TAMPA, Fla. — In a hot Publix parking lot in south St. Petersburg, Howie Guja, the guy with the megawatt smile and the Publishers Clearing House blazer, took a selfie behind a minivan as he held an oversize novelty check for $10,000.

Guja and a camera operator named George had flown into Tampa on Wednesday morning from New York. The check traveled separately by FedEx. Cramming it into an overhead compartment, they knew from experience, would beat it up.

The men were in town as the Publishers Clearing House Prize Patrol, of which they are the sole members. They were preparing to surprise a St. Petersburg resident.

The prize patrol was bigger years ago. So was Publishers Clearing House.

The company, which in its heyday announced winners via Super Bowl ads, was purchased out of bankruptcy in July by a Miami-based gambling company.

There are stories you can read in the New York Times about the layoffs and the “for life” winners who’d thought their sweepstakes wins meant big annual checks forever — but who were no longer getting paid. The company, under the new owners, said it is ensuring all future prizes are guaranteed.

Guja and George were not in St. Pete to talk about that, though. The prize patrol was in town to give someone a very good day, and to capture it for social media so that the self-feeding cycle continues. Guja does this three or four times a month, all over the country.

It’s a nice way to earn a paycheck, he said, by telling people they’ll have money to get their heat turned on or put a down payment on a house. It has also given him perspective outside the bubble of major cities on how people really live.

“Even my friends who travel for work, they’ll just go to Chicago or something,” he said. “Sometimes we’re in places that are so random or remote and isolated — but there’s always interesting people — and the 10 grand is a lot of money.

“We get to see the real America.”

St. Pete’s sweepstakes winner

By noon, 76-year-old Patrick Bradley was deep into his daily routine of sitting in the living room with the TV tuned to “CSI” reruns and a pack of smokes nearby. As Gary Sinise solved a crime, Bradley swiped at his phone, stroking a digital golf ball toward a cartoon windmill.

Every so often, to keep playing such games on the Publishers Clearing House app, he’d have to watch a commercial, often an ad for an online slots casino.

That’s how Bradley earns tokens — billions of tokens — which become sweepstakes entries. He’s been after a prize for decades, since back when he had to enter by mail.

Bradley slipped and fell last year, faceplanted on his wood floor. He suffered a traumatic brain injury, he said. Since then, he can’t really move too well. That has him playing more on the app, too.

Publishers Clearing House no longer works with publishers, selling magazines or any other sort of consumer products. These days the company sells, to advertisers, the attention of millions of people playing games and hoping for a miracle in the form of a check.

Winning is so astronomically unlikely that it might as well be a certainty that you will never win, and yet, at around 12:35 p.m., Bradley opened his door to find Guja smiling at him with a check, flowers and a bottle of champagne.

Bradley, shocked, had to sit down. An old wasp nest clung to the wall above him. The paint was peeling in spots. The windows of the 70-year-old house looked original.

“I am so overwhelmed, and so happy. I was just in there adding tokens,” Bradley told them. “I do that all day long.”

Finances are tight. As Guja interviewed Bradley for the camera, they paused so that a cable installer could drill a hole in the wall. Bradley was trying to save a few dollars a month by switching providers.

Guja asked Bradley what he would do with the money.

“Our appliances, they’re kind of old and cranky,” Bradley said, “We’re going to upgrade some of our appliances.”

“But isn’t there anything fun?” Guja asked him.

Bradley said that would be up to his wife. “Anything fun I’m going to leave up to her.”

They called her on the phone, at a hair appointment, to let her know what was going on.

“You’re f—ing kidding me,” Carol Bradley said through speakerphone as the camera rolled.

Real America.

As they waited for Bradley’s wife to come home, Bradley talked about the book titled “The Eagle on My Arm: How Wilderness and Birds Saved a Veteran’s Life” about his life story, which starts with PTSD suffered in Vietnam and culminates with him co-founding the Avian Veteran Alliance, a nonprofit that pairs struggling veterans with injured birds of prey.

He occasionally gives inspirational talks, he said, promoting his philosophy of “embrace the suck.”

What was he embracing recently?

“I can’t walk, I can’t use my fingers, my insurance only covers eight physical therapy sessions,” he said, “but the point is, if you’re going through hell, keep going.”

Carol arrived and was asked what fun thing she’d spend money on. She glanced up at the house and said, “repairs,” before retreating into the backyard.

It appeared that, perhaps, this was the fun part. Bradley finished a cigarette. Guja helped him to his feet carefully and escorted him into the house by the arm.

Guja reminded him it was possible to win again. Bradley vowed to keep playing the games. He could always use $10,000 — everyone could.

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