procedure and change of clothes. Every catalog and portfolio that arrived in the mail seemed to cover the past with another disguise. He hardly recognized her, much less saw her around the house.
“ There’s no looking back once you’ve won,” Dick said. “Even Tom can’t. He’d trade a leg to be tossing loaves of bread in the oven again.”
Jerry scanned the bandstand. The people on stage were a popular 80’s dance group, rendered gray and overweight from the passing decades. They performed a medley of their hit tunes. Jerry struggled to attach a name to the bouncy songs. Why did he ever like them in the first place? Their computerized beats held the appeal and longevity of a paper cup.
“ It’s like the old adage.” Dick stirred the ice in his glass with a plastic cocktail straw. “Even if you stand still, things will change.”
Jerry realized Chelsea had vanished from sight. He returned to Dick Leigh, no longer interested in his candor. Why do people with money feel the need to philosophize? Does idle time spawn the illusion of wisdom? “I know things change.”
“ It’s evolution.”
The boat swayed in the open harbor. Jerry searched for a distant point to fix his sights, but the skyline undulated in disconcert with his stomach. “I need to get up top for a while. We’ll talk later.”
“ I plan on it.”
Jerry checked Dick’s neatly groomed facade and set the beer glass on a passing tray. He left without another word.
The dance floor resonated with the heat and smell of millionaires at play. Jerry nudged through the grinding bodies to reach the stairs, but crossing the deck felt like strolling atop the ocean. The boat rode the breakers in the harbor. In the distance, Lady Liberty waved her torch.
Near the stairs, Jerry spotted Haskell Cogdon. His wiry silver sideburns reflected in the portal light. Even indoors, he wore those brown tinted shades.
Haskell snatched a pair of champagne glasses and faded from view. Jerry felt glad that he’d jettisoned that man from his life. People never changed, contrary to Dick Leigh’s speculation. Haskell was probably canvassing other suckers at the party.
Jerry climbed to the upper deck. A warm breeze whipped off the Atlantic. He grabbed the railing and aimed his face into the wind. The whitecaps sprayed salty water upon his bare arms and face. He focused on the horizon. The ocean curved off the end of the Earth. He tried to be still inside.
Tom Veris came beside Jerry. His face was tan, plump, and pitted like the head of a bran muffin. Perspiration caught in the dark curls near his forehead. A half-empty glass of beer dangled from the tips of his fat fingers. “So you’ve met our fearless leader.”
“ Dick Leigh?” Jerry asked.
“ Yeah, he runs the group.”
“ What group?”
“ The Winners Circle.”
“ Is that what you call this?”
“ Not this. It’s a chat group.”
“ You chat about what?”
“ Think of it as therapy. We discuss our lives, issues, whatever. Dick’s a psychologist. We meet on Tuesdays at the Trenton JCC.”
Jerry returned to the horizon, attempting to settle his stomach. He gulped the air. “That explains a lot.”
“ What does?”
“ The shrink part.”
“ That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
“ Oh?”
“ I suppose Dick didn’t say anything about himself.”
“ He was lecturing me about change.” And spilling your story instead.
“ Change is a big theme lately. I think he’s planning something.”
“ Like what?”
“ I don’t know yet.”
“ You two hang around a lot?”
“ Dick doesn’t have many friends.”
Jerry understood that. He used to have friends at the car plant. They used to share lunchtime and talk. You might call it a chat group about cars, home repairs, and sporting events. And Chelsea had her friends, who became his too, but ever since the lottery, things grew weird. People treated them like they were different, special even. He had become alien to familiar
“ There’s no looking back once you’ve won,” Dick said. “Even Tom can’t. He’d trade a leg to be tossing loaves of bread in the oven again.”
Jerry scanned the bandstand. The people on stage were a popular 80’s dance group, rendered gray and overweight from the passing decades. They performed a medley of their hit tunes. Jerry struggled to attach a name to the bouncy songs. Why did he ever like them in the first place? Their computerized beats held the appeal and longevity of a paper cup.
“ It’s like the old adage.” Dick stirred the ice in his glass with a plastic cocktail straw. “Even if you stand still, things will change.”
Jerry realized Chelsea had vanished from sight. He returned to Dick Leigh, no longer interested in his candor. Why do people with money feel the need to philosophize? Does idle time spawn the illusion of wisdom? “I know things change.”
“ It’s evolution.”
The boat swayed in the open harbor. Jerry searched for a distant point to fix his sights, but the skyline undulated in disconcert with his stomach. “I need to get up top for a while. We’ll talk later.”
“ I plan on it.”
Jerry checked Dick’s neatly groomed facade and set the beer glass on a passing tray. He left without another word.
The dance floor resonated with the heat and smell of millionaires at play. Jerry nudged through the grinding bodies to reach the stairs, but crossing the deck felt like strolling atop the ocean. The boat rode the breakers in the harbor. In the distance, Lady Liberty waved her torch.
Near the stairs, Jerry spotted Haskell Cogdon. His wiry silver sideburns reflected in the portal light. Even indoors, he wore those brown tinted shades.
Haskell snatched a pair of champagne glasses and faded from view. Jerry felt glad that he’d jettisoned that man from his life. People never changed, contrary to Dick Leigh’s speculation. Haskell was probably canvassing other suckers at the party.
Jerry climbed to the upper deck. A warm breeze whipped off the Atlantic. He grabbed the railing and aimed his face into the wind. The whitecaps sprayed salty water upon his bare arms and face. He focused on the horizon. The ocean curved off the end of the Earth. He tried to be still inside.
Tom Veris came beside Jerry. His face was tan, plump, and pitted like the head of a bran muffin. Perspiration caught in the dark curls near his forehead. A half-empty glass of beer dangled from the tips of his fat fingers. “So you’ve met our fearless leader.”
“ Dick Leigh?” Jerry asked.
“ Yeah, he runs the group.”
“ What group?”
“ The Winners Circle.”
“ Is that what you call this?”
“ Not this. It’s a chat group.”
“ You chat about what?”
“ Think of it as therapy. We discuss our lives, issues, whatever. Dick’s a psychologist. We meet on Tuesdays at the Trenton JCC.”
Jerry returned to the horizon, attempting to settle his stomach. He gulped the air. “That explains a lot.”
“ What does?”
“ The shrink part.”
“ That’s just the tip of the iceberg.”
“ Oh?”
“ I suppose Dick didn’t say anything about himself.”
“ He was lecturing me about change.” And spilling your story instead.
“ Change is a big theme lately. I think he’s planning something.”
“ Like what?”
“ I don’t know yet.”
“ You two hang around a lot?”
“ Dick doesn’t have many friends.”
Jerry understood that. He used to have friends at the car plant. They used to share lunchtime and talk. You might call it a chat group about cars, home repairs, and sporting events. And Chelsea had her friends, who became his too, but ever since the lottery, things grew weird. People treated them like they were different, special even. He had become alien to familiar
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