Morning. Golden Earth morning. Golden Earth morning with a new box on the table!
Sean came into the kitchen just as his mother set it out.
“Mom, can I pick it up?”
“Okay, Sean, but no opening.” No one was allowed to open a new Golden Earth box until all the family was seated. Then, and only then, Sean’s father would give Sean the eagerly-awaited nod.
Sean laughed softly. “No, Mom, I won’t.”
He gently hefted it in his hands. Did it feel a maybe just a little bit heavier than usual? Could The Prize be inside? Golden Earth promised that it might be: promised it every day and everywhere, in every home across America. Sean’s family’s had not gotten a Prize, so far, but he knew better than to be disappointed; disappointment was for complainers, and Sean was not a complainer. He would get The Prize someday, he darn well knew it. America was the greatest country in the world.
“Is Dad up?” Sean asked.
“Oh, yes, he’ll be right down.”
Sean stared silently at the cereal box.
Before, way back a long time ago, some people objected to Golden Earth and their new prize, and even tried to get it outlawed. That was back when some people wanted to change everything and try to tell others what to do and what they could and could not have, and stuff. Everybody was supposed to be “politically correct” and la-de-da, as his mom said. But the people, the right people, saved America and ended that nonsense: “shot that down,” as his dad liked to say. Even now, there were still people who complained about stuff and who did not like The Prize, but there weren’t many of them left, and his dad said that pretty soon they would all be gone, anyways. He said that, once enough people won The Prize, then everybody would see how good it was and how happy and good and free everybody would be. Then, there wouldn’t be any more bad people.
“Did you get a Prize?” That was the very first thing all the kids at school said. Most always, the answer was no. There weren’t very many Prizes—heck, if there were lots of Prizes, they wouldn’t be prizes anymore. Heck, everybody knew that! That’s what his parents and everybody told him. “If there were lots of Prizes,” they said, “then it wouldn’t be The Prize anymore.” He sometimes wondered about this; if not enough people got a Prize, how would everybody be happy? The thing is, though, that now, most everybody was happy even to just have a chance to get The Prize. And heck, almost everybody knew somebody, or knew about somebody, who had gotten a Prize, so it was just about almost the same thing. At least, that’s what his dad said.
His dad also said that there were winners and there were losers, always, and that, naturally, not everybody could be a winner. And having losers was a small price to pay for freedom. His dad always said this looking very serious. Sean loved his dad, he was always right.
Dressed and ready for work, his father sat down. He looked at Sean and the cereal box. “Well, what have we here,” he said, winking at his wife.
“New box, Dad,” said Sean.
“New box, eh?” He always said the same thing. He reached for the box and came to about a quarter inch of putting his hand on it. Then he looked slyly at his son.
Sean made a downcast face. He loved this little game—a “put-on,” people called it.
His father said, in mock surprise, “Oh, Sean! Would you like to do the honors this morning?”
“Sure, Dad!”
“Well, then, go for it!”
Sean picked up the box. The bright blue magic box, so crisp, clean, and full. And—heavy. Did it really feel just a little heavy? “It feels sort of heavy,” he said.
“Well, son,” his dad said, “it always feels heavy.”
“Yes,” his mom said, “they do that so you can’t tell just by lifting them at the store. Wouldn’t be any fun if you could tell if there was a Prize inside just by feeling the weight.”
“Yes,” his dad said, “they’ve got it down to a ‘T’ these days. Fool you every time.”
They all laughed. Sean felt good, good just lifting the box and admiring its clean, blue sides and its nice logo that said Golden Earth in big letters. Yes, it sure felt good having a Golden Earth morning. But still: it felt heavy.
Sean gently prised the cardboard sheaves apart—didn’t want to tear such a nice box! As his parents watched, he pulled the plastic inner wrapping apart and peered in. Sean’s heart stopped.
Something was lying on top of the cereal. Right on top.
The Prize.
Sean swallowed and looked silently at his parents. He could not speak, he could only stare at it.
His parents could not speak, either. His dad nodded. Sean lifted The Prize from the box. It felt so heavy, so warm in his hands. His mom’s eyes had tears in them. His dad cleared his throat. “Well, young man,” he said, “congratulations. It appears you’ll have something very special to show in school today.”
Sean nodded. He picked up his Prize and gazed at it, hefted it, moved it around in his hands, stroked it.
“Make sure it’s all there,” his dad said. Sean made sure.
The family ate their cereal and Sean gathered his things for school. He put his Book into the pack, then The Prize. Sean’s heart thudded heavily—he could hardly believe this was happening to him.
He entered the classroom and took his seat. “Anybody get The Prize?” the kids whispered. Sean said nothing.
The teacher came in and the kids stopped whispering. “Now, students,” the teacher said, “I will begin by asking, as we do each and every morning: did anyone get The Prize?”
Sean raised his hand. Silence filled the room. He reached into his pack and pulled it out. He raised it in the air. The kids sucked in their breaths, awe-struck. It was so big!
Sean looked at the teacher, and the teacher smiled. “Well, Sean, congratulations! Do you know what to do with it?”
“Yes,” Sean said. The teacher nodded. Sean placed his thumb on the back, cocked the trigger, and began firing. The Prize started getting lighter and lighter and better and better. It was too bad about all the losers. But Sean felt really, really good.