roulettetown

by KUBOA

roulettetown

  Sarah D’Stair

  Copyright © 2011 by Sarah D’Stair

  (KUBOA)/SmashWords Edition

  www.kuboapress.wordpress.com

  It is the genuine hope of KUBOA to receive unfiltered feedback from readers regarding the works we produce. Whether your reaction to the work was positive, negative, or ambivalent, we would much appreciate your taking the time to send some remarks to us—these will be shared with the authors.

  kuboacomments@gmail.com

  There is no scarlet so vivid, no black so black.

  May Sarton, Journal of a Solitude

  My side hurts. Just one side. I shift. Shift again. No relief. I must not verbalize this, nor let anyone else know my condition. I smile through it, just a little nod of the head and wrinkle of the eye to let the large man across the table know I am on his side.

  I fear that the shifting has alerted everyone to the fact that I am in mild discomfort. No, no one must know.

  Perhaps if I shift my feet, yes, my heels which are resting on the bars underneath this chair. I fear with this shift, the heel will break. So lighten the pressure.

  Perhaps if I shift just a little here or there or perhaps move my elbows off the table and place my hands in my lap for just a moment. Perhaps these alternative kinds of movements will alleviate this problem. Anything so I can hide that it is really my back side which is in some pain.

  Oh I think that was close so close. Tonight the rule is that I must not look at the board. Anywhere else but the board.

  The cosmology of this table, the universe that spins just around this table, the stars in their places, the air thick so no part of the firmament may move or shift or change or reveal itself to be hostile. No, I must not look at the board this evening.

  And there, nice, how nice is that, I thank thee, gods of this small world, and yes I will continue to call you thee and thou. Yes, that was very good, the croupier smiles at me and there’s nothing better than that. Yes, the gods are here with me tonight. And they are happy. As long as I do not let my eyes wander. Or perhaps this spin I must not look at the wheel.

  Ah yes, it is what they are telling me now. I must not second guess this. Okay. Stay calm. And yes, there it is.

  Just a bit of red, a bit of black, and all is well.

  ***

  A woman in a white rather large wedding dress moves past. By large I mean that the train is long, so that her either husband or fiancé depending on where they are in their evening must hold it for her up off the ground. Well I suppose it must be her husband then. Isn’t there some rule that the betrothed must not be seen in the dress before the I dos and what nots? I think there’s a rule something like that.

  And then they disappear. I wonder where they are in their night and why here and how much money did they spend on a wedding here. I suppose one could go all out if one wanted. Or do it on the cheap. I wonder if they’re drunk yet. They will be by later if not, I’m sure of that and her dress will come off and his shoes and tie too probably even before they arrive at an ‘ahem’ appropriate locale for such a thing.

  Oh and there’s the little flower boy or whatever all dressed up running behind them looking a little lost. Don’t you think that kid looks a little lost? Should someone help him?

  Hey, kid, call it for me. Who said that, I can’t see who said that. But the kid doesn’t hear, either that or just doesn’t imagine some strange adult would be shouting at him from across the way. I’m actually getting a little worried. Where is his mother, or an aunt, or someone at least. Poor kid just out there alone not knowing what door all the adults went through. Oh okay there’s the worried mom too. Good. Glad she’s worried at least.

  So now that was a nice little distraction.

  Okay so what else can I find to concentrate on so as to not look as if I care, or as I read in a poem somewhere so that I can “feign indifference.” I think it was Brooks or Harwood or some kind of modern poet, or I guess I should say postmodern. Anyway someone who’s probably still alive. Some sonnet or something. I should look it up when I get back.

  ***

  Maybe I should have a love affair with someone. Maybe tonight.

  Oh but things are good. Not exactly good. Or rather, how would I define ‘good’? Not down. That would be one possible definition. Up, definitely. But not always. Just not down.

  So I need to calculate now, how long has it been, and where do things stand. Here in piles of ten to keep things straight and simple and symmetrical. Symmetry always. Quick one two three count count and so I’m up. That would be ‘good’.

  And it’s been, what now, four hours I think. That’s part of ‘good’ too. So the trick is to keep this up. Not up is okay, up is good, down is bad. But not all bad.

  One must, of course, offer up a sacrifice on occasion. And always be sure to thank the intermediary. Remember that one lousy run after I forgot to tip the croupier when she went on her break? I really must not ever let that happen again. They’ll consider me most ungrateful. That would be in the category of ‘not good’ or ‘ungood’ or I suppose ‘bad’.

  Alright, let’s speed things up a bit for god’s sake I’m working out the semantics of generalities here in my head. Come on people, and oh god the drag of that woman. Come on. No, she can’t be doing that.

  We snicker, we few. Maybe catch a glimpse toward each other. The camaraderie of mockery. And god, this is taking way too long. How many spins an hour here, what forty-five on average or something like that? Lady, let’s go already.

  Finally, the hand that stops it all, all that indecision. Just fucking decide already or if you can’t just put it all on the outside for god’s sake.

  Okay, calm down. She won’t last long.

  And there it goes, and don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. And the slight exhale, breath on the table, across the table, the breath across the felt.

  ***

  This whole thing is getting a little boring. What I should do is take my even money, trade it in, and just walk away. Not up. Not down. It would be a good night, all in all. Four hours and I’m where I started. No shame in that.

  Yes, a bit of boredom has creeped into the night.

  Creeped. Now that’s a word. What could it mean. To crawl. To slither? Not exactly. To come upon with deceit, or malicious intent. What creeps? That’s a tough question. Time creeps. Scary things give one the creeps. My son creeps sometimes, along the wall to scare us when we’re not looking. A quick boo! And the laughter, the peal of laughter and such joy.

  But creeps is quite an interesting word. So perhaps boredom isn’t quite right. Time is simply creeping right now. Slow, creeping time.

  And now I miss my kid a bit. But just a bit.

  So focus now, alright, lots of hands on the table now. That’s more like it. These guys think they can just throw a hundred dollar chip on red and make off with some dough. Bah. Where is the dignity in that? The slow grind is where it’s at. The creeping slow grind and the ax that falls chopping one’s head clear in half, the mountain of chips disappearing into that universe under the table where they’re sorted out for another disaster.

  The slow grind I see every night here all across this table. Now that’s the compulsion right there.

  The delivery of a perfect evening, all the sounds of one perfect evening, a groan and a sigh and a laugh and a breath out and that all expectant breath in that’s held just until the marker goes down, and the shout and then the silence, which is the end of it all.

  A perfect, silent table. Heads down. Consumed. Suppliant.

  ***

  I decide now to study the croupier
. This particular croupier. A bow tie. A red vest. How must it be to spin this wheel forty-five times per hour, on average. And tell person after person after person that they need to place their money on the table, not just hold it out in the air like a barbarian. That they must place their chips more precisely, the imprecision another barbaric act.

  And there’s the sigh of pity or of maybe genuine compassion when someone sits down, some fool, and really, really wants to make off with some money. That man over there, sitting at what is that a blackjack table or something, who does he look like? I remember now, I think. Yes, like the brother of a boy I dated in high school. An old flame, as they say. Although there wasn’t ever much flame there, in that part of my life, no real fire yet, that came much later.

  Yes, the brother. Thirty or something years ago now, I think. I remember. I got along better with his brother than with him. And his mother once bought me a dress. A beautiful dress. And I held onto it for years and years and years and maybe I still have it somewhere. Yes, I believe it’s somewhere because when would I have ever thrown that dress away? I can’t imagine getting rid of a thing like that. A dress for no special occasion other than she thought I would look pretty in it. A blue dress, and I looked pretty in it. And the dad, I remember the father too who seemed to me like the perfect dad, so large in his entire demeanor, and kind, and funny but in an odd way, in that odd way that your high school boyfriend’s dad should be funny.

  Strange now to think of that dress and those people and that time a very long time ago, before I was here, sitting here at this table, before I ever sat at any table, before I knew of this kind of table and all that it would come to mean to me.

  ***

  If only I was the kind of person who kept in touch with others once they are no longer part of everyday life. Work or school or just living in a particular town and the people you get to meet and feel comfortable with. I’ve always thought that I really know the best people in the world. But I’ve known so many people. People that I haven’t seen or spoken to in such a very long time.

  So how does that work? I forget them until something like I see a person at some other table that makes me remember their existence? That seems lousy. So when I said they were the best people I suppose I meant that they were just convenient for me to know at that moment.

  I’m questioning myself here. Let’s follow this line of thinking. So I said they were the best at one point, meaning that they were the kindest, or the most fun, or something of the sort. Did I ever really know those people? So I said that thing about them being the best, at each stage of my life I’ve said that about someone. But now I know perhaps three people in total. Aside from my son and my parents. I know three people out of probably hundreds I once knew and thought were the best possible people to know. I suppose it’s just that I’m lazy. Or I maybe never really cared about them? That can’t be true, can it? Can that be true?

  Alright, I’m not here to depress myself. On to other things now. Yes, back to the table now and there’s that hand that stops it all again. That stops all motion, all the frenetic energy of hope and expectation, that stops the hands placing chips sometimes precisely and sometimes erratically.

  ***

  I must concentrate now on the table. That one a dark hand. That one with a ring that looks too heavy. Those nails perfection, just the right shade against the cold white skin. And that hand hairy. Those are the most unpleasant. Those thick, fat, hairy hands, all over the table and so imprecise. The fat hands are always the most imprecise, lumbering from one point to the next on the table, heavy, the thud of chips down with that heavy hand. And there are always rings on those fat hands as well. As if pretending to be of great wealth.

  Those are the worst. The ones who pretend to know the game. Or rather, the ones who pretend to be good at the game. Don’t they know that statement means nothing? “Good” at roulette? Nonsense. One places a bet. One hopes. One performs this or that duty, looking at the board, not looking at the board, keeping eyes focused on the table, or eyes focused elsewhere, whatever the gods deem necessary at that moment. So you place chips. You wait. You hope. And then it’s over. It’s all over, just to start again.

  And yes, the wheel never stops spinning, no, that is the one eternal, the one unchanging motion that defies chance. No chance that the wheel will ever stop. No chance that the wheel will ever care. No chance that the wheel will ever act outside of its own lack of concern, its own momentum of nonchalance.

  No, the motion comes with the hundreds of hands per night, sometimes only one hand, sometimes a dozen or more, all at once. And the ball bounces, a happy little bounce each time, so joyous, that motion, so full of life and energy and anticipation. Yes, the ball itself, I think, must sense anticipation, the where will I land moment just before it settles into a spot. The ball itself must not have a design, a plan to crush those fat hands, or to crush my hands, or anyone’s. It’s playing a game, a never-ending cycle of play in which it laughs and rolls and jumps and wonders and then must smile as it comes to a rest.

  ***

  A kind-looking gentleman has just sit down next to me. Not smoking, which is nice. Some sort of drink now on the table beside him, but he made sure it would not be in my way as I move to place bets. Such a kind, thoughtful man, he seems. All dressed up, crisp shirt, tie even, a tall man, and one who has very clean hands. Clean hands make me think yes of cleanliness but also of dignity, or honor in some way, honoring the body, honoring the hands that manipulate the world.

  And now, of course, the confusion begins. Come on, let’s not start this confusion this time. The where do I place my feet, and how do I move my hands, and does my hair sit exactly right on my head, and the am I swallowing too loudly each time I take a drink.

  All these thoughts, these distractions. So now concentrate. Because now if I win, I draw attention. If I lose, I draw attention. So I must play this evenly, bets on the outside only, these hidden bets that not even the croupier notices because they are so insignificant compared to the stacks on the inside, the chips that really make a statement.

  So now I’m still shifting because my hips have now begun to feel strained. Maybe I should just go. Maybe I should make some sort of remark that perhaps will result in a general chuckle around the table. I am capable of that. Or then there’s the confusion of what if that remarks ends up falling flat, and then I must slink back into myself silent.

  I will sit here, confident, for I have been sitting here now the longest of anyone at the table. Yes, in a way, this is my table. I have come to own it through sheer perseverance, through prudence, respect, through supplicating myself to the whims of those powerful forces that look down and decide to either cheer me on or destroy me.

  ***

  Good posture has always been a sure indicator of elegance, to me. Yes, I would say that a straight back is almost always the sign of an elegant human being.

  I sit here, legs crossed, and hoping my back looks straight, thinking about finishing schools where young ladies learned to dance and play music and knit and to hold their backs still and straight and long. The stamina that requires, which I have very little of. I do wish sometimes I could have gone to one of those finishing schools. To be finished, to be put proper, an all around perfectly formed young woman. My life, I feel, would be much different now, if only I had been taught to sit up straight.

  And still he’s there. I wish he would just go away.

  All these thoughts of finishing school. Ridiculous. Or rather, why am I thinking them just now? I’m embarrassed even here in my own thoughts that I’d actually have enjoyed such a thing.

  He hasn’t said a word. Now I wonder what his voice must sound like. I am close but not close enough to feel the heat from his body, just another inch maybe and I could feel it but I cannot feel it now, and how I want to feel it.

  Perhaps I should shif
t again, just a little, to be that inch closer. Perhaps I should turn my legs just toward him, so that my knees alone feel the heat of him, the presence of his legs under the table and my legs under the table both at the same time, very close and at the same time. Or shall I shift to move away, to deny myself, to deny him, but why does my mind go there? I should enjoy this, this nervous feeling, this feeling of wanting just to feel the presence of someone close under the table, that secret space beneath the table where hands go to rest, and where right now my legs almost ache with the need to move closer.

  ***

  I will now concentrate on the feel of the felt beneath my hands. I shall now attempt to articulate in my own mind, and for very good reason, the sensations I am confronted with sitting here at this table.

  The felt. The green felt upon which I stack these chips in stacks of ten.

  I move the stacks around between each spin, this stack shifted to the left last time, and this one was moved all the way to the other side for symmetry’s sake.

  But the felt. Yes, the feel of it, now, I’m finding is difficult to describe. Not rough, Not soft. Not grainy or thin or smooth. None of these words. Why is it that I cannot find words when I need them most? No, this felt is like nothing. Like a void has opened beneath my hands and only the most translucent, nothing of a surface barely holds the objects steady, suspended almost in air, yes, the felt is more of a lack of surface. A lack, which is what Lethem would have called it. The fingertips cannot feel anything as they touch the felt, or perhaps through sheer force of familiarity my fingertips no longer can delineate the table surface with my own movements across it. Perhaps familiarity does this to a person sometimes. Makes things disappear, causes surfaces to fall from under what is supported, causes everything supported to seem as if suspended, weightless, without a firm attachment to that upon which it rests.