84 Pounds

Maybe twins.

Only two of the little green squares lit up as he pressed the card against the reader of the freestanding lottery machine. He frowned and tried again. Jackson Jay Marchiel looked back at the filthy Primo water dispenser, noting the rate of the water line’s ascent in the five gallon jug. He had time. Two or three more concerted presses, the last time with some concentration — though to the casual observer it would look identical to previous tries. The short, self-checkout hawk with slightly-too-high tattooed eyebrows caught his eye, but looked away. She was wondering whether he had paid for the water. Or whether he was stupid. A fourth try (damn the charm of threes) was similarly unsuccessful. The water jug was three-quarters full. If he put cash in now it would fill to the brim before he had completed his transaction, leaving him in a tight spot. Either he would be mid-pick and risk the small paper ticket being ejected onto the sticky floor, or he would suspend his pick in order to press the STOP button on the Primo dispenser, thus risking the possibility of another lotto-enthusiast coming up to the machine, seeing the credits already applied, and making a pick with Jackson’s own money.

Either choice was unacceptable.

He looked around at the shoppers in the checkout lines. None were looking at him, a good sign. It was possible his full-size cart’s presence in front of the Primo dispenser and the lotto machine (they sat directly abutting one another) would ward off those spur-of-the-moment shoppers who caught sight of the three-digit, digital jackpot readout on top. There was a peculiar sense of space around the lotto machine, a special air. Its own shameful Tabernacle, into which only one could enter at a time. To stand behind another, to wait for another, was to publicly admit some deep and uncontrolled desire, both unsightly and degrading. The pleasure of the lotto machine, known to all — as evidenced by its placement after the checkout lines but before the store’s exit — was the ostensible spontaneity. One could happen upon it. It was a lark. Even if one visited every time and knew they would stand before the dizzying matrix of square buttons and small print, they could vacillate, hem and haw, profess internally the knowledge that, of course, the lottery was a fool’s game, and only suckers played in hopes of winning anything. Maybe it was a gift, a special tri-folded set of perforated cardboard for the wife. Stocking stuffer or easter basket fodder. Certainly not for oneself.

And even if it was, it was only for a laugh. Wouldn’t it be funny? If I won the lottery? How crazy would that be?

Jackson Jay stuck the card between his teeth and pressed stop on the water dispenser. Then, with practiced hands, pressed the adjacent button which raised the dispensing nozzle enough so that he could retrieve the jug. It was heavy. He had calculated the weight before. Five gallons of water weighs roughly forty-two pounds. A heavy three-year-old or a four-year-old in some healthy percentile. Complicating the weight was the awkward angle at which he had to lift it. The shelf upon which jugs were placed to be filled stood at four feet four inches. Not a bad height in itself. But given that the Primo water dispenser was placed in the lane after the checkout but before the store’s exit and given that he had a full-size shopping cart with other groceries, manners dictated he press his cart longways against the abutting machines in order to preserve as much space for departing shoppers. This left his cart squarely in front of the four foot four inch shelf upon which now rested forty two pounds of quality H2O waiting to be retrieved.

It was doable, Jackson Jay knew, but not without some awkward angling of limbs, back lifting, and a level of public exertion which was, though not intolerable, very much approaching it. He subtly hiked up his Levi 511 Slim Fit Men’s Jeans, purchased hastily on a Target trip with his lovely wife who had chided him for some time on his previous pair of ink-stained skinnies left over from more ambitious and less body-conscious days of adequate metabolism, college-poverty induced poor eating habits, and cigarettes. The bend forward to reach the jug could, depending on the shirt, reveal some lower back, which in Jackson Jay’s case flowed seamlessly into upper buttocks. Lower back exposure was acceptable, though not preferred and often unavoidable, but butt crack may as well be a death sentence.

He leaned forward against his cart, feeling the narrow metal hashes press into his waist, as he carefully grasped the jug. A husky three-year-old. Two hundred and eleven Cuties, which he forgot to grab before checkout. Grunting, he heaved the jug up and leaned back, carefully lowering it into the cart.

“Oh, I know. People do it all the time,” came a snippet from the nearest checkout lane.

Jackson Jay retrieved the empty five-gallon jug from his cart and placed it on the shelf, ignoring the hot prickling sensation developing in his skin that often accompanied sudden and strenuous exertion. With a press of the button the dispensing nozzle descended. He judged the placement above the mouth of the jug — he was not primarily concerned with the height but with the degree of centeredness — and slightly moved the jug. Satisfied, he pressed the fill button and water began rushing from the nozzle.

Waiting for a moment to ensure the copaceticity of the situation, he turned from the Primo tower to the adjacent lotto machine. To his luck, no one had taken it up during his brief absence. Enough time had elapsed that he was required to re-scan his newly-acquired Arkansas State Driver’s License to verify his age before he could insert cash. He pulled his RFID-blocking, bifold, front-pocket wallet from his left front pocket, careful to avoid pulling with it the AirPods case or carabiner and keys, stowed the non-functioning card, and retrieved his ID from behind the small polaroid of him and his wife. Despite protestations, his wife asserted that he kept the picture in his wallet because he himself looked good and not because she was in it or because of any great love for her. He disagreed. But every time he pressed a finger behind the picture to retrieve his ID — an action most commonly executed when purchasing a five-pack of spearmint 6mg Zyns (they’re cheaper as a five pack, and if you’re going to do them anyway) — he caught himself looking at his own face and admiring the way the angle of the photo gave the appearance of a prominent and stately chin, the playful spread of locks on his, if the middle school peers were to be believed, too-large, forehead, and the sparkle of the catchlight in his eye.

It was no crime to admire a flattering picture of oneself.

The ID scanner on the Lotto machine either constantly beamed the thin red light in anticipation of IDs or else possessed some miniature motion sensing capability which deployed the beam when it detected a person. In any case, the beam deceptively suggested the card be held at the same width as the band of red light, which never worked. Instead, one had to place the barcode of the Driver’s License (or other government-issued ID) close to the emitter, so that only a thin red line stretched across the cryptic black bars.

Having done this, Jackson Jay replaced the ID back into his RFID-blocking, bifold, front-pocket wallet and thumbed through the cash hanging on the money clip in the center. He had exactly thirty-seven dollars. One twenty, one ten, and seven ones. The responsible course of action would be to insert the ten (the machine gave no change), make his picks and leave. But the jackpot on the Powerball had climbed to a near-historic 925 million dollars (cash value of 647 million dollars, pre-tax), that he felt warranted a larger investment.

Convinced that he had made the proper offerings to rationality had been provided — it was required that tribute be paid in the form of careful consideration, despite the fact that he always inserted a twenty—, he slid the twenty from the money clip, closed his RFID-blocking, bifold, front-pocket wallet, and stowed it in the front left pocket of his Levi 511 Slim Fit Men’s Jeans. This particular Lotto machine’s cash insert mechanism was not as picky as others Jackson Jay had encountered. Certainly nothing like the incredibly choosy parking meter on the second floor of the parking garage at East and Dickson, which liked nothing more than to deny any form of currency (cash or card) after having demanded license plate number, parking spot number, and other details, embarrassing the parker and pulling the e-brake on what ought to have been a seamless beginning to a debauched night on the town.

He inserted the twenty, Old Hickory facing the fluorescent lighting above, and watched as he slid, like an open casket into the crematorium, into the unseen labyrinth of gears and scanners which comprised the Lotto tower’s cash acceptance mechanism. The digital readout on the right hand side of the tower, six inches above shoulder height, read “20.00.”

“When you get a chance could you take this back to K20?” Somewhere over his left shoulder.

Powerball was a necessity. The jackpot was sufficiently high — Jackson Jay’s threshold for sufficiency was, unknown to himself, whether or not he had received a push notification from Fox News (subscribed to only to ridicule their perspective on events) about the growth of the jackpot — that he would undoubtedly spend six dollars to secure three tickets. Power Play was not available on this machine. The MegaMillions jackpot stood at a measly — Jackson Jay checked the digital display above — 219 million (probable cash value of 133 million) but still warranted an investment as well. In the case of either lotto’s jackpot reaching a sufficiently high amount, Jackson Jay would spend a commensurate amount on the opposing lotto, on the off-chance that his lottery winning story would be that he had won the smaller, non-famous jackpot while trying, in earnest, to win the larger one.

So decided, he pressed the $6 option under the Powerball logo at the top of the display (there were four options, displayed in a cross pattern, with one option each at the top, right, bottom, and left) and then squatted to await the dispensation of the small paper ticket from the slot below. There was a time Jackson Jay didn’t squat to retrieve the ticket but simply leaned over. But his torso was long, and this former maneuver required that he step back from the machine or otherwise angle himself alongside it as he bent. Both moves involved potentially impeding the path of a departing shopper. What’s more, a solid bend at the waist to lean over exacerbated the shirt-raising problem and presented another dangerous opportunity for butt crack exposure. Squatting, with knees flaring outward, while reminiscent of promiscuous dance moves Jackson Jay had seen on TikTok, counterintuitively afforded more dignity as one retrieved their ticket.

The regular delay followed the button press, the updating of the dollar balance on the small display, and the muffled interior noises which were, Jackson Jay assumed, not altogether necessary, before the ticket jettisoned from the slot and into his awaiting hand. Now came another important movement in the process. In order to press the next button in the sequence to select the $6 MegaMillions option, Jackson Jay needed to stand up again. It was possible, he supposed, to stretch while in the squat and half-lift himself off of his haunches to momentarily reach the button. However, such a decision would risk, again, the rising shirt and sinking pants. To avoid this, he needed to come up fully out of the squat, back to standing, press the button, and then resume the squatted stance. The problem here was the repetition of the squatting motion. Jackson Jay was never athletic and possessed no illusions about his own fitness and flexibility. The first squat had sent a cascade of pops and clicks throughout his ankles, knees, and back. A second squat would be tiresome. Nevertheless, it couldn’t be avoided.

Refusing to brace himself against the cart, he squeezed the muscles in his thighs to raise himself from his lowered position. The action made him issue a slight groan and attendant heavy exhale, but he didn’t think anyone was near enough to hear. The short checkout attendant’s supervisory gaze drifted over, drawn by the movement, but a hasty smile from Jackson Jay turned her away.

He pressed the button for the $6 MegaMillions option, glancing up once more at the jackpot displayed above — it was still $219,000,000, and braced himself for squat number two. Fewer pops and clicks, but definite fatigue of the muscles. It was as though he could feel the lactic acid accumulating among the striations, the fibers. He wasn’t too familiar with the composition of muscle, but he knew enough from passing conversation with his wife — who was herself academically trained on the body — to know that they were indeed fibers. The same delay. The crinkling sound as the ticket issued forth from the slot. He nearly let it fall from his hand, but a quick close of the fingers secured it. It was crumpled some, sure, but nothing that would disqualify his claim to winnings.

He checked to ensure the three separate rows of numbers were present, but made an effort not to look at any individual number itself. To look at the numbers before the drawing was a surefire way to lose the lottery. The jackpot winners never talked about how they looked over the numbers intently, studied them in any way. To the jackpot winners, the numbers were nothing more than some indirect conduit linking them with untold fortune. The 44s, the 62s, the 11s, those were all meaningless. Their order was meaningless. He placed the MegaMillions ticket in his hand with the Powerball ticket and stuffed them into his back left pocket.

A quick glance at the Primo water dispenser showed his five gallon jug was half full. More than enough time.

The remaining credit of the twenty dollars he had submitted to the machine displayed on the digital screen: “08.00”.

The rest of the procedure was simple. His wife preferred bingo scratchers, which came in two varieties, the six dollar and three dollar. Jackson Jay didn’t understand the difference between the two options, presumably there was a larger potential payout for the more expensive one. With eight dollars remaining, he could get her two of the smaller variety and another, mystery scratcher worth two dollars. He knew that she preferred having more scratching to do than a more expensive scratcher.

Mercifully, the scratchers, once selected, were dispensed into a long metal tray at the bottom of the machine. One could select any number of scratchers before retrieving them. He selected the option for the three-dollar bingo scratcher twice, then selected a random scratcher priced at two dollars to exhaust his balance.

Retrieving them from the tray was a simple endeavor. He employed a combination of squat and lean, minimizing the negative effects of each approach, to grab them. Once secured, he slid them into his back left pocket alongside the tickets. The pockets on the Levi 511 Slim Fit Men’s Jeans were not deep enough to accommodate the entire bingo scratcher, so about an inch of the plastic-coated card stock protruded. Concerns lingered about a cheeky passerby lifting the scratcher from his pocket, or, in worse fantasies, noticing the scratcher and arranging to assault and rob him in the parking lot outside, but he brushed them aside as ludicrous. It was five twenty-one in the evening.

His business with the Lotto machine concluded, he turned to the Primo water dispenser in time to arrest the flow of water at the precise moment it finished filling the five-gallon jug. He pressed the button to raise the dispensing nozzle, placed the silicone cap on the jug, and leaned over to retrieve it.

But seriously how funny would it be if he won the lottery? Jackson Jay Marchiel, millionaire. Of course, he would be modest with his winnings. Not as self-aggrandizingly modest as a Warren Buffet — whose simplistic lifestyle seemed performative to Jackson Jay — but not as profligate as those cautionary tales about lottery winners who blow their winnings on gambling, expensive cars, jewelry, hookers, and drugs.

He would be a responsible winner. Not that he wouldn’t enjoy the finer things in life. On the contrary, he planned to upgrade his lifestyle in significant ways. A personal chef to ensure proper nutrition — maybe even weight loss —, a driver to fully eliminate the hassle of auto-auto-transportation, a larger house, and not one of the cookie-cutter McMansions, but a real house with bones and character. He would exchange their mid 2010’s SUV for two newer vehicles, maybe pay off their current auto loan and donate the car to a charity. But no sports cars, no Maybachs or Ferraris. Renting them was not out of the question, especially at a track where he could really let loose — under the supervision of trained professionals, of course — but ownership was completely unnecessary.

Fixing his teeth was another priority. Not with those chiclet, toilet-bowl-white veneers that were popular, but implants that echoed their current arrangement — he had prominent canines that gave him, as he saw it, a vampirish quality and occasionally scared small children when he smiled — tastefully colored to mimic healthy, but not pristine, enamel. A real gold ring.

But most of all he wanted to employ himself in philanthropic endeavors. A large donation to his alma mater, a small state school in a post-industrial town in Indiana, maybe a residence hall with his name on it. A special gift to local ARCs and other organizations that supported people with intellectual and developmental disabilities. Honestly, with the Powerball jackpot, he could afford to pay for public transportation throughout his small college town — the current one, where his wife was a student — showcase the benefits of public transportation.

Then there was the family component. His father had provided so much in his lifetime, and repaying him for that effort was a priority of Jackson Jay. Jay Franklin Marchiel had by no means been a perfect father, but he had provided all that he could in his own way. Jackson Jay thought of a fantastic compound, though unlikely, where all of his beloved family and his wife’s family could live without paying a dime. They could be within walking distance, see each other for meals but also spend weeks apart.

Freedom from student loans, from car loans, credit card debt, dead-end jobs. Freedom to create art. To write, to paint, to finally take photography seriously. To support his wife without worry. Maybe even have kids. Who knew? Without the threat of overwhelming medical debt, even something like children was possible.

As he placed the jug in his cart, he smiled to himself. He made way for an elderly couple as they exited their checkout lane and filed into the flow of people exiting the store. Then, with considerable effort, he pushed his cart into the stream of people and toward the automatic doors.

Eighty-four pounds. Two healthy-percentile four year olds. Maybe twins.