The Numbers

The glass door of the lottery shop went ding-dong as Chen Guohao walked in. He headed straight for the counter and handed the ticket to the owner. He was clutching that Powerball ticket in his hand, cursing himself for being crazy as he walked—he knew it was impossible, yet he’d made a special detour just to check the numbers, wasting his time.

The owner placed the ticket on the scanner and swiped it. The screen flashed “Please wait.”

Then the screen flickered.

“Congratulations! Jackpot: NT$1,200,000,000.”

Chen Guohao stared at the screen, motionless.

He blinked. Looked again. The numbers hadn’t changed. He blinked again. Still the same. He reached up and pinched his cheek—it hurt, really hurt, but that string of zeros on the screen still sat there obediently, not a single one missing.

“Fuck,” he muttered.

An old man scratching a lottery ticket nearby turned his head to look at him. Chen Guohao quickly lowered his head, took the ticket back from the owner, and shoved it into his pocket. He walked out of the lottery shop and stood under the arcade, his heart pounding so fast it felt like it would leap out of his throat.

He started walking, faster and faster, until he was almost running. He thought about that ticket folded and crammed into his pocket—1.2 billion, not even an envelope, and the pocket of these sweatpants had a hole in it. Fuck. He rushed back to his rooftop extension. It took him several tries to get the key into the lock. Once the door was open, he locked it behind him.

He pulled the ticket out of his pocket and spread it on the table. Still there. Not torn. Not blown away.

He picked up the ticket. His hands were shaking. He turned the ticket over and over, examining it three times, making sure it wasn’t yesterday’s mistaken ticket, wasn’t a dream, wasn’t a machine error at the lottery shop.

Then he laughed—laughed so hard his stomach hurt. He crouched on the floor, tears streaming from laughter.

“Motherfucker, I won,” he said to the ceiling. “I fucking won.”

He stood up and started pacing around the room. His mind raced: First, Zhuang Yating. That woman had looked down on him for being poor and worthless, and married some office worker at a tech company. Now he had 1.2 billion. He was going to make that office worker disappear—better yet, make him wear women’s clothes and hand out flyers at the MRT station, and make Zhuang Yating beg on her knees for him to come back. Yeah, he’d smile and refuse, let her know what regret really meant.

Then Lin Shufen. That damn old hag, nagging him for rent every month like she was collecting souls, even making him pay three thousand to fix the drainpipe just because the air conditioner was dripping. He was going to buy the entire apartment building, then make her come every day to take out his trash, make her son call him “godfather,” and make her beg on her knees for him not to kick her out.

And A-Kun. That asshole who stole his turf at the MRT station, always deliberately standing in front of him to block people, making him hand out several fewer stacks of flyers. He was going to make A-Kun his errand boy—send him to buy lunch boxes, drinks, cigarettes, and then deliberately not tip him. Fuck me, just thinking about it felt good.

The more he thought, the more excited he got, his whole body tingling like he’d been electrified. He picked up his phone to call someone—but his finger stopped on the contacts list, realizing there was no one to call. In his contacts, the numbers he actually called were only three: landlord Lin Shufen, the squad leader for flyer distribution, and Chunghwa Telecom customer service.

He put down the phone, suddenly feeling a little empty.

No, he scolded himself inside. You’re now a billionaire—1.2 billion! You can fucking call anyone you want! He picked up the phone again, then put it down. No, can’t call. If word got out, those relatives and friends—he had no relatives or friends—those creditors, those scammers would all come knocking.

He tucked the ticket under the instant-noodle bowl, then took it out again, folded it, and shoved it into his underwear pocket. No, what if he forgot it when doing laundry? He took it out again, found an old book, and tucked it between page 123. No, the book might be sold as scrap paper. Finally he found a tin box, put the ticket inside, then stuffed the tin box into his suitcase, and pushed the suitcase under the bed.

Then he thought it was still wrong, dragged it out again, opened it, and checked the ticket once more—all the numbers were there, not creased, not dirty. Carefully, he laid the ticket flat on the table, put a magazine on top of it, then sat on the edge of the bed, staring at it.

He stared blankly for a long while before remembering one thing: he hadn’t signed it yet.

He fished out a pen and signed his name on the back of the ticket. His handwriting was ugly, all crooked and shaky, but he didn’t care. He stared at those three characters—Chen Guohao—and suddenly felt like the name had become worth something.

He lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The air conditioner was still dripping—drip, drip, drip—steady as a heartbeat. He closed his eyes. His mind was full of numbers: 1.2 billion, heard you had to pay over 200 million in taxes, so actually around 950 million—his math wasn’t great, but he knew it was a number he could never spend in a lifetime.

He tossed and turned. Couldn’t sleep.

He got up, turned on the TV. The news was reporting the Powerball jackpot of 1.2 billion, saying the winner had not yet come forward to claim it. He stared at the words “not yet come forward” on the screen, feeling like he was watching news about someone else. He suddenly wanted to laugh, but found he couldn’t.

He turned off the TV and walked to the balcony. The balcony of the rooftop extension was tiny—only big enough for one person to stand. He looked at the night view of Taipei—neon lights flickering, traffic flowing. The people in those cars were probably worrying about tomorrow’s mortgage, car loans, kids’ tuition. And him—tomorrow, he wouldn’t have to worry about any of that.

He should be happy. He’d won 1.2 billion. He could buy anything, do anything, make anyone regret it. He should laugh, jump, call everyone to show off.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, feeling the wind against his face. The water from the air conditioner was still dripping, landing at his feet, splashing tiny droplets. He suddenly remembered that mangy mutt he’d met at the alley entrance—that dog didn’t know he had money, it just thought he stank. But he fed it a piece of bread, and it actually came over. Fuck, even a dog had more backbone than people.

He walked back into the room, picked up his phone, hesitated, then dialed the number.

“Hello, CTBC Bank lottery claim hotline. How may I assist you?”

Chen Guohao swallowed. His voice was a little hoarse. “I—I’d like to schedule a claim.”

“Certainly. Which lottery ticket did you win?”

“Powerball. Jackpot.”

There was a one-second silence on the other end. Then the female customer service representative’s voice became even more polite. “Congratulations, sir. Please bring the original ticket and your ID to our VIP room. We will arrange a personal representative for you. What time would be convenient for you?”

Chen Guohao gave a time and hung up.

He sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the dialed call log on his phone screen, and suddenly realized something—

This money was real.

He stood up, walked to the table, and looked at the signed ticket. He reached out and touched the paper—the rough texture, the smell of ink. He picked up the ticket and pressed it against his chest, feeling his heartbeat echo back through the paper.

“Fuck,” he said again, his voice trembling this time.

He carefully placed the ticket back in the tin box, the tin box back in the suitcase, and pushed the suitcase under the bed. Then he lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The air conditioner was still dripping. He remembered the landlord wanting him to pay three thousand to fix the drainpipe. Now he decided not to fix it—let it drip until it rotted.

He closed his eyes, but couldn’t sleep.

He remembered many things: when he was little, his mom said he’d never amount to anything; his middle school teacher said he was hopeless; his ex-girlfriend said he wasn’t good enough for her. Those voices kept echoing in his head, playing on loop like a tape recorder. He thought winning the lottery would drown them out, but they were still there—even louder.

He rolled over and buried his face in the pillow.

“It’s okay,” he told himself. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll shut them all up. I’ll wear these rags to the bank and show them who’s boss.”

But deep down he knew—fuck, the loudest voice had been his own all along.