All or Nothing

by Preston L. Allen

  “What about your wife and children?”

  “Fuck them!”

  “P!”

  “I’m dying. I’m dying like this. I need it so bad. I’m dying.”

  “… P, poor P.”

  “I miss my mom, I miss her so much. Oh, Mama, what did I do? I’m dying, can’t you see?”

  39.

  (It’s My Shoebox, and I Want It)

  I can’t sleep. I can’t sleep.

  Mama, Junior, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Leave me alone. I want my shoebox. I loved you, but I love this more. I’m just so weak. When I get rich I’ll make it all up to you. I’ll make it up to everybody.

  I can’t live like this. I can’t live like this. There is a beautiful, half-naked ex-wife in bed just waiting for me to shape up so that she can give me one more chance, and I do not want to shape up. I do not want to hear, A penny saved, a penny earned. I do not want a penny. I do not want to take it a little at a time. I do not want to put away a little bit every day for my children. I do not want to watch it accumulate bit by bit. I do not want a nest egg. I want a nest full of eggs. I want it all. I want to win. I want to win now.

  40.

  (Give Me My Damn Shoebox)

  My head is clear. My mind is clear.

  I am in control. I see numbers.

  I see patterns.

  I see amazingly elegant patterns, the kind of patterns that ought to win.

  If you could just catch them like that, when they’re about to come in, you would be set for life. All of the mistakes that you’ve made would be forgiven. When you’re in a hole this deep, the only way to dig yourself out is the way you dug yourself in.

  This is true. This is true. This strikes me as so true, my teeth are chattering.

  I can’t sleep. My mind is clear.

  These people are crazy. How can they tell me not to gamble? If I don’t gamble, how can I save myself from what gambling got me into? How can I make it right?

  This is so true, I sit up. I’ve got the chills. My mind is clear.

  I want that shoebox.

  They want to take my house, they want to destroy my family, and I’m supposed to just let them because they are the law? But if I went out right now and banged the big machine, the new one, at $40 a pop, and brought home a check for $200,000, what would they do? Not take it because I earned it gambling? Of course they would. I owe them money, not obedience. I am not some little kid they can tell what to do. If I hit the big one, they would take their little bit, their taxes, their back taxes, their bankruptcy buyout, and then leave me the hell alone.

  This is so true. I am reaching under the bed. It’s my shoebox and I want it. What is the point of having it and not using it when there is all of that free money in the casinos—

  One part of me is trying to be quiet and secretive about it. The other part, the involuntarily chattering teeth part, the so true part, doesn’t give a damn about quiet. It’s my shoebox and it’s in my hand. I’m pulling on some pants, a shirt, the shoes I had on yesterday. The chattering teeth part of me doesn’t care whether my socks match. The chattering teeth part of me doesn’t care that the ex-wife has been awakened by the noise and is sitting up in the bed. The chattering teeth part doesn’t care about her sobs in the darkness.

  It’s so true. It’s so true. I just want to get out that door. My mind is clear.

  I don’t want a scene. I just want to get in that car with my shoebox, hon.

  She is out of the bed. Her arms are holding me back. She emits a piercing cry. She pleads, “Let’s talk about this. Let’s talk. Don’t do this!”

  “But I’m doing it for you.”

  “I don’t want it! I don’t want that devil money!” She is a wild woman in the dark. Holding me. Hitting my chest. Holding me. Screaming so loud like howling. The boys are going to wake up. The boys must already be up. “I don’t want it! I don’t want it!”

  I hear a noise out in the hall. It is one of the boys. Maybe all of them. I don’t want my children to see this.

  I break away.

  I’m out of that house so fast. In the car. Cranking the engine. She is sitting on the ground with the front door wide open behind her.

  Head down in her hands. Loud sobbing noises coming from her. In her pretty underwear. How happy she will be when I bring home that big check!

  This time I’m going to let her handle all of the money.

  Let her handle it. That’s the key. She is the responsible one. Let her give me an allowance to gamble. That way the bills will always be paid. The water will never be turned off again. She will be treated like a queen.

  A light goes on in the house. My youngest son appears behind her. My allergy boy. I can’t let him see me like this. He knows me better than the rest. What is he trying to say to me? He’s holding up his hands. He’s waving. He’s doing something with his fingers. Two fingers on one hand. Three fingers on the other. Is this a sign, Lord? He’s the luckiest child in the world.

  My wife is getting up. She’s coming to the car in her pretty underwear.

  I am gone. I am out of there.

  Wish me luck, hon.

  41.

  (You’ve Got to Be in It to Win It, It’s All or Nothing, Baby)

  I have a sense of destiny. I feel that something big is going to happen. I am seeing elegant patterns. I have $600 in my shoebox.

  At 40 bucks a pop, that is at least 15 pushes.

  A gambler is nothing if he is not an optimist.

  You’ve got to be in it to win it.

  I am going to be in it.

  42.

  It’s just like anything else in America.

  Nobody wants to hear your excuses about why you lost.

  They want you to win. Go out there and win. You bring home the big check, we don’t care how you got it. Steal. Gamble. Kill. Just bring it home.

  It’s the same as any other game—you can’t let them beat you. You can’t give up. If the pitcher strikes you out, you try your best to slap a home run the next time at bat. If he strikes you out again, you go right back out there and face him down again. You don’t give up. You keep on slugging.

  It’s not always about losing. I’ve been down to my last dollar and hit jackpots. I’ve walked out of the casino resolving never to return, then suddenly turned around with the last dollar in my wallet and hit a jackpot. That has happened more than a few times. You can’t give up. America is no place for quitters and whiners. You’ve got to keep on trying until you win. America accepts only winners.

  When I reach the casino, I breathe a prayer. Lord, please help me. You know that I’ve done wrong, but I’m ready to do right now.

  The cameras at the entrance remind me that I am not in disguise. Somewhere upstairs in the control room there is a list with my name on it. Some computer thing is accessing the file they have on me. My time is limited. It won’t be long before they come to get me. But I know the score: If I win, I win.

  The money is still mine.

  The best they can do is say, Now, P, you know you’re going to get us fined for doing this. But the money is mine.

  I’ve seen it happen. I’ve seen them kick a barred gambler out of here with a check for $20,000.

  It’s not too crowded tonight. I go to the 40-buck bank and select an end machine because I’ve observed that the ones that begin and end a row hit more often. I deposit the entire $600 into the machine. No guts, no glory. I set my screens to 2-3-2-3-2-3 and 3-2-3-2-3-2 (in honor of Junior and because my allergy boy held up two fingers and then three and because today is the 23rd day of the month) and 7-3-7-3-7-3 and 3-7-3-7-3-7 (in honor of my mother, who was born March 7, 1937). I hesitate a moment before pressing the MAX BET button.

  No guts, no glory.

  My heart is beating out of my chest.

  I press PLAY.

  It comes up 3-7-3___. FIRST-THREE. Yes! Yes! At 40 bucks a push, I have hit $600 on my first push. Yes! My TOTAL now reads $1,200.

  I press CASHOUT. I t
ake my money in hundreds. I put it in my wallet. I go to the bathroom and rest on the toilet. I’ve been there only a few minutes and I’m already up $600! That’s more than I make in a week driving the bus.

  I have won. I have beat them. I can sneak out of here now and stick this in my shoebox. I am a winner tonight.

  I go back out, and my end machine is still available. I am a winner tonight. I have already won. I can leave. I can go home a winner.

  I have a better idea.

  I put $600 in the machine and keep $600 in my wallet. No matter what happens, I win because I’m playing with their money now.

  MAX BET. Forty bucks a pop. Fifteen pushes between me and everlasting glory.

  After 15 pushes, my TOTAL reads $0.00.

  Unbelievable.

  It did not hit once. Not once. Not even one time? Is that even possible?

  I go back into the bathroom and ask the mirror, How? How? How can a machine go 15 pushes and not hit once? Not once. No ANYTHREE. No ANY-TWO. No FIRST-ONE. Nothing. Nothing. That is so unlikely. It defies all odds. Just give it a rest. Let the bad luck run out of it. Give it a rest. At least I still have my original $600.

  I give it a rest.

  When I leave the bathroom, the end machine is still available. I take out my wallet and deposit $320 from my remaining $600. I am full of hope. I am all hope.

  But no, the thing cleans me out.

  I am down to my last push.

  The TOTAL reads $40. I push PLAY. The balls bounce across the screen, 9-8-9-8-2-2. The TOTAL reads $0.00.

  I am back in the bathroom again talking to the mirror: It has to hit something. It defies all odds. It’s not hitting anything. It’s taking my money … I worked so hard week after week at 40 bucks a day to get it up to $600. All I got left is $280. Lord, come on. Give me a break. Stop doing this to me. Come on, cut me some slack. Please, Lord. Please. I really need this. How can I go home tonight if I lose all this? What will I tell her? Bless this $280, Lord. Bless this $280.

  When I leave the bathroom, the end machine is still available. I take out my wallet and deposit $200. I press PLAY five times at $40 a pop.

  In the end, my TOTAL reads $0.00.

  “Damn. You have got to be kidding me. Is this machine broken or something?”

  But I’m no punk. I’m not letting any damn ping-ping machine punk me. I take out my wallet and deposit the remaining $80. I lower my bet to $10. Eight pushes, I tell myself. Eight pushes between me and everlasting glory.

  I close my eyes. I press PLAY seven times. The machine is singing a lot as I push. I’m excited as hell. Ping-ping-ping. I can’t wait to open my eyes. I open my eyes. Sigh. My TOTAL reads $612.

  Okay, so I’ve made my money back. Actually, I’ve made $12.

  This is a joke. This place is a real joke. They’re trying to drive me crazy. If I leave here now, I am up $12. I left my family in the middle of the night for $12?

  Screw you, Indians. Screw you, machine. Hit something, damnit!

  I hit MAX BET, close my eyes, and press PLAY 12 times. There is no singing at all. I open my eyes. My TOTAL reads $132. “There is no logic to this thing. No logic and no God! You hear me?” I say out loud as I lower my bet to $10. “Thirteen pushes between me and everlasting glory. Bless it, Lord. Bless it. Do it.”

  I close my eyes and press PLAY ten times. There is no singing as I push. In fact, it is so quiet that I open my eyes to see just what the heck is going on. My TOTAL reads $32.

  Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. How is that possible? It defies all logic. It defies all odds. They took my $600 and left me with $32.

  I have hit nothing.

  Nothing.

  What’s even worse is, I see the floor people coming toward me. Three of them, plus a burly Indian security officer. There is purpose in their steps. Yeah, of course they would recognize me after I lost my money.

  I quickly raise my bet to $32, which is all I have left, minus the gun in the shoebox in the car.

  The floor people are upon me.

  “P, right?”

  “No, that’s not me. I don’t know anyone by that name.”

  “Yes you do. You’re P. We know you. You’re not supposed to be in here.”

  The big security officer clamps a hand on my shoulder.

  I press PLAY.

  43.

  I am weeping in my car.

  44.

  I am weeping. I am weeping. I am in my car. I am praying to God through my weeping. God is a good God. I love God. I love Him so much.

  I am weeping. I am praying to my God.

  I know I let You down. I know I let everybody down. I do not deserve Your mercy. I do not deserve Your forgiveness. But I ask for it. I ask that You forgive me. Forgive me for being weak. Forgive me. Forgive me. Give me the strength. Give me the strength, I pray as I remove the loaded cartridge from the gun. I take out the citation that the Indians gave me:

  … you have been found in flagrant violation of the Gaming Code of the State of Florida … further infraction shall result in your arrest and a fine of $5,000 in accordance with state statute …

  I tear the official-looking paper into shreds and sprinkle them over the unloaded gun, then set the lid on the shoebox. I look out the window at the casino. I say goodbye for the last time. I am weeping. I am weeping from sadness. I am weeping from joy. Ping-ping! My nest is full of eggs.

  Oh, Mom, you would be so proud of me.

  45.

  My wife, my ex-wife, is in a housecoat at the kitchen table.

  The boys are there, too.

  There are plates on the table and cups. They’ve been eating a store-bought pie and drinking sodas. My ex-wife has been drinking something stronger. It’s some strange kind of party. They are deciding something. About me, of course. She will not look at me, but the boys do. The boys look at me with sad eyes because they are not strong enough to look at me with hate.

  I say to the boys, “Go to bed, guys … I mean, shouldn’t you be in bed? There’s school tomorrow.”

  They look to their mother, who signals them: It’s all right, go. They go. Not a word to me. Not even my allergy boy, and it’s all thanks to him in a way. He’s the luckiest child in the world.

  And she still won’t look at me. She stiffens when I touch her.

  I say to her, “Here’s how it’s going to be from now on. I’m going to GA tomorrow. I’m going every night. I’m going for as long as it takes. I’m going to church with you on Sunday. I’m going to be there for the boys more. I had to get it out of my system. I understand now that it’s not a game. A game is something you can win if you try harder. Work harder. Play better. A game is fair. This thing, it’s not fair. The rules are all in their favor. But it works on people like me, people who don’t like to lose. The harder we try, the more they win, because it’s not a fair game. And it’s sick. If you win, what are you doing? Are you beating the house? No. You’re beating other poor suckers just like yourself. That’s whose money you’re taking. The house has already taken its cut. I’m going to get it out of my system, I promise. I’m going to fix myself. I love you. I love the boys. I’ve hurt you all so much. I’ve hurt everybody I love. I sat tonight in the car with a gun. It was loaded. I was thinking about Junior …”

  She looks at me for the first time. “I don’t believe you.”

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “I don’t believe you.” But she is looking at me hard, trying to figure it out. The change. She says, “Why are you smiling?”

  If she only knew.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  Wait until I tell her.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  It defies all odds. I have beat the odds. God is a good God. God is the God of Ping-ping.

  “Why are you smiling?”

  “I’m going to smile for the rest of my life, and you’re going to be smiling, too.”

  “How much?”

  “The Lord—�
�

  “You don’t even believe in God,” she says.

  “I do. I do. God is real. God was real tonight.”

  She lowers her voice. “How much did you win?”

  “Guess.”

  “I don’t have time for games.”

  “Guess.”

  “No! Tell me.”

  “You’re no fun.”

  “You ruined my credit. You destroyed my home. You humiliated me in front of my brothers and sisters. What do I have with you? Nothing. Just more pain,” she says, exasperated. “Just tell me, or get out.”

  “Hon—”

  “I can’t go through this with you anymore. I’m so tired of this!”

  She jumps up from the table. I grab her around the waist and hold her there. She struggles, but I am not going to lose her. I hold her, despite her struggling, and pass the check before her eyes, whereupon she ceases to struggle.

  A woman who hates you but loves you at the same time will swoon when you pass before her eyes a check in the amount of $160,000.

  She is holding it with both hands like a love letter.

  “Here’s the deal,” I say. “That check is yours—well, after I pay the taxes on it, and the back taxes on the other one. The rest is all yours. Do what you want with it. I’m leaving it all up to you. This time it’s going to be different. I can’t be trusted with money. But don’t you see? Smile, hon. Smile. We’re rich. Rich. All of our problems are solved.”

  She turns to me now. No words pass between us, my ex-wife and me. She puts the check back in my hand.

  I don’t understand.

  “Hon?”

  “Get out.”

  46.

  I am in the car now with the big check, the shoebox, the gun, and C.L., who has come to comfort me this dark night as only another gambler can, with her understanding ways and her desperate loving.

  We are like teenagers, the way we do it, again and again without talking, without thinking. She says Yah, yah, yah as we do it, like the sound you make when good cards fall. I am crying on her shoulder. We’re crying on each other’s shoulders with joy. It is so painful you wouldn’t believe. We have to stop and just hold each other. Then we stop doing that, too. Her hair is a mess and the car smells. She puts her T-shirt back on and lights a cigarette as I fiddle with the radio and see for the first time the tattoos on her pale thighs. I hadn’t noticed before, the dragon, the eagle. Perhaps she is studying me, noticing things on me for the first time. Perhaps she is wondering, as I am, Who is this person whose fluids have mingled with mine? What of pregnancy? What of disease? C.L. looks to be maybe 25. She exhales and rolls the window down, fanning the smoke. She asks to hold the check again, and I pass it to her. She peers down at it, studying it, in the semi-darkness of the car.