of town. The sky was the color of a roasted sweet potato caramelized around the fringes, and I remembered buying one from a street vendor back in college, and how the syrup dripped from the foil. Time was money, and we all valued our time differently. Personally, I was happy enough to lie down by myself on my couch after a long workday, leaving Dennis to his date, Jordan to his volunteer meeting, and Abby to her martinis.
The reason why Jordan's comment had caught on me like a burr hit me on the train ride the next morning:
"...you don't look like you'd have a tattoo," Dennis said to Abby, who wasn't charmed at all.
"Sorry to interrupt y'all, but how about we buy some lottery tickets this morning? TGIF, am I right?" I interrupted. Abby gave me a skeptical look.
"Are you high?"
"High on life? You bet I am!"
"I meant weed."
"Troy Bentley says that weed dulls the senses. The only drug he uses is distilled from a chili pepper only grown in Guatemala," Dennis explained.
"You know what, screw it," Abby said. "I'll buy a lottery ticket. Today's my lucky day."
I bought a glazed donut and two lottery tickets, both with the winning numbers, and told Abby what the winners were. She accepted those, but declined a piece of my donut.
"Since when were you this superstitious, buying lottery tickets in the morning?" Abby asked.
"I'm not superstitious, I'm just a little stitious."
Abby rolled her eyes again. Her skepticism was beginning to grow on my nerves, but I also remembered what she'd said the other night, that she'd like it if I took her side more.
When I saw Jordan in the coffee line later that morning, I executed the next stage of my plan:
"Hey Jordan, today's your lucky day. Have a winning lottery ticket," I said, pressing my second ticket into his unwilling palm.
"Troy Bentley says that only poor people buy lottery tickets. I can't believe you and Abby actually went," Dennis laughed.
"Those who are poor in wealth are rich in soul," Jordan observed.
"Which loser said that?"
"Me. I made it up just now."
"Oh, sorry."
Dennis left to do whatever it was he did in his spare time, leaving Jordan and me to our own devices.
"'Troy Bentley says I'm a wiener,'" Jordan said in a squeaky imitation of Dennis's voice.
"That's not nice to say. Dennis is a little misguided, but he's not a wiener. Anyway, what are you doing tonight?"
"I have my Cantonese language advocacy meeting. Same as every Friday."
"What would you do if you won the lottery?"
Jordan looked at the ticket I'd given him again.
"I'd donate most to the programs my volunteer group supports, buy some nice doo-dads for my place, and invest the rest. I wouldn't go on a bender or anything. I think a lot of people have these grand fantasies of what they'd do if they ever won the lottery, but things like that are the opiate of the people: the longer we spend dreaming of fantasies, the less time we spend enjoying reality."
"That's profound," I said. Even though he was wrong, he sounded wise. Like always.
Just after noon, Abby knocked and let herself in. I'd expected Jordan to come with, since typically when Abby came to my office Jordan was there too, and I thought it was because they were friends. Maybe I was wrong.
"This is great news. You, me, Jordan, we're all winners!" I exclaimed.
"Jordan won too?"
"I bought him a ticket this morning too. I felt so sad, knowing that he wasn't with us to learn what a great opportunity he was missing out on. Today's his lucky day."
"He has such a punchable face," Abby said through gritted teeth that became a smile when Jordan came in, waving his winning ticket.
"I don't know what magic powers you have behind that impish smile of yours, Mike, but you did it."
"We should go out and celebrate tonight," I suggested.
"Nah, I really can't. I have my volunteer meeting tonight. And you know that."
"You've won the lottery, who cares about them?"
"That's so simple-minded of you. I read this guide on Reddit once about what to do when you win the lottery, and the most important part is not changing your lifestyle or habits so nobody catches on that you've won. Then you'll have all your relatives knocking on your door for a suck of the good old teat. Greed is good, my guy, except when people are looking at you and your things covetously."
"I expected you to say you'd donate all your money to charity, being the nice guy that you are," Abby sneered.
"I'm sure you're going to do that, O generous Abby, O gracious Abby—"
"I'm too rich now to listen to you, Jordan," Abby said. She stormed out of my office before Jordan could think of any follow-ups.
"That was pushing it, I admit," he said sheepishly before also leaving.
Neither of them came by my office after my meeting with Mr. Robinson, which wasn't what I expected at all. When I said Jordan's comment stuck with me, it was because I had the juvenile idea that they'd be a good match, he and Abby, and that I'd be doing a nice thing for them by giving them an opportunity to bond in shared fortune.
I was clueless to how they really were: money made them terrible people, and I regretted sharing my fortune with them. But still, it was too much money for one person to handle, so I had to try sharing the love.
"Mr. Ryerson, I'd like you to have this," I said, handing him a winning lottery ticket. "I haven't checked the numbers yet. It's a superstition of mine that before every time when I need a little bit of luck, I buy myself a lottery ticket, and since you've guided me toward this presentation, I felt like I ought to share."
"That's really nice of you," he said, looking over the ticket. "The drawing should've been earlier today. Why don't we check the numbers?"
"Are you feeling lucky, Jim?" I asked while typing slowly for dramatic effect.
"I won a few hundred in Vegas last year."
"And it looks like you've won a bit more."
Mr. Ryerson looked at his ticket again, then at my screen.
"No way... 1, 9, 8, 7, 82. Let me tell you something, Mike: go out there and rock that presentation, but as soon as you're done, leave work and treat yourself to a little R and R."
"You're trembling, Jim."
"See ya Monday. I'm going to go buy something for Jennifer."
That didn't feel as cathartic as I'd hoped. I was expecting an angelic trumpet chorus or a trace of, for lack of a better term, emotion from someone who rarely showed it.
I woke up to an article my dad sent me from one of those clickbaity websites—the sort with ads for those "male enhancement" pills Dennis praised—that said people who were happy lived longer, and I had the realization that while money hadn't bought my coworkers' happiness, there were others in my life.
"How's work?" my dad had asked.
"Listen to me, dad, if it's the last thing you do. Buy yourself a lottery ticket this morning with these numbers: 1, 9, 8, 7, 82."
"They really got you up on something at work," he sent with a laughing emoji.
Shortly after noon, my dad called me.
"Mike, if you've made a pact with the Devil, please tell me so I can forgive you. What did you do to get those numbers?"
"Don't be so melodramatic," I laughed. "I saw them in a dream."
"Who gave them to you? Tell me. What did you see?"
"I dreamed I saw seven fat cows walking along the Nile," I said in my best Elvis voice.
"Michael, listen to me. Who gave you those numbers?"
"It was one of my coworkers. Abby, right, you remember her? The one who took that photo of us in front of Infinitech when you came to visit?"
"Demoness!" he howled.
"I gotta get back to work now, but bye dad, love you!" I said, and hung up. I didn't talk to him much, ever since I moved for work. He was of a different generation, and while I always said "with age comes wisdom," we disagreed on some things. If I were a little stitious, he was super-duper-stitious.
"What's up with you today?" Jordan asked from the doorway. "You're grinning like a loon."
"I'm in a good mood, what can I say?"
"He's always in a good mood," Abby interjected. "Must be that whiskey bottle on his desk."
"Want some?" I asked.
"We're civilized people, we aren't going to drink at four in the—" Jordan said, but was cut off by Abby walking over and taking a gulp from the bottle.
"Your turn, Jordan," I said teasingly.
"Why are you both looking at me like I have no choice?" Fine," he said, and took a petite sip. He sputtered a bit, a drop leaping from his mouth to land on my shirt.
"This is Tennessee whiskey from Mr. Robinson. The finest whiskey in the world. You can taste the history in every drop."
"I can taste the oppression," Jordan quipped.
"Now that we're a bit loosened up, what's everyone got going on tonight? A little birdie told me Dennis has a date tonight."
"Let me guess: she's a university student who likes chiseled jawlines and tall men who will drag her around like a piece of luggage," Jordan said.
Abby winced, and I was also taken aback—more so at this blunt truth than anything else.
"I didn't ask him, but she easily could be."
"How come it's always guys like him that are picking girls up around town, and not the reasonable, non-misogynist sort?" Abby asked.
"If we asked Dennis, I'm sure he'd tell us his darling Troy Bentley could explain why—and it would be a long tale that ended in us beholding a statue of him sunk in a pile of protein powder that reads 'Look on my works, ye Mighty, and Despair!'"
Jordan paused six seconds, waiting for a response that didn't come.
"It's a famous poem, come on. Anyway, I gotta get back to work. Don't stay too late, Mike."
When Jordan closed the door, Abby turned to me with confusion in her eyes.
"He and Dennis are two sides of the same coin. I don't get what makes him think he has the high ground here."
"Jordan's a smart guy. He dresses nice, he speaks so many languages and has so many talents, and is so well-read too—I think if he weren't so busy with his volunteering, he'd be stealing Dennis's dates."
"I'd rather defenestrate myself than go out with him," Abby said.
"What does that mean?"
"To throw myself out a window."
"I bet Jordan would've known that word," I said with a grin.
I made one last attempt the following morning to test the waters.
"Have any plans tonight?" I asked Abby while we were buying our tickets. "A little birdie told me Dennis has a date tonight."
"Good for him."
"I feel like I need to get plans of my own going. I can't let people like Jordan, who are so suave, so talented, so funny, have all the fun."
"You really think Jordan's going out on dates? I'd rather defenestrate myself than go out with him."
"Good thing we have windowless offices."
Abby chuckled.
"I'll tell you what, Mike. If this ticket wins, that's what, like a one in a billion chance even with your superstitious numbers? I'll ask Jordan out on a date. For science."
"Deal."
Abby and Jordan came by my office later that afternoon:
"What's up with you today?" Jordan asked from the doorway. "You're grinning like a loon."
"Is it a crime to smile?"
"If it's a crime, I'm guilty as charged," Abby said, and she sauntered into my office to take a swig of whiskey.
"Want some too?" I asked Jordan.
"I'm civilized, I'm going to drink at four in the morning," Jordan said.
Abby knew what role she was supposed to play, and immediately took the stage once the small talk was over:
"I'm feeling frisky from the whiskey. Who wants to go out tonight?"
"I need to wash my goldfish," I said.
"You down, Jordan?"
"I have my Cantonese language advocacy group tonight, I really can't—"
"They can live without you for a night. You can use your white privilege to explain China's five thousand years of history to me instead."
"Are you drunk? Because then you aren't giving your consent."
Jordan was such a gentleman. I watched him from a chair like my dad watched me during my college graduation, with a smile at the potential the younger generation held. He was only a year younger, but I still thought of him as someone of another world. Maybe in another universe he'd be my younger brother.
"I had one sip. See me at my office at 6:30."
"Had a place in mind for dinner?"
"I was thinking Nostromo. They have candles."
"That place is kinda fancy, no?"
"It's a Friday, we can afford it. Life's short."
"See ya then. I'm going to get some work done. Don't stay too late, Mike."
When Jordan closed the door, Abby walked over and gave me a high-five.
"I literally have too much money to care how cringe this is."
"A deal's a deal."
"Mike, I won the lottery—we won the lottery. We have so many more important things to care about right now than this. I'll text you afterward with how it went."
A few hours later, while munching on my cashews, Abby texted me: "OMG guess who we saw at dinner?"
"Dennis and his date."
"Did Jordan tell you?"
"Nah, I guessed. How was the date?"
"He's nicer than Dennis, but he was trying to pull some dominance thing. Like he would always pause six seconds after I finished talking before continuing. Gives Hannibal Lecter vibes."
"He does that with everyone."
"It was like a 7/10 date. I've had worse."
"Will there be a second?"
"It's preferable to defenestration."
And there could be a second, if I chose to make it happen, I thought to myself as I nibbled my cashews. Winning the lottery was losing its thrill, and my conversation with my dad from the other day still weighed on me. I cared what he thought of me, and even if no devilish trickery was involved in my winning lottery numbers, I knew he wouldn't approve of what I'd done that day. I could keep winning the lottery for myself, but it was for myself and that addictive thrill that fizzled through my brain like Pop Rocks, not for anyone else. Something about the time loop was definitely changing me. The old Mike Burbank would have never understood words like "defenestrate" or done things in such a rehearsed manner. This change was good for me, but I still wished I could find a fortune-teller somewhere who'd tell me why I was here. I'd matured, but I wanted to be a kid again, the sort who could say "TGIF" without a hint of bitterness.
I dreamed that night of coming back to my childhood home to see my dad resting in his armchair drinking a beer. I stood in the living room watching the TV tuned to static, fearful to make any sudden move. I wasn't sure how long I had with him. Seeing him as he used to be, without gout and without his cane, made me tearful for the old days when we had time to spare.
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