Ticket to Misery

Jack slowly meandered out of his kitchen, barely raising his feet off the ground as he moved. Coffee in one hand, and running the fingers of his other across the granite-top island still sparkling from his cleaning lady’s recent visit, he sulked towards the nearly panoramic wall of glass separating him from the rest of the world. The planet’s slow rotation had just begun to reveal the center of the solar system, illuminating Jack’s view of the just-waking metropolis far below. How appropriate he mused, as he looked out over the city that never sleeps, that he had been up for hours, unable to find solace in any slumber of his own. 

He took a deep sip of his coffee and winced. Freshly imported from Tanzania and spiked with a blood-pressure threatening dose of sugar, his coffee tasted nothing but bitter as he gulped it down. He stared, watching still dim streaks of light mix with tropospheric wisps of condensed vapor, which culminated in a golden white and periwinkle-tinged blanketing over the horizon. But the beauty was entirely lost on Jack. Such a powerful scene tends to lose its magic after seemingly endless repetition; at least it had for him. 

Jack set his coffee mug down on the mahogany table to his right then, exhaling a shallow sigh, slumped into a nearby lounge chair, kicking his feet up on its matching ottoman. He took a moment to think about his schedule, realizing that as usual he had little more than a vague sense of his day planned out. Jack closed his eyes, exhausted though his day had not yet started, confused though nothing particularly puzzled him, and conflicted without a clear reason for his latent sense of distress. Exhaustion, confusion, conflict; other than the unceasing everyday numbness that he couldn’t shake as of late, these feelings were most familiar to him.

Mindlessly, he stood then paced to the center of his two-story, penthouse apartment’s open concept living room to entertain his mind with anything but the dispirited thoughts that normally occupied it. The walls that his dwelling did accommodate collectively housed an impressive collection of high-bidded-for artwork. Warhol, Rembrandt, Basquiat; Jack curated their pieces in his home not so much out of reverence for their talent and creativity, or even for the quality of the art itself, but as a shrine to his own opulence and exhibitionism. Of the lavish frames in Jack’s apartment, few bordered pictures that actually elicited any joy from him. Instead of photographs of loved ones or sentimental snapshots of nostalgic scenes from his earlier days, Jack’s walls displayed only the distorted and abstract expressions dreamt up and rendered by overpriced visionaries. Were there so few people, places, or points in time personal and dear to him that he had nothing to flaunt but the work of strangers ? Thoughts of his past, laced with dull nostalgia for a time before receipt of his cash windfall, tugged at his heart.

A faint tickle from his pocket accompanied by a dull humming sound alerted Jack that someone wanted his attention. Reflexively, he pulled out his cell phone and woke its display with a touch of his thumb. Notifications of unread text messages and missed calls assumed the entirety of his device’s screen. Apparently a few people wanted his attention. After a quick scroll through the names responsible for his phone’s list of alerts, he discerned that he was uninterested in responding to any of them.

“What do these people want anyway?” Jack said aloud, his words echoing through the expanse of his home. But he already knew the answer. His greasy siblings and emotionally bankrupt parents were constantly pestering him for handouts, and his so-called friends were even worse. The vapid egotists that comprised the entourage of company that Jack kept were only interested in money; money and status. Then again, so was Jack to a large extent. The irrepressible repulsion he felt for his fake friends that nagged him was likely an outward projection of his own self-loathing, an idea he pushed from his mind. He didn’t want to think about it. Jack didn’t want to think about anything. 

A sudden wave of claustrophobia swept over him, paired with an even stronger sense of isolation. How could it be that in an apartment as cavernous as his, and in the most densely populated city in the country, Jack could feel so simultaneously confined and alone?

He needed to get outside. 

Once out of his building, Jack decided that he would go for a drive. He unconvincingly believed that a ride with the top down would help him to regain some sense of peace. So after a brisk, two-block walk and a quick interaction with his garage’s valet, he comfortably sat himself behind the wheel of the convertible BMW that he recently bought as a present to himself. 

He pulled onto Park Avenue and drove north to East 96th Street, barely hitting a single red light before turning onto FDR Drive. Upon reaching the highway he shifted gears, effortlessly navigating the surprisingly empty, gently curving track of pavement. There was no thrill when Jack accelerated though, nor any hope of him actually clearing his mind.

In theory, Jack had everything he ever wanted or at least enough money to buy whatever other objects he thought missing from his life. But the materials he possessed, Jack knew, truly possessed him. The money he came into provided him with nothing but an insatiable appetite for more and a greed that poisoned him to the core. He understood that he was sick. His soul was sick, ailing from desires, the fulfillment of which brought him no happiness, no fulfillment, no love; just a burning emptiness, a bottomless pit of which he wasn’t sure how to climb out. Worse still, Jack’s life, abundant in relationships soured by the curse of his affluence, lacked any meaningful support system. Jack had no one.

He sped up, ignoring the road’s dotted lines, then shut his eyes tight, focused only on the car’s roaring engine and the deafening wind howling by his tingling, exposed ears. Releasing the steering wheel from his whitened knuckles, he held the car’s pedal flush with the floor and shut out his surroundings, disconnecting entirely from the world…

Then, “SNAP!” A sudden reverberating sound jolted Jack back to his senses.

***

Jack startlingly opened his eyes, but to a different scene; a different world entirely: the real world. To him, it was one without riches or expensive belongings; one with an affectionate family and great friends; one with happiness, with love.

Jack was once again present, awakened from the chilling fantasy of his imagined possible future.

“Sir?” A voice accompanied by snapping fingers shook him from his daze.

“Sir, you said you had something for me.”

Jack refocused his eyes, pupils constricting in the light of his rediscovered reality. He looked directly ahead at the agitated man behind the counter of the corner store that he entered just a minute ago. 

“I did,” Jack said, almost whispering. “I did have something,” but not really for you, he thought; it was just an expression. 

“Look man, there’s a line forming behind you. Can we keep it moving?” 

Jack gave him a quizzical look, understanding of the cashier’s demand, but confused by his own recent revelation and how to interpret it, let alone how to act on it. 

“Come on, you know this is a store right? We sell shit. What is it you think you got for me?” 

Jack finally answered to the cashier’s impatient delight, but also to the man’s disappointment in that he simply responded, “never mind.” 

The cashier’s eyes bulged from underneath slightly raised eyebrows. 

“My bad,” Jack continued. “I was…just kidding.” 

“Whatever,” the cashier followed-up, not entirely surprised by the strangeness of the interaction, having seen his fair share of oddities since beginning his job at the NYC bodega.

“If you aren’t going to buy anything, how about you step aside for the next guy, hmm?”

“Yeah, that’s…I mean, you’re right. I don’t…” 

“I don't want to buy anything," Jack finally resolved, assuredly emphasizing the final word of his proclamation as he moved out of line.

Jack left the store, finding unexpected pleasure in the deep breath of rank city air that he took in while stepping onto the sidewalk. He looked down at the slip of paper that he had been holding for the past few minutes and, without giving much thought, dropped it into the styrofoam cup beside a man that sat in tattered clothes, asking for change. 

“What’s this?” The man inquired, straightening up slightly. 

“It’s last night’s winning Mega Millions lotto ticket,” Jack explained matter-of-factly. “You’re probably going to want to cash that.” 

The man’s confused expression turned to one of literal disbelief. He was speechless though rightfully skeptical. But before the man could find any words for the gesture, Jack had already left. 

“Just be careful what you wish for,” Jack thought, casually smirking as he walked off.