A House Is Not a Home

by James Earl Hardy

What a welcome it was.

  The first time he said it, was at the second meeting. At the first meeting, he just sat and listened. Before the meeting began, he tried to convince himself that he didn’t belong, that he didn’t have a problem, that these weren’t his people (and that took a lot of effort, given that he already answered yes to sixteen of the twenty “Could you be a compulsive gambler?” questions). But after that first person got up and testified, he knew he was—and that wasn’t something he wanted to claim. It made him sick to realize he was as sick as those surrounding him and that something that appeared to be nothing more than harmless fun could destroy people’s lives. Some lost their homes, their cars, their businesses, even their family and friends. Two people attempted suicide. While he wasn’t that far gone, he’d gone far enough.

  Every face was a different one, and all the stories they told were just as different. There was Imogene, the white woman in her sixties who squandered much of her deceased husband’s million-dollar fortune at the racetrack in just two months; Clarence, the brother in his thirties who didn’t think of his betting on college b-ball games as a big deal—until he forged his wife’s signature to take out a second mortgage on their home; Elysa, the Dominican woman in her forties whose Lotto fever became so debilitating that she would leave the house only on Wednesday and Saturday, the days of the drawings; and Kyle, the white man who’d just turned twenty—and celebrated by losing his five-figure tuition money on the slots.

  But everyone had one thing in common. Ain’t no doubt about it: This addiction is an equal-opportunity fuck-u-upper.

  These were the only people who truly understood what he had been through, where he was, what kind of work he had to do to get his life back, and that in order to get his life back he had to go back to the meetings. He didn’t want to—he was afraid of what he would learn about himself and what he’d have to face—but knew he had to. He felt so guilty for letting everyone down, for letting himself down. He never dreamed he would be in a situation like this.

  And just how did he get into a situation like this?

  The seeds were planted eight years before, in 1995, when he made his feature film debut in Rebound. Siskel and Ebert gave the movie “two thumbs up,” mainly because of him (the quote, used in all the publicity: “In one of the best performances of the year, Raheim Rivers proves that even homeboys have heart. Not since Beatrice Straight in Network has an actor had such a big impact with such a small role.”) USA Today declared that he was “A Face To Watch,” while People named him one of 1995’s 50 Most Beautiful People. He grabbed the Chicago Film Critics Award for best supporting actor and there was talk of an Oscar nomination after he received Screen Actors Guild and Image Award nods. While he was passed over by the Academy and he lost the SAG and the Image Award, he picked up the Independent Spirit Award for best debut performance. And this night was even more special because Mitchell was by his side. He wasn’t concerned about folks figuring out they were together (especially since many of those in the world of independent cinema are gay, lesbian, bisexual, or trysexual). In his speech, he acknowledged Mitchell as his best friend and the godfather to his son. Mitchell attended a few of the after parties with him, including one hosted by the producers of Rebound, where Raheim was the toast of the evening. It was there that Mitchell felt comfortable enough to release the tears he had been holding in during the ceremony—and Raheim felt comfortable enough to hug him (and not in a “brotherly” way). Raheim felt so damn jood—winning and having his Baby beside him to share it with. This was the kind of party he could get used to. He never wanted it to end.

  But the party did end—the next day. That’s when the rejections came. He’d been passed over for roles before, the most notable being the football player in Jerry Maguire. At that time his agent, Troy Fauntleroy, explained that Cuba apparently had that “li’l extra something” the director was looking for. What that “li’l extra something” was, no one could say. All they knew was that Cuba had “it”—and Raheim didn’t. He came really close, but not close enough. He was good, but not good enough. They liked him, but they didn’t love him. He found out fast that it doesn’t pay to be number two.

  Yup, almost doesn’t count.

  He almost had that role, as well as those that eventually went to Morris Chestnut (The Best Man), Taye Diggs (How Stella Got Her Groove Back), Omar Epps (The Wood), Jamie Foxx (The Players Club), Djimon Hounsou (Amistad), Mekhi Phifer (Soul Food), Michael Jai White (Spawn) . . . and the list goes on. For over three years, auditioning had become his most consistent acting role. His only post-Rebound movie was Dangerous Minds, and while it was a hit, it didn’t get him any additional film work (and to add insult to this injury, he wasn’t approached about appearing in the TV spin-off). And if he wasn’t good enough for the very few prime roles offered to Black actors each year, he knew he’d have no better luck trying out for those not written for someone Black. And he was right: Casting agents refused to see him. Nothing he did—acting classes with Howard Fine, growing a short ’fro, donning “preppy” (i.e., non-homie) attire—helped.

  Now, he did get offers. There were those opps to play (usually) the lone Negro in horror flicks (I Still Know What You Did Last Summer, Scream 2, Children of the Corn III, Leprechaun in the Hood, and Halloween: H2O), but he passed because spooky movies spook him out and he wasn’t about to have some crazed white person chopping off his head, jamming a hook through his Adam’s apple, slashing his throat, or ripping out his heart with a pitchfork—even if it was just an act. And every month he was sent at least one script in which he was asked to be The Thug. The Thug was usually identified by his criminal activity (Drug Dealer, Carjacker, Burglar, Rapist), affiliation (Gang Member, Gangbanger, Gangster), or station (Inmate). Well, he wasn’t about to do a Hollywood Shuffle. While the characters he played in Rebound and Dangerous Minds were ruffnecks, they had depth, integrity, and, most importantly, names. They weren’t nondimensional racist caricatures who are killed off thirty minutes (or in one case three minutes) after they’re introduced. He wasn’t about to pimp his people in the name of gettin’ paid. And the only thing those roles would lead to would be more of the same. But even playing a slight variation of The Thug twice—no matter how complex or dignified those characters were—was enough to pigeonhole him.

  While his movie career was a bust, he couldn’t complain: After all, he continued to get featured parts on TV (Diagnosis Murder, The X-Files, ER, Oz, Chicago Hope, Touched by an Angel, The Practice, Nash Bridges, and Homicide: Life on the Street, which earned him an Emmy nomination for guest actor in a drama series); was still the highly paid and highly visible spokesmodel for All-American Jeans, winning male model of the year from both GQ and VH-1; appeared in TV commercials (from McDonald’s to Toyota to 7-Up); and frequently popped up in music videos, such as Toni Braxton’s “You’re Makin’ Me High,” Lauryn Hill’s “Doo Wop (That Thing),” Mary J. Blige’s “Give Me You,” and Will Smith’s “Gettin’ Jiggy wit’ It.” But he wanted to be known for more than his face and body, and it was his face and body that kept the dollars rolling in. Most would be content having just one of the options he had, but he wasn’t content with any of them. After a while, being famous for your looks gets very, very old, and he became very, very frustrated. So frustrated that he caught a serious attimatude when folks asked him, “Aren’t you/Ain’t you/Could you be—that guy/fella/brutha/nigga—in that ad/commercial/video/show?” After four years in the public eye, most folks still didn’t know his name—and didn’t seem to want to make an effort to learn it. So he’d either rebuff them (“I don’t give autographs”) or just lie (“Nah, I’m not him. I get that all the time”). It sounded crazy, but with everything he had goin’ on, he felt like a failure. It wasn’t as if he had dreams of being a movie star and he couldn’t realize them. One can’t have it all, and in Hollywood, one is lucky to have anything—especially if one is a brother. But what he had achieved, it just didn’t seem . . . important. He was where he was because h
e just happened to be in the right place (a park), at the right time (on his lunch break), “discovered” by the right person (Thomas “Tommy Boy” Grayson, the VP of public relations at All-American). He was one of the lucky ones. Not talented, just lucky.

  With that cloud of self-doubt hanging over his head, the devil knocked—and Raheim opened the door.

  His descent into the world of gambling actually began rather innocently (as it often does for most). On one of those rare weekends when he was in New York, Mitchell suggested they get away. They hadn’t been on a trip together in a couple of years (that last outing being to Disney World to celebrate Li’l Brotha Man’s seventh birthday). They wanted to go to a place where they could have privacy, and they didn’t want to go too far in case either one of them was called in a family emergency. So they agreed on a spa and resort in the Poconos.

  They spent Saturday morning and afternoon being pampered (facials, manicures, pedicures, full-body oil massage, thermal mud baths, and all the wine, champagne, fruit, sorbet, and ice cream they desired) and pampering each other (getting lovey-dovey in the Jacuzzi). That evening, after dining at an Italian restaurant, Raheim noticed there was a casino not far from the hotel; he coaxed Mitchell into stopping in. He gave Mitchell a hundred dollars—a little “maad money” to blow. And Mitchell blew it—in fifteen minutes—on the slots. Raheim decided to try his luck at the craps table. He didn’t expect to win, but did. And then he won again. And again. And again. And again. It didn’t matter the combo—6 and 1, 5 and 2, 4 and 3—seven ruled, and he was the high roller makin’ it happen.

  Of course, a crowd gathered. The shouts and hoots grew louder. The chips got stacked higher. And the sevens kept coming.

  After close to an hour, Raheim decided to cash in—and, boy, did he cash in. He turned one hundred dollars into five thousand. He and Mitchell went back to the hotel room, spilled the thousand five-dollar bills on the bed (he chose the denomination they paid him in), and they each dove into, swam in, and tossed them in the air. For Mitchell, it was jood to see Raheim relax, have fun, laugh, smile. Mitchell was happy to see him happy, and even happier to see the Pooquie he fell in love with back.

  Raheim did have fun. But he didn’t have fun because he was spending quality time with Mitchell, something he hadn’t done in months; he had fun because of the power he felt when he rolled those dice. This is how I would’ve felt if I got all those parts I came this close to getting, he told himself. He loved this feeling and he never wanted to lose it. He finally found something that he loved to do, he could make some extra green doing, and, most importantly, he could control doing (or so he thought). No one would be able to dangle the joods in front of him and, when he reached for them, take them away. He’d come up with the winning number every time.

  And, for awhile, he did just that during his biweekly jaunts to the Taj Mahal in Atlantic City, Foxwoods in Connecticut, or the Flamingo in Las Vegas. He had become a regular, quick; the staffs knew him and they made sure he was well taken care of—“Good evening, Mr. Rivers,” “How long will you be with us this time?,” “Can I get you the usual?” “If you need something, just let me know”—for they knew he would take care of them. After a month, he could walk into any of his spots and get two, five, ten Gs in credit, no questions asked. And the other gamers gave him his props; he was the real Goldfinger, the Man with the Midas Touch. They’d get in on his action and give him a piece of their own, buy him a drink or dinner, even offer themselves in appreciation (women and men).

  But there was nothing like THE RUSH—the tingly sensation in his hands, the itch under his fingernails, his toes curling, the goose bumps all over his body, his heart doin’ a three-step. This is what it must feel like bein’ high, he thought. Not pissy drunk, stoned, or coked up, but high. Light on your feet. Dizzy. Feelin’ like you can fly. Hell, it was even jooder than gettin’ his bootay banged by Mitchell—and that was really sayin’ sumthin’. Pretty soon, it replaced sex as the fix he had to have every six days.

  And because he had no interest in being banged (or doin’ the bangin’), Mitchell figured that he had strayed. Mitchell confronted him about being so distant, about the trips he was taking, the new clothes (such as a tacky bloodred leather suit), the flashy jewelry (a rope chain with RAHEIM spelled in diamonds), the new car (a Jeep), and the new crowd he was hanging with (folks with “names” like Tricky Ricky, Ace in the Hole, and the Joker).

  When he disclosed what had been occupying his time, Mitchell was shocked—and alarmed. “Pooquie, why are you doing it?”

  “Why? ’Cause it’s fun.”

  “I think you should stop.”

  “Why?”

  “Because, it . . . it’s changing you.”

  “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “It is when you spend all your free time doing it. And when you’re late for appointments because you’re hanging at the casino.”

  “I was only late a couple of times.”

  “A couple is two; you were late five or six times.”

  “You keepin’ count?”

  “Troy and Tommy Boy have been. They called me last week about it.”

  “So, what, you supposed to get me in line and shit?”

  “They’re concerned, and I am, too. Pooquie, you . . . you’ve got a gambling problem.”

  “Say what?” He wasn’t some potbellied, cigar-smokin’ bum, spending his whole paycheck on the horses at OTB.

  “You have to stop.”

  “Why should I?”

  “So, you can’t stop?”

  “I can stop if I want to and I ain’t. So long as I’m takin’ care of thangz—”

  “That’s just it, you haven’t been.”

  “Meanin’?”

  “Meanin’, you haven’t been spending time with me.”

  “So, what, you wanna go with me?”

  “Why would I want to do that?”

  “The last time we hit the casino you said it was one of the best times we had in years.”

  “That was then. And joining you at a casino does not mean you will be spending time with me.”

  “Me, me, me. Is that all you can think about?”

  “That’s all you’ve been thinking about.”

  “And you wonder how come I ain’t been spendin’ time with yo’ ass?”

  “Don’t blame me for your problem.”

  “I ain’t got no problem.”

  “The fact that you don’t think you have one is a problem.”

  “Yo, fuck you, a’ight? I don’t need this shit.”

  Mitchell grasped his left arm. “Pooquie, I’m trying to help you—”

  Raheim shrugged his arm off. “Help me? Whatever.” He headed for the front door. He opened it.

  “Pooquie, please—”

  Raheim stopped.

  “Please . . . don’t walk out. If you walk out . . .”

  He turned. “What, I can’t come back?”

  Mitchell stared at him, his eyes welling up with tears. “I’m . . . afraid for you.”

  He snickered. “You ain’t gotta be.” He couldn’t believe how Mitchell was acting. He laughed about the whole thing on the way uptown.

  But he wasn’t laughing the very next day when the sevens stopped and that freewheeling feeling gave way to a tightness in his chest and tension in his neck. Where he used to clock ten Gs in one night, he was now losing it—and losing only made him want to play more. He heard a voice, a voice that had always been there, egging him on, but this time it was louder, more encouraging, ringing in his ears like an echo . . . all it’ll take is one more roll, just one more, and you can get it back, get it all back, so go for it, what do you have to lose? And he would once again lose everything.

  And you’d think that knot in his stomach would have been an indication that what he was doing was literally making him sick. The higher the loss, the more intense the pain became.

  They say all compulsive gamblers have that “rock-bottom” moment. His happened when he was w
atching (of all things) The Flintstones.

  That night, he had blown another bundle, his biggest loss ever—twenty-five grand (he had depleted most of his savings, CDs, and mutual funds, and now was dipping into the accounts he set up for both Li’l Brotha Man and Destiny). He decided to take a break and went to his hotel room. It was a single, smoking; he no longer received nor could he afford the royal treatment, à la the Presidential Suite. He flipped on the television and fell back on the bed—drained, exhausted, frazzled, and in excruciating pain. He heard Fred coaxing Arnold the paperboy to shoot marbles for the money he owed him, double or nothing.

  Raheim immediately sat up. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen the episode before. But, for the first time, he was seeing it.

  Fred was putting his financial future and mental health on the line—and so was he.

  Fred was lying to and deceiving his loved ones—and so was he.

  Fred was lying to and deceiving himself—and so was he. Fred was a desperate man in need of desperate help—and so was he.

  He caught a quick glance of himself in the mirror over the dresser. Fred was a pitiful, pathetic sight . . .

  . . . and so was he.

  It wasn’t a coincidence that on this night, in this room, and at this moment, he was faced with this televised characterization of himself—and the fact that it was a cartoon made it all the more scary.

  He suddenly felt . . . COLD. That’s right, COLD. Not just chilly, but FROZEN. He crept into the middle of the bed, as if he were recoiling in horror at something threatening. He folded into a fetal position, wrapping himself up in his arms. He cried the rest of the night.

  He stayed in that position for a whole day. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He just brooded—and burned. He felt so embarrassed. So ashamed. So stoopid. If he thought he was a loser before, he knew he was a loser then.

  He grabbed the hotel phone and dialed. To his surprise, he knew the digits by heart.

  “Hello?”

  “Uh . . . um . . .”

  “Raheim, what’s wrong?”