A receipt for milk, peanut butter, tea and something vegetarian found on Ridge Avenue in Mill Valley.

We stared at each other for what felt an eternity but in reality was eleven seconds. I was perched at the end of the leather sofa you had from your old apartment that you rescued from your uncle’s storage in Chicago. Vintage without the effort and authentic without the cost. Can’t shift a centimeter on that thing without making a noise though. You were sitting on the light blue chair, your legs making right angles with the ground, one elbow on each knee, hands cupping your chin. I like how none of the chairs in the apartment match. If I ever started a restaurant or cafe, that’s how I’d go too, all of the chairs different. And there’d be a section on the menu for all my favorite foods, available any time of day. With my hands folded across my lap, the still air around us, I could feel the warmth from that lone strip of sun seeping through my jeans. Apricity.

I had tried to prepare, holding my eyes shut for a long while. Looking every which way with eyes closed so they wouldn’t dry out. Did you ever do that thing when you were younger? You know, where you’d squint or rub your eyes so hard you swore you could see colors behind your eyelids?

We had to try a bunch of times to start. You kept making me laugh when you’d slide me a crooked grin and of course I’d blink and protest. But eleven seconds later it was you who blinked! So you went out into the cold crisp outside to get the milk and tea while I started preparing the omelets within comfortable distance of the oscillating space heater. But I think you would’ve gone anyways, eleven seconds or no eleven seconds.

•

A reminder receipt for an orthodontic appointment found at Ritch and Townsend.

The thing about the lottery is this, odds of winning the jackpot are 1 in 176 million. But the odds of winning are 1 in 40. If you get only the Mega number, you get two bucks. Any number and the Mega, also two bucks. That’s not so bad, you gambled, you won, you broke even.

Now say you get two numbers and the Mega. You’ve come out six dollars ahead. That’s a Pliny the Elder, tip included, at Toronado. Two gallons of unleaded at the 76 in Millbrae that’ll take you forty miles further than you could go before. Twelve pickles at the Tourist Club. A karma-generous tip on a twenty-seven dollar meal. The simple happiness that a surprise six dollars can bring, right?

Three and the Mega will put you a hundred and eleven dollars ahead.

She was at the 76 in Millbrae to satisfy a Cheetos craving. “Oh, and, uh, add a Mega Millions to that too.” Because she never usually had cash on hand and why not? It wasn’t until Tuesday during her lunch break that she remembered to even check the ticket. Both eyes darting between the screen and her index finger, following the numbers online as she read then out loud in her head.

9, yes. 21, yup. 15, yeah! Whoa. 25, oh dang. 30, YES… The Mega, 7, YESYESOHMYGOD. Wait. Wait. Holy shit. Wait. She checked again, fingertip pressed so hard to the paper her nail bed turned white. She checked again, pressing even harder in case the numbers decided to fly off the ticket or switch to something else. Holy shit eight-thousand, nine-hundred and twenty-three dollars just because she wanted Cheetos. 8923. 8923892389238923 over and over and over again in her head.

Just enough to pay her mom’s condo mortgage for a month. And just enough to straighten out thirteen years of, “Was your barbeque canceled? Cause yo grill is fuuuuuuucked up!” Just enough. She grinned. Her heart was racing. She called her mom.

The thing about the lottery is this, odds of winning the jackpot are 1 in 176 million. But the odds of winning are 1 in 40.

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A receipt for two Sausage McMuffins found at 3rd and Townsend.

Disappointment is waking up around 7:30 in the morning because my body is used to being somewhere at 8:55. Unemployment is not having anywhere to be at 8:55. I’m not physically capable of sleeping in. Or being indispensable enough to not be laid off apparently. 7:30 + check email + 7:31 + text my mom back + 7:32 + look at Instagram and see some shot that a girl I used to work with took of some banal plastic tchotchke she put on her desk + 7:33 + attempt to read the New York Times on my phone and twist around in bed because the screen keeps flipping from vertical to horizontal + 7:34 + I was going to get an iPhone 4 where I could lock the screen orientation after I got my next paycheck + 7:35 + guess I’m not buying that anymore + 7:36 + play Angry Birds + 7:37 + wish I was taking photos of banal plastic tchotchkes at work + 7:38 + ‘Like’ a post my friend from college put up from NPR about 90s music + 7:39 + start to hate that girl from work with the job and the tchotchkes and the iPhone 4 + 7:40 = Daytime Insomnia.

I should get up.

I should shower.

I should look for a job.

Maybe.

I don’t feel like looking for a job.

I don’t feel like showering.

I should get up though at least.

Halo it is. Maybe kicking the virtual shit out of some teenagers in Lithuania or wherever will make me feel better. Forgot how much I liked this. Playing video games on a weekday after waking up. College. For a second I thought I could smell it. Musty wood drawers socks Febreze dorm carpet cologne. But that’s impossible. I smelled it again. Feels like that scene in Mallrats where Jason Lee is playing NHL All-Star Hockey on his Sega Saturn and Shannen Doherty wants him to make her breakfast and he wants to finish his game. I would’ve made her breakfast. Or sex. Mid-90s Shannen Doherty, not now Shannen Doherty. Pop quiz. What NFL team is Jason Lee playing as? The Hartford Whalers. BOOM. That factoid won me and my team these sweet engraved beer steins from Patrick Henry’s during Thursday Night Trivia Championships. Wish I had my old Super Nintendo at the apartment. Shouldn’t have let my little sister take it to college.

I’m hungry. I’m not as good at Halo and I used to be. Whoa, two hours already. I should do something. Breakfast. McDonald’s breakfast. I am a goddamn genius.

•

A receipt for a monthly Adult “A” Fast Pass found at the Civic Center BART station.

His fingertips had just left the door handle and were en route to his pocket when Damnit. Clipper card Clipper card Clipper card. He had remembered in the shower after grabbing the conditioner first and then wasting a squeeze’s worth in his hand before realizing the switch. Repeated it to himself while trying to nudge that stubborn blob back into the Why Is It So Tiny opening at the top so he could go one more day without buying another bottle. Repeated it to himself as he begrudgingly washed it down the drain and looked for the shampoo. Clipper card Clipper card Clipper card. It was in his pocket next to the National Trust for Historic Preservation debit card that he got because the design made it all black and that looked better when he took it out to pay for something like drinks for that girl he met on OkCupid that didn’t even go through the motions of Oh Let Me Get This Drink before he said No No It’s On Me. She didn’t even offer. No more dates with her, thanks. He should’ve just put the card in his wallet after he paid the tab but it just seemed easier at the time to fold the receipt over it and shove it in his back left pocket. Next to the Clipper card. And those jeans were past their One More Wear Should Be Fine limit and currently residing in the laundry basket in the closet. He started getting the monthly pass after unsuccessfully trying to lie his way out of a seventy-five dollar fine he caught between Van Ness and Civic Center. He saw them enter and tried to react quickly. Thought to get off at Civic Center as though he Meant To All Along and sweep past the Fare Inspectors. But they got to him before the train got to Civic Center. Seventy-five-fuckin-dollars because he couldn’t break a ten before he got on the train and decided to Try His Luck. Bad karma. Maybe from torrenting Radiohead’s discography the other day instead of actually buying the albums. Clipper card Clipper card Clipper card. While pulling his cell from the charger and grabbing socks. Right foot. Right shoe. Left foot. Left shoe. Keys. Wallet? Ok. Phone? Yeah. Keys keys keys. Keys. Fifty-one steps down in twenty-seven seconds. Felt faster than usual. His fingertips had just left the door handle and were en route to his pocket, the morning air infiltrating his first breath outside the building when Damnit. Clipper card. 

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