the announcer says, “I welcome Ray Lopez and Holly Ward,” and hands us the absurdly large check, we take our seats at a long table and hold a press conference.
I’ve agreed to do most of the talking, for Holly’s sake. She’s uncomfortable with the cameras, with the fanfare and spotlight, and I don’t blame her. It’s Drew she’s thinking of, and the unwanted attention he’ll have to contend with.
We drove to the lottery commission offices in separate cars. Holly is wearing a conservative navy dress, her hair pulled back in a clip—trying, I think, to be as nondescript as possible. I’m wearing a tie, because I know my mother would kill me otherwise.
It’s the same tie I wore to her funeral.
“What will I do with the money?” My voice sounds far away. I inch the microphone closer. “Well, it’s all very new. I don’t think either of us has had time to think yet about what comes next.” I try to smile in Holly’s direction, but she’s looking at her hands folded on the table. Her face is very pale.
A young reporter from the
Poughkeepsie Record
stands up in the back of the crowd. “Did you think you were going to win?”
I laugh. “No.”
“You must have made plans, though. Daydreams, right? About what you would do if you did win?”
I glance at Holly. “My guess is we’re both thinking about our families, and what we can do for them now. And the charities we can donate to. The…people we’ll be able to help.”
I sound like an idiot. I glance at the lottery commissioner. Is it time to leave yet?
“Ms. Ward.” The
Poughkeepsie Record
guy remains standing. “You have a child, right?”
Holly stiffens beside me. I realize belatedly that I’ve opened the door to this question by mentioning our families.
Shit.
I drag the single microphone closer to my face. “We both…um…both Holly and I would very much like to be as private as possible through this process. I’m sure you—” I clear my throat. “I’m sure you can understand that. Not…I mean, not wanting to mention our particular family members, especially the kids.”
The reporter all but rolls his eyes, but he backs off. “You both work at Cogmans, right?”
“Well…” I smile. “For now.”
That gets a big laugh from the room. Another reporter pipes up. “Not going to keep your job, then, eh?”
I let out a brief laugh. “No. Holly?”
She smiles slightly, and shakes her head. Everyone laughs again.
I give a pointed look to the commissioner, who steps in front of the table and begins to wrap things up. He makes sure to invite the reporters to the Powerball website where our “story” will soon be available to the general public.
As we rise and exit the room, reporters and camera people rush out behind us and try to grab individual interviews.
“Mr. Lopez. Mr. Lopez.” The
Poughkeepsie Record
guy steps into my path and shoves a minirecorder in my face. I’m trying to turn him down politely when Holly slips out a side door and disappears.
I change tactics, clearing my throat loudly to attract the attention of the press that remains. The least I can do is give her a five-minute head start out of the parking lot.
“I just want to thank everyone for coming out today to meet us. And thank the whole Powerball operation for giving us this amazing opportunity. Everyone’s been really nice, and we’re grateful, as you can imagine.”
“Mr. Lopez, hey.” A reporter is here from NY1, I see now—my favorite morning news guy from Staten Island.
“Hi, Roger!” I say, genuinely grinning. “Never thought I’d be interviewed by you. That’s so cool, man.”
By the time I’m done joking around with him and dodging any serious questions from anybody else, Holly is long gone.
I say my goodbyes and thanks to everyone at the commission office, they confirm that the money will arrive in my bank account in about ten days, and I jump in my truck and head home.
Alone.
Somehow, it’s anticlimactic. Like I’ve
I’ve agreed to do most of the talking, for Holly’s sake. She’s uncomfortable with the cameras, with the fanfare and spotlight, and I don’t blame her. It’s Drew she’s thinking of, and the unwanted attention he’ll have to contend with.
We drove to the lottery commission offices in separate cars. Holly is wearing a conservative navy dress, her hair pulled back in a clip—trying, I think, to be as nondescript as possible. I’m wearing a tie, because I know my mother would kill me otherwise.
It’s the same tie I wore to her funeral.
“What will I do with the money?” My voice sounds far away. I inch the microphone closer. “Well, it’s all very new. I don’t think either of us has had time to think yet about what comes next.” I try to smile in Holly’s direction, but she’s looking at her hands folded on the table. Her face is very pale.
A young reporter from the
Poughkeepsie Record
stands up in the back of the crowd. “Did you think you were going to win?”
I laugh. “No.”
“You must have made plans, though. Daydreams, right? About what you would do if you did win?”
I glance at Holly. “My guess is we’re both thinking about our families, and what we can do for them now. And the charities we can donate to. The…people we’ll be able to help.”
I sound like an idiot. I glance at the lottery commissioner. Is it time to leave yet?
“Ms. Ward.” The
Poughkeepsie Record
guy remains standing. “You have a child, right?”
Holly stiffens beside me. I realize belatedly that I’ve opened the door to this question by mentioning our families.
Shit.
I drag the single microphone closer to my face. “We both…um…both Holly and I would very much like to be as private as possible through this process. I’m sure you—” I clear my throat. “I’m sure you can understand that. Not…I mean, not wanting to mention our particular family members, especially the kids.”
The reporter all but rolls his eyes, but he backs off. “You both work at Cogmans, right?”
“Well…” I smile. “For now.”
That gets a big laugh from the room. Another reporter pipes up. “Not going to keep your job, then, eh?”
I let out a brief laugh. “No. Holly?”
She smiles slightly, and shakes her head. Everyone laughs again.
I give a pointed look to the commissioner, who steps in front of the table and begins to wrap things up. He makes sure to invite the reporters to the Powerball website where our “story” will soon be available to the general public.
As we rise and exit the room, reporters and camera people rush out behind us and try to grab individual interviews.
“Mr. Lopez. Mr. Lopez.” The
Poughkeepsie Record
guy steps into my path and shoves a minirecorder in my face. I’m trying to turn him down politely when Holly slips out a side door and disappears.
I change tactics, clearing my throat loudly to attract the attention of the press that remains. The least I can do is give her a five-minute head start out of the parking lot.
“I just want to thank everyone for coming out today to meet us. And thank the whole Powerball operation for giving us this amazing opportunity. Everyone’s been really nice, and we’re grateful, as you can imagine.”
“Mr. Lopez, hey.” A reporter is here from NY1, I see now—my favorite morning news guy from Staten Island.
“Hi, Roger!” I say, genuinely grinning. “Never thought I’d be interviewed by you. That’s so cool, man.”
By the time I’m done joking around with him and dodging any serious questions from anybody else, Holly is long gone.
I say my goodbyes and thanks to everyone at the commission office, they confirm that the money will arrive in my bank account in about ten days, and I jump in my truck and head home.
Alone.
Somehow, it’s anticlimactic. Like I’ve
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