This is hell. I am living my actual nightmare.
Or… wait, this is good. Gretchen thinks we’re really in our golden years. This boosts my confidence.
Apparently, Logan’s thought it all out because when he talks, he sounds nothing like himself. Instead, he’s an older… Australian man? “Fifty beautiful years,” he replies. “Give or take.”
And because we’re not just supposed to look like a couple who’sbeen married for five decades but need to act like one, too, I wrap my arm around Logan’s waist. He follows my lead and drops a kiss right on my fake forehead.
Gretchen doesn’t miss a beat and continues to announce our winnings. She calls out the bodega and when we purchased the ticket. “How long have you been playing the lottery?” she asks, spinning the microphone back.
Logan takes this one, too. “Ever since I can remember.”
Gretchen laughs. “It’s finally paid off! Anything special about these numbers?”
I feel Logan straighten ever so slightly next to me, like he’s excited to share his rationale. “Well, actually—no,” he says. There’s a course correction in his tone.
“Oh, okay,” Gretchen says, her smile and eyes wide. “With the lump sum, you’ve got a lotta cash to spend—”
“We actually went with the annuity,” Logan corrects. “Because we have many beautiful years ahead of us.”
“Oh yeah, of course you do,” Gretchen rushes out. “I bet your children are thrilled for you, too!”
Yes. I’m sure our nonexistent children will enjoy inheriting our boatload of cash.
We continue giving Gretchen pathetic answers, yet she acts like they’re amazing. She’s really good at her job. I wonder what it feels like to be her, to be surrounded every day by people coming into new money. Is she envious? Genuinely excited? Or is she, at this point, totally indifferent?
“What are your plans for the money?” Gretchen tries.
“Investments,” Logan says, staying on track and keeping his answers more succinct than I think he’d prefer. If I weren’t here, no question he’d be making new friends with Gretchen and every reporter and photographer in here.
Gretchen presses us on this one. “Oh, come on! You gotta do something fun! You’re not going to buy a yacht? A car? Go on a dream vacation?” She pushes the microphone into my face.
I respond with the first thing that comes to mind. “We’ll go on our second honeymoon,” I squeak out to satisfy her. I have no idea where that idea came from, but I regret the words as soon as they leave my crinkled lips. “I mean, we’ll go out to eat.” Apparently, the best fake voice I can put on is one much higher than my typically low, raspy voice. I sound like an unoiled hinge.
“That is so precious! Tell me more,” Gretchen says, lighting up. I’ve given her too much fake information.
“It’s a secret,” I say, not wanting to risk using my voice too much. I instinctively cross my arms and then straighten them down to my sides. How would eighty-year-old me stand? I fold my hands together in front of me, settling on that.
Gretchen deflates. I know she would’ve liked more from us, but that’s all we can give her. She wraps things up by asking if we’re ready for our photo opp. Gretchen’s assistant takes the oversize ticket from Logan.
While he adjusts his sleeves, I, out of habit, tuck my wig hair behind my silicone ear. We’re handed a giant cardboard check that’s just for show. We were told we’d get the money electronically in a few days, but I’ll believe it when I see it.
After dozens of photos and awkward silence, Gretchen instructs us to stand off to the side and to keep the check held up. All the cameras refocus on the third winner.
“Nice job,” Logan says once we’re out of the spotlight. “And your impression of your future self? Wow, that was…”
I laugh a little. “What I would sound like inhaling helium? What it sounds like running over a rubber duck? And who knew you become Australian when you’re put on the spot?”
“Learning new things every day,” he says with a chuckle. “Another thing I’ve learned? I look pretty good with all these wrinkles.” He shifts his hand positioning on the check. “If only it were easier to slip in and out of. It’s nice to not feel like myself for a second.”
With all the bad luck Logan’s been having, I can understand that. Ever since we met, my life has been like one long, unusual, and disorienting press conference, and I’ve had more of the good than the bad.
“The real me is racing against the clock, potentially unemployed soon, and can’t take air travel,” he recalls. “Good stuff.”
Hourglass. Ladder. Plane.
Gretchen taps her long, blue nails against the third winner’s oversize winning ticket, the clacking drawing my eyes to the numbers.
How unreal that this group of people is here because of a few tickets that had the exact combinations of numbers. What does these winners’ luck look like in their day-to-day? Did we win the lottery because Logan bought the ticket when he was lucky? Or did we win because it was in my possession?
