She shrugs. “Well, there you have it.”
I say, “We live to gamble.”
“Gambling is fun.”
“Lots of fun. Look at the fun we’re having.”
“I’m supposed to be at work right now, but I called in sick so I could gamble.”
“I’m supposed to be in— Check this out, I got you beat. I’m supposed to be in a meeting right now that will determine whether I keep my job or not.”
“What do you do?”
“Well, one of my jobs, my main job, is a school bus driver.”
“That’s a good job. Good benefits.”
“And I drive a tour bus on the weekends.”
“Okay.”
“And I work at the Turkey Point Nuclear Power Plant at night. Security. That’s where I’m supposed to be right now. They’re having this mandatory training session for terrorism.”
“But you’re here.”
“Having fun.”
C.L. understands everything without being told. She knows why I work three jobs: in order to fund my gambling. She knows why I am missing the meeting: How dare they schedule a mandatory meeting during my gambling time? She knows why I am relatively untroubled about missing the mandatory meeting: The longer you do a thing, the better you become at it. Not gambling, but lying to support your gambling. She knows that as a gambler, I am so good at lying that any mandatory meeting I miss will be forgiven because of one of my expert lies: My Mother had kidney failure (which is true, but last week, not this week), I am so distraught over it (over money), I had to rush her to the hospital (last week); in fact, I’m calling you from the hospital (from the bathroom of the casino so that you cannot hear the singing of the machines); I’m sorry I missed the mandatory meeting, it won’t happen again (yes it will, yes it will, yes it will, probably tomorrow).
“So many jobs,” she says, “and you’re still broke.”
“Is that crazy or what?”
“You’re a gambler.”
“Yup, yup, yup. But all I need to do is hit it big one more time.”
“We’ve got money for nothing but gambling.”
“And time for nothing but finding money to gamble.”
“Tell me something I don’t know,” C.L. says.
“I almost hit the Play-4 for 40 grand on Super Bowl Sunday.”
“No! You mean the night that 7-7-9-9 played?”
I love this woman!
“Yup, yup, yup.” I flip open my wallet and show her my eight Super Bowl very close losers.
“Amazing,” she says, showing the appropriate reverence as she carefully inspects each ticket. “If you had hit this, it would have gotten you back on your feet.”
“Yes, and I didn’t box it. Not one single time.”
“You are so brave,” she says with something like admiration. “You go all the way. You don’t hold back.”
“No, I don’t.”
She’s looking at me with admiration. C.L. Hmmm.
Then we exchange phone numbers and vow to support each other. This is not a sex thing, though she is cute in a skinny-white-girl sort of way. The dirty-blond hair. The green eyes. The butchy, braless, perky-breasted T-shirt look. The ATM receipts bulging the pockets of her jeans. This is not lust. We are gamblers.
Gamblers, I think, are another sexual persuasion altogether. We are attracted only to poker tables and slot machines. Not necessarily to each other.
But C.L., she understands me. She really does.
I would do her.
26.
I get brave and count my ATM receipts.
They are hidden everywhere. In the car: in the glove compartment, in the ashtray, under the seats, under the floor mats, under the CD tray, under the CDs, in the empty CD cases, in the empty CD sleeves, in the toolbox under the coil of jumper cables, in every sleeve of every sun visor, in the auto wallet with the manual, proof of insurance, and registration. In the house: in the pockets of pants I no longer wear, under the bed, in seldom-worn shoes, in socks, in my bureau drawers, in shirt pockets, in my Father’s Day jewel box (the expensive rings, cuff links, and watches having already been pawned), in every folder in every drawer in the filing cabinet I bought to keep important household documents like insurance policies, the children’s birth certificates, immunization records, and report cards. It takes half a day to gather them all. They fill most of three lawn bags. There are more in my locker at the depot and on my bus and at my mother’s house and my big sister’s and in my wallet (at least 10 from yesterday). And still there must be more. Where are last year’s? The year before? I take out my calculator, stick a pencil behind my ear, and clear a space on the kitchen table. I am going to do this thing. I am going to do this. The wife and kids are not due back from the church picnic until late. But it is hard. I am not halfway through one bag, and I am already up to $47,000. How can that be? I am a bus driver. I withdrew $47,000 to gamble?
That’s … impossible.
And the fees?
At an average of $2.00 per withdrawal (since each casino ATM charges a different fee), and I’m looking at about 500 or so receipts— good God—that’s $1,000 in ATM fees alone. And I am only halfway through one bag. I snatch the pencil from behind my ear and fling it against the wall. I bury my head in my hands. I can’t do it. I can’t do it I can’t do it. Can you imagine me sitting down with these bags and an accountant?
Is it any wonder I don’t do my taxes?
I take my three lawn bags out to the toolshed and hide them in the back, behind the unused stacked-up ceramic tiles from when we did the floors.
My family won’t be back until late, but today, for the first time in a long while, I have no urge to go gambling.
I have no urge to do anything but sit on the floor of my toolshed and think.
I can always go back to the community college. In two or three years I can have a degree. In two or three years I can have— Do I have two or three years? Do I even have two or three months? The IRS …
My thoughts turn dark.
I am not lucky. I am just not lucky, that’s all.
I sit for another hour on the floor of my shed.
Then I go out and buy a gun.
27.
There’s a new kid, Russian—been here only a couple months, but he speaks the language pretty good. Better than some of the natives. He sits up front with the junior high smarties while the rowdies are cutting up in the back. I hear the honors girl asking him about his life back in his country, his family, how many brothers and sisters, his school, was it named after Stalin or Lenin. The Russian kid says, “9-9-8,” and I look up in the mirror at him. He’s thin with very pink skin. He’s got shoulders that jut out and long, thin arms. The baseball cap he wears sits too big on his elfish, dirty-blond head.
“9-9-8?” I ask as I stop at a light.
The kid says, “Yes, where I come from in Russia, the schools have numbers not names.”
“So you are Mr. 9-9-8?” I say. “Hello, Mr. 9-9-8.”
Some of the fools in the back hear that and turn their cackling attention to him. The Russian kid pulls his cap down over his eyes and mumbles his real name. Boris. The other students get a good laugh out of that, too. Boris Bad-e-nuff, they joke. Boris the Russian. Boris Boris Rhymes with Doris, Tie Him Up and Dump Him in the Forest. Boris the faggot. Boris, is you a Russian spy? Somebody betta call 007 for Boris ass. Boris, embarrassed, is lost under that cap, his bony shoulders folded in like wings. I shout to the others to shut up, cut it out, or they’ll be written up. That quiets them a bit, gets them off his back. I say to Boris the Russian kid, “Don’t you worry about those fools back there. You just tell your folks to play 9-9-8 in the Cash-3 tonight.”
Why did I tell him that? He’s just a kid. Why would I want to get him started down that path? What the hell is wrong with me? This is crossing the line.
But it is a sign.
That night and for the next three nights, I play 9-9-8 in the Cash-3—five and then 10 dollars worth of tickets. I ne
ed to hit and I need to hit big. Finally, on Sunday night I give up and go back to playing my contract 2-3-2. Of course, that is the night 9-9-8 comes in straight, and I am sitting there with this stupid 2-3-2 which hasn’t hit in like three years. If I had just played 9-9-8 one more night it would have paid $500. I sure could have used it. Damn. Damn.
The next day is Monday and I’m behind the wheel again. I’m trying to be chill, I’m trying to be calm, though I am on edge. The rowdies are cutting up in the back as usual and Boris is saying something to the honors-student black girl, who has now become his friend. I think she’s got a crush on him. I know she’s got a crush on me. She sometimes brings me food. She sometimes lends me money. Boris tells her, “My father spent a lot of money on it. I think he won like $5,000 or something like that. He was very happy. He was very grateful to the bus driver.” His blue-gray eyes catch mine in the mirror and he smiles. “How much money did you win on 9-9-8, Mr. Bus Driver?”
“Not one damn penny,” I say too sharply to Mr. 9-9-8’s eyes. These damn numbers. This damn addiction. I need to win. I need it. I need it like I need air.
As I get back to my driving, some of the rowdies, who heard me say “damn,” are echoing it and cracking derivative jokes: “Damn penny,” “Damn Russian,” “Damn bus driver,” “Damn school bus,” “Damn school.”
When we get to the school, I hold my honors girl back while the others get off. I chitchat with her good-naturedly, then get down to telling her how much I need. She opens her cute little purse, all flirtatious and ladylike, and gives me all she’s got, a five and four singles. I put it in my pocket and utter grand promises of paying her back double tomorrow. She points to the bulge in my coat and says, “What’s that?”
I pass my hand over the bulge, thinking maybe it’s a wad of ATM receipts. It’s the gun. I have brought the gun on the junior high school bus.
Twenty-five minutes later I am at the casino, where I blow every penny of my honors girl’s nine dollars. I have crossed the line.
I have crossed way over the line.
MY NAME IS P
28.
I’m going through my things. I find my New Year’s resolution from four years ago. Stay away from G is at the top of the list. I wrote it in code in case my wife found it. That is followed by Pay more attention to your children. My son was becoming a delinquent when I wrote that. He became one, or he already was one. He joined a gang, or maybe he was already in it. He shot a kid. Then another kid shot him. It was a gang thing. It was in the papers. You might have read about it. This dead son was our first child together, my wife’s and mine. We took it hard, considering all of our problems. We would have divorced, probably, if we didn’t have the three other boys. My son’s death came almost a year to the day after I won that first royal, and I think that that had something to do with it. He was always a very private child. Independent. Secretive. Maybe I wasn’t paying enough attention to him. Maybe that’s an easy answer. Something I heard on Oprah. I know you don’t want to hear this, and I’m ashamed to say it, but I feel I have to. I really loved my son. His death hit me hard. I stopped gambling for an entire month after he died. I wish I had been there for him more. He was a beautiful boy. Tall and raw-boned, with a handsome dark face and cheekbones so sharp that when he smiled his eyes disappeared into slits. The thing I’m ashamed to tell you is that he was named after me, he was a Junior, and he was born on the exact same day I was born on, but 23 years later. You see where this is going? The day he was born on, 23 years after me, was the 23rd. I know that this is sick, but it’s the truth. You know how we are. We see patterns. I was playing that 2-3-2-3-2-3 in memory of my son. My sweet little Junior. I never told my wife what number I was playing when I won. She might have taken it the wrong way. She would have killed me. At any rate, she used some of that money to change his cheap headstone to a real nice one. I made a vow to visit that headstone once a month on the 23rd. I haven’t visited it once since he died. On the 23rd, like most days, I’m at a casino gambling. Yesterday was the 23rd. I was at the casino against my vow, against the court order. I blew $800 on the 23rd … Am I the sickest person here? Am I the sickest one here or what? Am I the sickest one here? Am I the sickest?
I’m shouting it over and over to the room. Am I the sickest one here?
I want to cry out. I want to shed big tears.
I want to gamble.
The rest of them in the room are nodding their heads like, Yeah, we know, we’ve been there, we’ve been there, we’ve been there, and we don’t ever want to go back, but not a day goes by that we don’t feel the pull. Some of them are taking note of the 2-3 to play it tonight in the Cash-3 or Play-4, or maybe that’s me talking, because 2-3 hasn’t hit in such a long time it’s due to hit soon.
Am I the sickest one here?
“My name is P, I am a gambler, and I am the sickest one here.”
O.C. puts a hand on my shoulder as I fall apart. I am crying real tears. “Baby steps,” O.C. says, “baby steps. Take them one at a time. Take it one day at a time. One day at a time, P. You can do it.”
I hear myself say, “I got the other boys, I got my daughter. She’s this very smart young lady who looks up to me. She wanted to be a school bus driver just like me when she was a kid. It was so cute. I used to take her everywhere with me. She’s a smart girl, now she wants to be a doctor. I need to send her money. I need to help out more. Pleeease …”
“Baby steps. Baby steps.”
“… help me, pleeease … It’s just … it’s just … I hate …”
“One day at a time.”
“ … I hate this place … Don’t be mad at me, O.C., don’t be mad …”
“One day at a time.”
“… I could be gambling right now … that’s where I want to be …
I hate being here because I’m not there … I want to be there …”
“It’s okay, P. We’ve all been there.”
“… Make me hate it, make me hate it, or when I leave here, I’m going straight there.”
“Your children. Think about your children.”
“I love them. But when I am with them, I want to be … at the casino.”
“One day at a time, P.”
“… There is where I always want to be. I want to be nowhere else.”
“You will lose it all, P. Is that what you want? You want to lose everything?”
“There is always the chance that I will win.”
“You will just lose it all back. You’ll lose more.”
“Not if I win big … not talking about no damn hundred thousand.
If I win a million, that will be enough. That will take care of all my problems.”
“If you win a million, they will still take it back. The amount doesn’t matter when you’re throwing it to the wind. The amount doesn’t matter when you’re setting it on fire. Remember what E.F. said? E.F. won a million and lost it back, plus three more million.”
E.F. is nodding his head in pathetic agreement. My tears are gone. The smug bastard is really pissing me off. “No offense, E.F., but you are weak. I would never lose a million dollars. It’s too much. You have to be sick to lose a million dollars.” Then I shrug off O.C.’s hand. “Don’t compare me to E.F. anymore, O.C., okay? E.F. is sick. With the kind of money his family has, he had to be sick to be gambling in the first place. He needs a place like this. I don’t.”
“P—”
“I hate this place.”
“P—”
“I hate this place!”
“P, we’re trying to save your life.”
I yell, “God help me, God help me, God help me! It’s hopeless. I want to die. I want to die. If I can’t gamble, I want to die. I don’t sleep at night anymore. I want to die. I can’t explain it. I can’t explain it … I want to die.”
“Me too!” O.C. says suddenly. “I want to die. I want to die. I want to die.”
Then he punches me in the chest. The shock of it is stronger than the actual
physical impact. I wasn’t expecting to be punched.
He says, “I had a daughter who loved me. I had a wife. I had a house. I had a career. I had a daily gambling habit of 10 grand. I used to be a millionaire. You used to know me probably. I used to be a professional football player. I was great in college. I was good enough for the pros—at least for the year I lasted before it finally caught up with me. I played for these same Miami Dolphins right down here. I backed up Marino that one year, remember? No? What does it matter? I blew through two million dollars in six months. I blew myself out of the National Football League, P, because I like to play slot machines more than football. Isn’t that funny, P? How throwing a football on national TV pales in comparison to pushing the PLAY button on a slot machine? How being famous looks like nothing next to a deck of cards and a smoke-filled room? How cashing a paycheck every week that has five zeros on it doesn’t even come close to looking into your hand and finding a pair of aces in the hole? How a blackjack table was more beautiful than my wife, and she was a Miss Texas? Wife? Wife? The casino was my wife. This makes sense? This makes sense?”
O.C. is punching my chest each time he asks a question. Yeah, I remember him from the Dolphins’ bench. The All-American good looks. The rangy height. The big hands. I’m not a sports bettor but I would have bet on him to take them to the Super Bowl. He is still punching me. It hurts. It hurts, but not the punches.
He says, “This makes sense? This makes sense? I can only explain this to another gambler. I can only explain this to you. I want to die. Every day I don’t gamble, I want to die. I haven’t gambled in seven years, and I want to die. I can only explain this to you, P. I can only explain this to a gambler like you. I’m glad I met you, P. Thank you for saving my life today. I was going to kill myself again today, but meeting you saved my life. I have never met a sicker degenerate than you, P. Thanks for saving me. Thanks a lot, and you better thank me back. You may not love us, but we’re all that stands between you and the darkness, buddy. And see you again tomorrow night, or I’m calling the court, I swear to God. My name is O.C. and I am a gambler. Good night, fuckhead, whether you sleep or not.”
All or Nothing Page 7