Lottery of the 30s

It was only four hours until Luke Harlon’s final birthday. At least, that’s what he told himself. He always prepared for the worst, even if the chances were always only one percent that getting your code selected actually happened.

He sat alone on his worn, gray couch and stared at the television. The soundbar’s audio reverberated around the minimally decorated apartment with an upbeat ad for an exercise bike. Luke might have chuckled at the irony of that timing if he was paying attention. Millions were watching this same parade of definitely-not-paid actors smiling with the hope of future health. So many of those watched along with him and shared his anxiety. Others were voyeurs waiting to see whose fates would be sealed.

Luke was sure he felt emotion, but it was hard to pinpoint. None of his prevailing feelings were on the extreme ends of the spectrum of dread or relief. His coworkers told him that he had nothing to worry about, but that sentiment was often passed around like a cold any time codes were about to be selected. Sure, he was a little nervous. Of course, he didn’t want to see his code displayed on the screen. But if it was chosen? He was not sure if he had any energy left to care – a fitting representation of how he had lived. If he was spared, would the randomness of the system have been correct?

He watched as the television screen faded to black until “The 19th Treinta Process” popped into view. The low hissing of a microphone was its only accompanying sound. Its dull red graphics always looked pulled from an old 16-bit video game, unceremoniously representing a ceremony all came to dread. The government was smart to not introduce one of the most morbid days of each year with a flashy spectacle, but it would certainly be like it to try.

The title card dissolved from the screen as the camera sat wide to show a dark brown podium on the right side of the screen. The remaining two-thirds of the frame’s real estate consisted of a massive, clear, plastic sphere. In any other scenario, the setting would look like the opening of a skit. Luke stared at the screen with newfound intent trying to find the nickel-sized ball marked LH-643 hidden somewhere within the contents of the sphere. It was a feudal effort, but Luke didn’t think it would hurt to know. Though with more than one million balls in total, the effort was no different than finding a specific piece of dust from across the room.

The sight of the sphere caused reality to begin to set in, and something in Luke seemed to shift. When you stared death in the face – and death took the form of a drab, yet sadistic fun house bingo hall – a roller coaster of thoughts moved through one’s brain. So many opportunities to get it right wasted, though it never felt that way until the past few years. But now? He was ready to make a change. Even though he had accepted his potential fate each of the past 20-plus days, this crystallizing moment sparked new thoughts. He never volunteered anywhere before. He could have given back to his local food bank one time when the cashier asked. Having two kidneys at this moment felt selfish, so he could have donated one of those too. He also never had the chance to make amends with his parents for dropping out of college. He could go back and get his degree or at least take them out to dinner and apologize. Any of it had to count for something.

So much of the annual process was about being a productive member of society in the eyes of the government. Despite his general apathy toward many things, he still always thought he fit the bill to be pulled out of contention. The letter he received in the mail three weeks prior indicated that he was, in fact, incorrect. But a switch had flipped, and Luke was ready for something bigger.

His epiphany quieted as Kate Marland appeared on the screen from behind a long, black curtain and made her way up to the podium. Marland was the third person named to the Presidential Cabinet as the Secretary of Population Efficiency. She wore a cold, navy blue suit accompanied by a solemn look, proving her first Treinta was taking its toll. That, or she had a background as an actress. You can’t ever be too certain, Luke thought.

Marland sat down the binder she carried to the podium. In its center was the script that so many could now almost recite from memory. As she flipped it open, a slow chill burned its way down Luke’s shoulders.

“Thank you for your time, attention, and patience as the 19th Treinta Process will commence soon,” Marland said, her eyes not leaving the page. “Though this is a day that many will feel sadness or frustration for a loved one, friend, or colleague, please remember that this measure was instilled by the government chosen democratically by you, the people of the United States. As our resources remain plateaued, this annual exercise is crucial to the sustained success of the Republic.”

That line always made Luke’s eyes roll. It was insane that no one had come up with a better solution after almost two decades. It was a question he posed once in an online forum after a few pulls of whiskey and liquid curiosity. When he went to check to see if anyone had responded the following morning, the comment was deleted by the moderator. He thought that was probably for the best anyway. He brought his focus back to the TV, noticing Marland’s right hand was trembling as she took a slow breath before bringing her head up to look into the camera. “I am so, so sorry for your loss and the loss of those you care about.”

That was different than how the script often went, but Luke was too apprehensive to think much of Marland’s commitment to the theatrics. He leaned forward to tap his phone, jolting it awake as it rested on the coffee table. It displayed a few generic texts wishing him well, but the most recent message sat visible at the top of the screen. Nikki’s name slinked its way to his lock screen for the first time in two years.

Hey. Good luck.

Even though those three words were the only communication they had since she left, Luke still expected more. But then again, it took his possible termination from existence for her to acknowledge that he existed at all. He let out a small, sarcastic laugh to no one, who had been his audience for longer than he wanted to admit.

In the time it took for Luke to see the few people who reached out, Marland had regained her composure and began to power through as master of ceremonies. “As you know by now, the codes of 12,500 individuals who did not meet the requirements for further advancement will be selected for removal out of the 1,254,672 possible members of that age group,” she explained as her eyes followed every letter with microscopic intent. “Two balls will appear every 10 seconds and the code will appear on the screen.” She then pointed with the enthusiasm of a morose flight attendant to the corners of the room where uniformed colleagues held tablets. “The checkers will corroborate each to ensure no mistakes are made. The seriousness and efficiency of the Process has proven to be successful as a direct result of its accuracy.”

Marland paused and flipped the page of the binder. Luke sat with clasped hands as the condensation in his palms formed without warning. He knew what came next – everyone knew. His eyes closed as hers rose from the page, staring into the single lens in the room and into the countless that were waiting on the other end.

“Thank you. The Process will now begin. God bless the United States of America.”

Marland pressed the button on the top of the podium like her predecessors before her, closed the binder, and vanished behind the curtain. The motor fueling the sphere kicked to life, filling the room with a low humming noise as the balls began to float around. Even though the motor could power a small boat, the balls made their way around the transparent dome with gentle ease. The year’s first code reached one of the two long tubes that extended from the upper left and right outside of the sphere. The ball traversed out of the left side and funneled down to one of the checkers standing near the back wall of the room. The woman bent at the hips with slow intent to grab the ball. Her long, black curls disguised the information printed on the front that the whole world waited to see. She placed the ball into a bucket behind her and then tapped her tablet a few times to enter the code. She nodded to someone off-screen and then it appeared.

MW-410

It was only one, but Luke exhaled from what felt like beneath his lungs. He wasn’t sure he could do this for another two hours. He slid backwards into the familiar spot on the couch indented for only him and prepared for the long haul. The first code not being his was the first time he believed there was a chance for him at the end of it all.

The clock read 8:47 when he looked for the first time. What felt like nothing when watching his favorite show, 47 minutes felt like an eternity. Luke’s eyes crossed attempting to keep track of the codes that continued to be added to the list. He was trying to keep count but that impossible task ended a few minutes after what he guessed was around the 4,200 mark. The checkers continued their diligence in both processing codes and displaying zero emotion as they rifled through each ball.

His brain was reaching dormancy from staring at the screen, as his synapses still fired on all cylinders with every imaginable scenario. Then another code came across the screen and his body went limp in disbelief.

LH-643

The five characters that occupied his thoughts now shouted at him with the crimson hues now branded on his eyes. He slid from the couch onto the gnarled beige carpet, kneeling inches from the screen. He brought his finger to the TV and traced the nooks of each letter and number to be sure. He did it a second time. Then a third with more frenetic intensity. He waited for two codes to appear after that one to make sure it would not be erased. Despite their robotic productivity, the checkers were still human, meaning that typos had to be possible, even probable, with thousands of codes. He could feel his heart pumping blood from his head down to his toes with increased speed and force. He knew running away was no good, but maybe he could try. He stood to look at the window. Five stories is what, a broken leg? Maybe an ankle or two? He could still limp somewhere hidden and quiet, but it would all be useless.

A knock at the door thundered its way through Luke’s apartment, breaking all thoughts racing through his mind. It had the muffled quality of someone wearing gloves, but power that indicated he would be answering a call he did not anticipate getting so soon.

He whipped his neck toward the door. Another knock. He stood and slowly paced his way to the entrance of his one-bedroom apartment. Each methodical step felt like another year flashing before his eyes. His parents. Jingles, his childhood terrier. Nikki. He sighed and looked at the popcorn ceiling. Nikki. The third knock was more forceful and impatient as he approached the door. He opened it to find three members of the National Guard standing on his welcome mat.

“Mr. Hanlon?” Luke nodded in response. He looked the officer in the eyes as tears began to form. “Sir, it’s time.”

Luke nodded again. He recognized he would never know the mark he left on the world. He hoped that it was positive. He hoped that it mattered. But now, it finally sunk in that he would remain 32 years old forever as he exited his apartment with the officer holding his forearm. His legacy was nothing more than an idea, and he hoped that was enough.