Re-gift

One brick building huddled between a few others, making up a forgotten downtown. Most stood vacant, or perhaps slouched vacant. Any cars that passed through had undoubtedly made a wrong turn. Probably several, for that matter.

The middle building still looked usable, and it was, in fact, in use. Inside, the waiting room was empty, save for a single receptionist typing. Her computer screen was blank. She wore a brown felt dress. It matched the various browns of the carpet and furniture of the room. Overall, the layout looked like a dentist's office about to retire, and therefore not willing to update the office decor.

Yet, this was the most profitable business in Wyoming, and it wasn’t even close. The receptionist’s job was solely to maintain appearances and pass out the occasional form. It had been a handful of weeks since she had passed out a form. A little bell sounded above the door as someone stepped inside. The receptionist didn’t look up.

“Excuse me, um, is this the Life Refund Office?” said the guest.

The receptionist still kept staring at her computer. She didn’t need to look up; she knew what she’d see. Designer clothes, miserable expression, $12 iced coffee. Another Powerball winner. They were all the same.

“Yes, this is the LRO. Here’s the form,” said the receptionist, seemingly uninterested, passing over the bulky form. The lady took the form with freshly manicured hands, but characteristically the nails had been chewed.

“Thank you.” Her eyes darted around for the nearest seat.

“There’s coffee and tea,” said the receptionist, gesturing over to an archaic-looking coffee maker with a light sporadically flashing. It was next to a box of tea bags that was picked over and nearly empty, the outer edges of the cardboard fuzzy from time.

The lady looked down at her deluxe coffee. “Oh, no thank... thanks.” The lady took a seat on a brown chair, slightly stained on the back. This wasn’t unusual. All the chairs had stains. Her movement caused the pen to slide off the clipboard, then catch by the little metal chain.

Now seated, she exhaled. Then twice more. The lady glanced around the room. A smile crept on her face.

The plainness was almost intoxicating.

There was no pomp, no circumstance. Every detail wasn’t fighting for attention, elevated to the highest luxury. It was all very matter-of-fact, like a sip from a drinking fountain after an expensive cocktail bar.

The LRO knew their clientele well.

The lady directed her attention to the form.

The first spot had her list her name: Katie Geoffrey. Easy enough.

“Name of Lottery:”

Katie thought back to that fateful day almost two months ago.

Her boss had dumped a fourth extra project on her that quarter. She had briefly left the office for a 4 p.m. lunch. Almost on cue, as she was pinched for time, her gas light came on in her car. She almost didn’t notice it because it blended in with several other lights on her dashboard that she had been ignoring.

When she pulled up to the gas station, her phone rang. It was her boss. When she didn’t answer, the chime of a message sounded.

“WHERE are you?”

Then another angry chime. “I told you I needed that report before the end of the day.”

Katie left her phone in the car and went inside for a cheap cup of coffee. That’s when she saw it on the television: a ten-minute countdown for the Dreamspire Powerball 3x. It was one of the biggest Powerballs in history.

The local news had devoted a segment each day that week for coverage. Imagine if she no longer needed to work. Imagine if her boss no longer had control of her. Imagine. So she bought a ticket.

When she matched the winning numbers to her ticket in the driver’s seat of her car ten minutes later, she didn’t believe it. She read it again. Katie got frustrated with herself for thinking she’d won. But she read it a third time, and for some reason, it still matched. That was when she finally started thinking she had won.

She started driving back in the direction of work. Her phone chimed consistently, probably her boss. But it now sounded like music to her ears. She drove right past the exit for her work and didn’t think twice.

She was the winner of the Dreamspire Powerball 3x.

As Katie wrote the name of the lottery, the ink of the pen petered out.

This woke her up out of the memory. “Excuse me, ma’am. Do you have another pen?”

“Try swirling it,” came the short reply from the front desk.

Katie scribbled on the corner of the form. Nothing.

“Little circles,” the receptionist added.

The ink came out, albeit the black was more of a faded gray.

The next box of the form said, “Unspent Funds (in millions):”

Katie wrote, “378” and then added “ish.” She then almost crossed out the “ish,” as it seemed too informal, though she could hardly see it through the faded ink anyway.

The next section said, “Asset Disclosure,” followed by a long list of sub-sections:

Cars:

Real Estate:

Friend’s Business Investments:

Katie went through. “Lexus and Bugatti.” “Two houses on the Cape.” “Frank’s Frozen Yogurt and an AI news app idea.” She looked around the room, which of course was empty. She needed that reassurance. She then wrote, “Also my friend’s Moon$hine NFT project.” Writing all this out made her cringe.

The final section was even worse. “Exotic Pets:”

Katie grimaced. She wrote in print, “Six-month-old alligator. Name is Walter.” That’s bad, she thought. It was even worse that the name Walter was an old ex-boyfriend’s name. She didn’t write that down. Her humiliation had limits.

She was about to move on to the next part but then remembered her biggest expense: Digital Ascent Media, her old company. She had bought it outright and then fired her old boss. It was a moment of weakness for her. But for some reason, she always caught herself smiling about it upon recollection.

The next spot was more difficult.

“Briefly describe the point in your life you want back. (Please use relative dates. Detail any life exclusions you don’t want back.)”

This was why she was here. It wasn’t like she lacked a place to give her money. Thousands of charities would have gladly obliged. So would her now estranged family and friends, and also a friend’s traveling puppet show idea that she was putting off investing in.

But the missing detail, the one she couldn’t let go of, was that she wanted some semblance of her past life. Her normal life. The one she struggled in. The one that was real.

“I want my friends and family to see me, not my money. I want to get excited about going out to eat. I want to be challenged. I want to get out of bed because I have to. I want to go back to the year before I won the lottery.

Exclusions: I don’t want my old boss. I don’t want my car to be in desperate need of repairs. I’d like to have enough time to work out.”

She started writing further, “And to keep a private chef,” but then crossed it out.

The final section of the form was labeled, “Forfeiture of Estate (Sign below):”

She paused, index finger migrating to her mouth for nervous chewing. Then she looking around the room, and felt bolstered once again by the plainness. Plainness where no family members were calling her greedy. Plainness where her college degree actually made a difference in her life. She hoped to get this plainness back. Katie signed her name.

She walked back up, holding the pen to the clipboard so it wouldn’t fall off. The receptionist’s hand was already outstretched, awaiting the form.

“Our team will be in touch. Lawyers will liquidate your estate. And negotiators will work with your friends and family. Oh, and you didn’t check yes or no about using actors if your real friends don’t come around.”

“Um, no thanks,” Katie replied.

“Great. I’m sure they’ll come around anyway.”

Katie wasn’t sure if the receptionist believed it—or if it was just her canned response.

“Here are your keys to the same make and model as your old car. If you drive back to your old apartment, our real estate agent should be finalizing your lease.”

Katie smiled a real smile and turned, but not toward the door. She turned toward the coffee machine. It hissed at her. She poured a lukewarm cup and took a sip. It was bad in a good way.

She stepped outside under the sign:

LIFE REFUND OFFICE

The grass is always greener because it is turf. Fake grass. It isn’t real.

A tow truck was backing up with her Lexus while another simultaneously replacing it with what appeared to be her old Honda. They even replicated the dent in her quarter-paneling. She was back in real grass. The kind connected to dirt, and with bugs. The kind that could grow.

From that day on, she never thought anymore about her money.

Although, someone did. Quite often.

It was the CEO of the LRO, and he thought about it on his private island all the time, mainly because he needed to figure out how to spend it.