The Winner's Circle

Something old, something new, something borrowed, and something blue. Where even did that sing-song rhyme come from? Someone should turn it into a hip-hop song. Maybe 50 Cent or Snoop Dogg—somebody from the “OG” crowd, not these weird kids singing about gangs wearing Gucci.

And why isn’t there a poem/rhyme/rap about other momentous occasions in life? Why only weddings? Why shouldn’t we all find something second-hand and green for milestone birthdays, or something broken and yellow, plus a pint of your favorite ice cream for the day a divorce is finalized or a relationship severance is official?

Because that’s where I am—the breakup one. Again. I’m sitting on my dilapidated cobalt blue no-longer-overstuffed sofa, my right fist clutching a spoon with a death-grip while my left holds a Ben & Jerry’s Coffee Coffee BuzzBuzzBuzz wrapped in a yellow dish towel. I therefore have the yellow requirement fulfilled, my broken heart fulfilling the other.

Thank god I have the TV volume low, otherwise I might not have heard the knock at the door.

I wipe my drippy nose on the dish towel, set my sorrow and ice cream aside, and get up to answer.

“Package for you,” says the UPS guy on the other side of my door. “Sign here, please.”

“Sure, great,” I say with zero inflection, suggesting this moment is anything but, and sign my best squiggle on his machine thing.

He hands me the box, saying, “Have a nice day,” turning to leave.

“You, too,” I mutter, closing the door. I stare at the box, at the label, wondering who I know in Virginia and what the hell they’ve sent me. Because this is not a fab day for surprises. I just want to get back to my melting pint.

I walk into the kitchen and grab a pair of scissors to slit open the packing tape along the edge of what I start hoping is some kind of gift. I pry open the flaps and dig through a gob of off-white eco-friendly packing peanuts, looking for the prize among the cracker jacks. Inside, my fingers finally brush a piece of plastic, and I fish out a run-of-the-mill black flash drive—the kind I used to use before the cloud was a “thing.” Jesus, how am I even supposed to see what’s on this? No one uses USB drives anymore.

I roll my eyes as I stomp out of the kitchen to my backpack with all its computer paraphernalia. I find the dongle cord (what a gross name for a tech attachment, by the way) and walk back to where my MacBook sits on the opposite side of my sweating and what is fast becoming liquid-like ice cream. I plug the drive into the dongle and the dongle into my MacBook, saying a little prayer that this isn’t some kind of evil joke and I’m not going to blow up suddenly.

No explosives; just a folder. I double-click on it and open the only file there. Up pops a countdown timer—6 days, 13 hours, 47 minutes, and 19 seconds… and counting. But counting for what?

Below the countdown, a button flashes my name and the word “hurry.” This is getting weirder and weirder. Before I click the button, I get back up and return to the box the thumb drive arrived in, and dump out all the peanuts on the countertop to sift through them. Is there a note? Something else inside that might give me a clue about where this came from and why? I’m not usually one to do this kind of thing. It’s, well, creepy. But it’s also, I don’t know, thrilling? Is that the right word for it?

There’s no note or any other indication of where this countdown originated from, so I march back to my Mac and the sofa, collect my towel-wrapped pint, and hover my finger over my mousepad. “I mean, what the hell. Things can’t get much more depressing or worse this week,” I hear myself say.

I click. My screen explodes with a cacophony of multicolored digital confetti and a loud bang that scares the living shit out of me. I drop my spoon on the carpet and let out what I’d call a minor shriek in the throes of momentary fear. The screen rights itself again, and the same countdown timer reappears shortly after, along with a message:

Greetings, Molly! You’ve been handpicked to participate in the contest of a lifetime. We cordially invite you to The Winner’s Circle—a race that requires wit, semi-blind faith, and a little snark.

Don’t ask how we know or found you. That ruins the fun of the game. Just know we’ve been watching. And we know you need a little thrill in your life these days. Jeremy Who, are we right? (We are.)

You have exactly 15 minutes from the time this message appears to decide if you want to join the race or decline our offer. (We realize you probably want to call someone to help decide whether or not this is a good idea. And we assure you, it is.)

Here are the rules: No reaching out to Jeremy or any of his friends. No calling your mother. No swiping through Tinder and internally or physically crying about every man you think you’re not good enough for. (Because that is an absolute farce.) No more Ben & Jerry’s in your pajamas (but feel free to finish the one you’ve probably already started today).

Oh, and no cops. Don’t call the cops, or the fun ends rather abruptly.

I stare at the screen, rereading it three times before I mutter, “What the fuck? How do these people know me?”

The screen replies with a new message. How we know you isn’t important. So, you gonna make that phone call or what? Remember, not your mom.

“WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK?!” I stand up and drop my laptop on the sofa, mortified by what I’ve done. Maybe if I take out the USB from the dongle, this will all be over. I can opt out, but am I being followed? Does it even matter if I take the damn thing out of my computer?

“Shit. Where’s my phone?” I croak, digging around the blue sofa cushions.

The MacBook screen flashes again. In the kitchen, where you left it to open the box.

I stop in my tracks and hold my breath. What. The. Literal. Hell is going on?

I slowly back away from the open MacBook and step on my dropped spoon. Shit. I hope that doesn’t leave a weird sticky mark in the carpet. I lean over and pick it up, all the while keeping my eyes on the screen to see if it’s going to come back with some snarky we’re-watching-your-every-move message.

Spoon in hand, I traipse back into my hole-of-a-kitchen and see my phone on the counter next to the now-empty box this demonic digital stick arrived in. “Hey Siri, call Chelsea.”

“Calling Chelsea,” Siri answers me in her cool British accent.

“Hello?”

“Chels, oh my god.”

“Hey, can I call you back in, like, five minutes? I’m just in the middle of—“

“Chelsea, no. I need to talk to you RIGHT. NOW,” I say. I’m practically hyperventilating. “Some weird shit is going on, and I don’t know what to do—my computer is talking to me, and it said not to call my mom, which is weird, because I never talk to her anyway—and I legitimately don’t know what to do. This is the weirdest, most terrifying practical joke anyone has ever played on me, AND I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHO’S PLAYING IT,” I sputter.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Just calm down, Mols.” I hear a male voice in the background. “Yeah, I’ll just be a minute. Go ahead… Okay,” she says, back to me, “this clearly sounds like some kind of break-up crisis. I don’t have a ton of time, but I’m here for you, girl. Just take a deep breath and tell me what’s going on.”

“I called in sick to work today because I JUST CAN’T RIGHT NOW. I was on my sofa eating ice cream, and this fuckin’ UPS guy comes with a little box for me. Out of the blue. It was sent from Virginia—and I don’t even know anyone from Virginia, mind you—and he leaves it with me. You know, like they do. So, I opened it and found one of those old school flash drives in it, and I figured, you know, what the hell? I’m just wasting time eating ice cream and watching trashy daytime TV anyway, so why not see what’s on it? So, I plugged it in and—“

“Whoa, whoa, WHOA,” interjects Chelsea again. “You don’t know who sent this thing to you—it’s not a mistaken address, it’s actually addressed to you—and you don’t know where it came from or who wanted you to have it, and you just decided, ‘Sure, this seems safe to plug into my own device’?” I hear the incredulity in her voice.

“Look, I’m not saying it was smart,” I retort, “and I’m on a literal deadline. So will you please just let me finish?”

She huffs on the other side of the line. “Jesus—go ahead, then.” I can practically hear her hand gesturing for me to go on.

“So, I plugged it in, and this countdown timer came on, and then a message telling me that I’ve been uniquely chosen or something to participate in some kind of race. And that I had 15 minutes to decide whether or not to join said race. And that I shouldn’t call Jeremy, or my mom, or the cops. And I’m also not allowed to eat any more ice cream,” I finish. I look over to the living room and back at the screen. The opt-in timer now says 12 minutes and 37 seconds.

“Okay, so we’ve already established how stupid you are and that you should never have done the plugging-in in the first place,” Chelsea says. “So what else is there to decide?”

“Well,” I pause. “Should I do it? This race thing?” My panic is turning into a solid lump of curiosity.

“Are you out of your mind, Molly? May I remind you, you don’t know who sent it or what the hell it even is! Jesus, I know I tend to be the voice of reason in our friendship, but this is other-worldly.”

“It's just that, I mean, I could really use something exciting, you know? An escape! What’s the worst that could happen?” I mutter. Chelsea’s panic makes me realize how much I want to take this risk.

“Um, you get adult-napped, and the horrors of the world happen to you, and we never see you again?” Chelsea says, on the edge of hysteria. “I cannot believe we’re even having this conversation right now. Honestly.”

“I think I’m going to do it,” I hear myself say.

“Molly, look. I know you’re upset. But this is so not the way to get over a bad breakup. Who ever heard of something like this anyway? Look, let’s get dinner tonight after I’m off work, okay? We can talk about this and whatever you want. Just—“ I can’t see her, but I imagine she’s doing that thing where she pinches her nose in an effort to stifle the pressure building in her head. “I just don’t think this is smart. This is the kind of shit horror movies are made of. The next thing you know, you’re going to be involved in some kind of awful contest where you have to kill other contestants to win or something, Hunger Games-style. Please don’t be so stupid.”

“But if I don’t do it,” I argue, “won’t I always wonder what I missed out on? Isn’t this one of the biggest YOLO moments I’m ever going to get?”

“Molly, this is not a YOLO moment. This is a wake-up-and-smell-the-luminol-they’re-going-to-use-at-the-scene-of-your-murder moment.”

“The message says it’s a good idea!”

“WELL, OF COURSE IT DOES! They’re the ones doing the murdering or whatever!” she yells. Someone else in the background sounds concerned. “Sorry, yes. No, no, I’m fine. Really. No, thanks.” I hear Chelsea moving.

“I can’t have this conversation with you, Molly,” she says in a lower tone. “We both know this is an absolutely asinine idea. I literally don’t even know why you’re asking me any of this when you and I both know this is—I’m not even going to finish that sentence.” She pauses. “I have a meeting to get to. Do what you want. I love you, you have my blessing, and I hope to all the gods you’re still alive when I get off work in four hours.”

“Thanks, Chels. I love you, too. I’ll check in with you later. Promise.”

“Right, okay. Just be careful, okay? Whatever this is? Because predators are smart.”

“Yes, thanks, ‘Mom,’” I snort sarcastically. “I gotta go.”

“Bye.”

The line goes dead, and I walk back to the open computer. “That wasn’t actually my mom, even though I ended on a ‘thanks mom,’ just so you know,” I tell it.

We’re well aware. No need to worry! Chelsea seems nice. She really cares about you. But time is ticking away—are you in or are you out?

The cursor blinks at me, waiting for my response. I know this is probably the most unsafe, stupidest thing I could ever do. But what if it turns out not to be the story of my demise? I’m not saying I’m going to have grandchildren, but how cool will it be to tell this story where I didn’t actually die?

“I’m in,” I say. “Just—I know I have absolutely no reason to trust you, whoever you are behind the screen. But this isn’t how I’m going to meet my end, right?”

You’re totally going to live! And if you’re the champion of The Winner’s Circle, you’ll live a life you never dreamed of.

“Right,” I reply skeptically, officially regretting my decision. “Where do we go from here?”

You get dressed, pack a bag, and find your passport. We’re going to the airport!

“Wait, what? What about my job?”

We already took care of that for you. You’re officially on a paid leave of absence for the next six weeks to sort out some personal issues. Apparently, everyone sends their best (or so we were told).

“You’re kidding. Six weeks? Paid leave? Are you sure?”

If you call and ask, you might upset the apple cart, so we wouldn’t advise that. Call and ask for yourself, pretending to be someone else if you don’t believe us.

I do. And sure enough, Carole, the pain-in-the-ass receptionist, informs me that I’m on a prolonged leave of absence and asks if I’d like to speak to Steve instead. I say no, and that I hope everything is okay with Molly, and Carole tells me she doesn’t like to gossip (which is absolute bullshit because YES SHE DOES) but everyone has been told I needed some time away from the office to recuperate, and what that means, she doesn’t really know, but she thinks it may have something to do with a recent breakup I experienced and, perhaps, the death of a close family member. I don’t have any clue where she’s getting this family death idea from, but I just reply with a “how sad” kind of comment and say I’ll try again in a few weeks.

Screw Carole, huh?

“Seriously,” I agree.

How about packing that bag?

“Right. Uh, should I be packing for warm weather or cold weather?” I ask my nameless computer companion.

Great question! Both, actually. Better go with a big suitcase. Don’t forget your toothbrush!

“Toothbrush, right,” I mutter, stumbling down my apartment hallway to my bedroom.

I dig out my biggest suitcase from the far corner of my closet and do my best to pack for two weather extremes. Living in California means I’m pretty much always prepared for warm weather, but if I’m going anywhere there’s snow, I’m going to be pretty screwed.

Twenty minutes later, I’m as packed as I can be. I return to the living room, tugging my bag along the carpet, deposit it in front of the door, and then plop back down on the sofa and address the blinking cursor.

“What’s next?”

There’s a car waiting for you outside. The driver, Isaac, will take you to the airport. And don’t worry, he’s not driving you to your demise.

“This is an ‘us’ situation now, not a ‘me’ situation?” I ask, suddenly concerned I’ve crossed the line Chelsea drew in our proverbial sandbox and have officially put too much trust in this flash drive of a person.

It always was! Sorry we didn’t make that super clear in the beginning. So, are you ready? Isaac is seriously right out front. Your flight leaves in three hours, but he’s in no rush.

I sit and stare at the screen for a moment, questioning every life decision I’ve ever made up to this point.

“What happens when I close my computer screen and cut off our communication?” I say.

Nothing. Now that you’ve interacted with us, we can communicate through your phone. Just be sure not to lose that. We’ve got your back, and you’re going to love this game.

With nothing left to lose, I head back to the kitchen with the ice cream, now melted beyond repair, and dump it down the sink. Back in front of my MacBook, I see the screen has gone dark. I check my phone in my hand and, as if on cue, get a text.

Ready to go? We asked Isaac to meet you at the door.

There was a knock at the door. I opened it to find Isaac, who took my bag. I locked the door and followed him to the waiting car.