I remembered what Gina said about this guy and how he was spot on when it came to telling the future and how he helped old ladies win lots of money, even helping Gina win $1,000. I looked at all of the photos on the wall of the happy old ladies, their arms around Dr. Goodheart, probably with jackpot winnings in their purses, and I thought, 'What can it hurt? Maybe I'll be lucky.' I closed my eyes and picked one of the waded bills. I looked at it in my hand and looked at Dr. Goodheart looking at me, a big fucking smile stretched across his noble goddamn face. I unfolded the bill to find a picture of the sun on it. He nodded an approving nod. I felt a surge of excitement run through my body. Did this mean I was going to be fortunate?
All I could say was, "Wow."
"And so it is." He grabbed the other crumpled $20 bill, folded it, and slipped it in his shirt pocket. "Good luck to you, my friend."
"That's it?" I asked.
"That is it," he said, standing up and opening the door to the reception area. "Don't forget to come back for a photo with me. OK?" He patted me on the back and sent me on my way.
Outside, the morning sun had risen close to high noon. I was feeling lucky, luckier than I did before I saw Dr. Goodheart. I decided to test my newfound good luck. I walked across the parking lot to the casino with my lucky $20 in my back pocket.
24.
Clink clink clink. That was the first sound I heard when I walked into the casino. It was the sound of hopes and dreams and I was hoping it would be the sound for my fortune. At first, good ol' Dr. Goodheart seemed like a real swindler with his leather vest and his Native American mumbo jumbo and his fancy business cards and his strip mall storefront and his fuzzy ponytail and all. But it's really hard giving someone grief when they are trying to send good fortune your way. It's true. Most people in life like to give you all kinds of trouble or grief or pain or whatever other bullshit makes them feel better. People can be real assholes. I mean, it doesn't matter who it is, family, friends, coworkers, strangers, waiters, bartenders, flight attendants, strippers, convenience store clerks, anybody, all they want to do is whatever makes them feel better about themselves, even if it means making you feel like a petrified turd. It's the rare person who will give you more than what they want in return. My good ol' buddy Jason was like that. He's my true friend. And I think Dr. Goodheart was that rare person too. His entire business was about giving people hope for the future. What could be better than that? Even if he did charge me $20, it was worth it. You know why? Most things you buy have a diminishing return but there is no diminishing return when it comes to hope. It's true.
I made my way through the lobby and into the labyrinth of slot machines. I was looking for the ONE, the one that would be my lucky slot machine. I didn't know how to find it but I was hoping that my intuition would lead the way. They had every type of game you could imagine from the classic fruit games to themed slot machines like the TV show Happy Days or American Idol. They had the classic mechanical reel machines and they also had fancy video game-type machines. It was a truly awesome sight and every person sitting at those machines had the same hope I had: to win big. But they didn't have what I had: a blessed $20 bill from the one and only Dr. Goodheart. Well, I take that back. That was a little presumptuous of me, maybe one of these old cronies had a blessed $20 bill from Dr. Goodheart but that didn't matter to me. They didn't have MY blessed $20 bill. It's true.
I could hear the various gamblers tell their companions their methods for winning, whether it was pulling the old mechanical lever instead of pushing the button (like that made a difference?) or memorizing the patterns they thought would be next so they would bet the max or devising a betting pattern like two bets of 25 cents then 1 bet at 50 cents then three bets at 75 cents and repeat ad nauseum or some shit like that. It was all a crock of shit. These silly old bastards felt like they knew how to beat the system but the system was devised for them to lose over the long haul. That's why there is a saying that says, "Never bet against the house." It's because the house was setup to win otherwise the house would be gone. It's true. But, and this was a BIG but, sometimes, just sometimes, there was always that one lucky bastard, sitting in the right place at the right time, that hits that jackpot. That's the trick that gets everyone else sucked in. They see that one lucky bastard who hits it big, then the sirens go off, the lights flash, the casino staff converges around the winner, and everyone else sees this lucky bastard who won a big, fat pile of cash. The first thing that goes through their mind is, "If that fucker can win, then so can I. Where's the ATM machine? I need to pulse out some more money from my savings!" That's when the casino got everyone else into its sticky tentacles. It's true. And don't get me started on all the booze and cigarettes that the casino handed out for FREE to get everyone lit and throw their sanity out the window. It was all part of their evil plan and it was working except that I had the secret weapon. I had my lucky $20 bill.
After walking past quite a few slot machines I finally found one that caught my eye. It was the classic cherries game, you know, where you get 3 cherries in a row and you win big? That one. I sat on the stool and pulled out my lucky $20 bill, the one with the sun drawn on it. I looked down to find where the machine took the money, the slot that ate your cash. There were some nooks and crannies, places that looked like I could insert my lucky bill but every single one was a dud. I tried cramming my $20 bill in various places but the machine just wouldn't take it. An old lady sitting next to me started laughing all over the goddamn place. She thought what I was doing was the funniest goddamn thing she had ever seen in her entire life. She smelled like moth balls and hand cream and cheap perfume.
She put her hand on my shoulder and said, "Son, are you new at this?"
"I just want to put my money in and play. That's all."
"Well, this machine only takes player's cards. You have to go to that machine over there, swipe your player's card, then insert your money. It'll put the money on your card."
"But I want to put this money in THIS machine."
"That machine only uses player's cards."
I reluctantly got up, walked over to the machine she was pointing at, swiped my card, fed my lucky $20 bill into it, and the machine put $20 of credit on my card in addition to the complimentary $10 that was already on there. More chances to win! I went back to my cherry machine and sat down.
"You feeling lucky?" the old stinky lady asked me. She was really engaged with her machine. She was pushing buttons and pulling levers all over the goddamn place. It's true.
"I feel lucky right now," I said.
"Well, if you're feeling lucky, then you should bet the max."
"What's the max?"
"Well, that's a $1 machine. The max is $3. How much money do you have on your card?"
"I think $30."
"Then that's 10 spins at the max."
"How do I do that?"
"Swipe that card and hit the button that says MAX." She pointed her scrawny, wrinkly hand at a big, yellow button in front of me. "There."
What did you know? There were two buttons on the machine, one that said SPIN and one that said MAX. I swiped my card and the machine displayed the amount of money I had allowed it to ingest. It beckoned for me to hit the flashing buttons.
"Just hit this one?"
"Do it, boy."
So I did. I hit the button. A cherry, a 7, and some bars. Nothing to win. I hit it again. A 7, a 7, and some bars. Nothing. I hit it eight more times with a variety of non-winning combinations and on the very last spin, I won $1. What the fuck? Where was my lucky payout? Was Dr. Goodheart messing with me? The old lady looked at me and sighed.
"Just play that last $1. Why not? You have nothing to lose."
I pressed the SPIN button. Nothing. My money was gone and so was my luck. I sat there and stared at the machine. I stared at the machine until my vision became unfocused, turning the flashy slot machine into a rainbowy smear of colored lights and all I could hear was the sound of all the other goddamn winners: clink
clink clink.
***
I found a place at the bar, threw my empty player's card in the trash, and debated what I should do next. My luck was a bust. Good ol' Dr. Goodheart had really worked me over. He fed me a tall pile of shit. It's true. He had a goddamn business based on hope and took advantage of me, the bloodsucker. He sat there with his fuzzy ponytail and his leather vest and his Native American mumbo jumbo and his strip mall store front with his adhesive-letter credentials and filled me up to my eyeballs with bullshit. That bastard! And I lost $40 too, $50 if you count my $10 in player's credit. I should have called the Better Business Bureau or the Chickasaw Nation Shaman Licensing Unit or the Oklahoma Workforce Commission or some shit like that. I think I had enough evidence to shut his business down but I didn't do it. That was just too much effort. I sat at the bar and considered ordering an alcoholic drink but I ordered a glass of water and sat there like a sad bastard. I was a really sorry, unlucky, sad, worthless bastard. It's true.
The bartender, a young fellow dressed in a snazzy semi-tuxedo uniform with perfect hair and perfect teeth and a perfect smile, tried to get me to order a drink but I just wasn't up for it. I had a long drive ahead of me back to Austin, back to my home, back to my kids, back to my shitty job, back to a writing career that was dead in the water. It was a really sad situation. It's true. That bartender was a pretty persistent bastard though. He just wouldn't leave.
"Come on, buddy. Just one drink. Why else would you sit at the bar?"
"Because I'm contemplating what I should do next. I have to drive back to Austin soon. It's a long drive. Drinking would make it even longer."
"I understand," he said, drying off some bar glasses with a towel. "Well, if you change your mind, then call me. All you have to do is lift a finger and I'll come serve you." He raised his right index finger in the air as if giving some secret signal. What do you know? That surely must be a universal signal in a bar since the bartender back at the Austin International airport did the same thing when I was waiting to board my flight for my trip to New York via Montgomery, Alabama. Maybe they taught that in bar school or wherever it was he went to become a bartender. It's true. He went to the other side of the bar to clean some more bar glasses.
I pulled out my wallet to see how much cash I had left and all I had was that $2 bill that good ol' Sammie boy gave me. One day, when he and Jessica were staying with me, he brought this $2 bill to me, telling me how he found it on the playground at school and how it was a lucky $2 bill and that I was supposed to keep it forever. He drew little cartoons on it with crayons and markers, pictures of him and me holding hands, our stick-figure arms wrapped around each other, with word balloons that said, "I love you, daddy" and "You're the best dad ever!" and shit like that. It was adorable. I placed the $2 bill on the bar and stared at it. I stared at it so hard, so deeply, that I could hear Sammie boy's voice. He was telling me how proud he was of me and that I was the best daddy in the world. The little stars and suns and moons he had drawn on the bill started to spin and pulsate as we walked toward the pyramid on the back, the one with the ominous eyeball hovering over it. Little did Sammie boy know that I was an absolute failure, a failure at everything really: failed marriage, failed careers, pretty much a failure at everything really. My ex-wife was right. I was a spectacular failure, a spectacular asshole, a spectacular letdown, a spectacularly bad lover, a spectacular idiot, and a spectacular waste of time. What could I say? I was the spectacular Simon Burchwood. It's true.
I must have been talking to myself because I noticed a waitress giving me a queer look like I was crazy or something. I looked at her and she continued to look at me, turning her head like I was an alien. It was the weirdest thing. Then she walked over and sat next to me.
"Are you all right?" she asked. She had a name tag on her shirt. It said, "Stacey."
"Yes," I said, straightening up. My imaginary talk with my son must have been audible. How ridiculous! I'm such an idiot sometimes. It's true.
"Did you not win at the slot machine?"
"What?"
"I saw you over there at the slot machine. That old lady was helping you. But those machines never payout big, at least not since I've been here."
"How long have you worked here?"
"A few weeks."
"I see," I said. She didn't look a day over 21 or 22 at the most. She had a fresh face and she held herself high with the naivety of a young person. Isn't it funny how young people carry themselves like they can conquer the world? Boy, did she have a thing coming in the next few years of her life. It's true. "Well, what machines payout big?"
"Hmmm," she said, placing her hand on her chin, thinking about the layout of the casino. She perched her head high and scanned the maze of slot machines. Her eyes widened when she saw something, a machine in the distance. "Personally, I've had luck on the older machines, the ones that are not video games. I'll slip a few dollars in them on my break and win a couple of hundred bucks every once in a while. It's not a lot but at least I get something instead of just putting more money into the machine and get nothing."
"True. True. Which one pays out?"
"There is a row of older machines against the wall over there. They are not electronic, no buttons. You have to pull the lever. Sometimes it's hard to pull them. They are old, you know?"
"Why are they still here then?"
"Nostalgia, I guess. Some of the players prefer them. There's not a lot who do but they are very vocal about it. You should give it a shot."
"No, that's not a good idea."
"Why not?"
"This $2 bill is the last of the money I have and my son gave it to me for good luck. I can't spend it."
"Well, if he gave it to you for good luck then don't you think it'll give you good luck?"
Stacey had a point there. It's true. I wasn't sure if it was a GOOD point but it was a point nonetheless. Maybe she was right. Maybe good ol' Sammie boy told me it was good luck for a reason. And maybe, just maybe, the $20 bill Dr. Goodheart blessed wasn't where the good luck was; maybe it was just a symbol for good fortune. It was an intriguing thought.
"I don't know. I haven't had any good luck so far."
"I'll go over there with you and give you some lady luck. Do you want to try? What would it hurt?"
Stacey was a real professional. I could tell. As young as she was, she had a way about her that made me feel easy, easy enough to want to spend the lucky $2 bill my son gave me. Isn't it funny how that happens? Sometimes, just sometimes, a little different perspective can make all the difference in the world. It's true.
"OK. Only if you come with me though."
"Deal! Let me tell the bartender I'm on a break." She took off her apron and set her tray on the bar. She told something to the bartender about taking a smoke break or some shit like that and he obliged, taking her apron and tray and stashing it behind the bar. She put her arm around my shoulder. "Let's go! This will be fun."
She lit a cigarette and led me to the other side of the casino, slipping one of her arms into mine and holding the cigarette with her other hand. I have to admit, it sure did feel nice having a beautiful, young woman on my arm, even if she was a waitress at a casino.
"Do you think there is anyone on those machines?"
"Maybe," she said. "But I'm sure we can find an empty one. What's your name?"
"Simon. Simon Burchwood."
"Well, hello there, Mr. Burchwood. What do you do for a living?"
"Please, call me Simon. I'm a writer."
"A writer?!" she said, looking at me with a surprised look. "How fucking cool is that?!"
Pretty cool, if I must admit. People always get all excited and shit when I tell them that I'm a writer. It never fails. It's true. She led me through the maze of slot machines, maneuvering around row after row of old white people spinning away. We got to the end of one aisle and turned left and there they were, a row of slot machines that looked like they were from the 1980s. There wasn't a soul around. All of the
stools were empty.
"Pick one," she said, smiling at me. I looked at the six or seven machines and found one that looked good. They were all the same game: Three Card Poker. I pulled out the stool and sat down then pulled out my $2 bill.
"Do I have to put this money on my player's card? I threw my card away."
"No, these machines can take money." She pointed down at the front of the machine. There was a slot for inserting dollars. I held my lucky $2 bill in front of me.
"If I win the jackpot, how much would I win?" I asked. She pointed to the machine.
"If you win the jackpot, you'll get about $15,000. Pretty cool, huh?"
"And this machine will accept $2 bills?"
"It sure will."
"I don't know. My son would be really disappointed if I spent this $2 bill."
"Maybe. But if you WIN, then you can just get another $2 bill and draw silly cartoons on it."
Good ol' Stacey had a point there. If I won $15,000, then I could get a stack of $2 bills a mile high. Sammie would never know the difference.
"Ok then. Here it goes." I slipped the $2 bill into the machine and it consumed it. I grabbed the lever and gave it a tug. When the reels stopped spinning, I saw that I had a Queen of Spades, an eight of Hearts, and a four of Diamonds. Nothing. "I didn't win."
"Keep trying, dummy."
I pulled the lever again and got two Kings and a seven of Hearts. Quarters started falling from the machine into a metal tray at the front. Clink clink clink.
"You won!" she said. "Keep going!"
The machine was a quarter machine which meant I had eight spins. Well, six spins now. I pulled the lever again and got nothing. Then again, nothing. Then again, nothing. Then again, nothing. I was getting discouraged.
"It doesn't look like I'm going to win much."
"Don't stop. Don't stop. Keep going!"
"Are you sure?" I asked. She placed both of her hands on my cheeks and smooshed my face. It was the weirdest feeling but she was so excited that the weirdness faded away pretty quick. It was hard NOT to get wrapped up in her enthusiasm. Ah, young people's enthusiasm. It was too cute. It's true.
The Spectacular Simon Burchwood Page 21