I hear her say. “That’s him,” I tell my fat girl. I’m standing on my seat. I’m waving.
My son is waving back. I’m brushing back the tears. It is beautiful. It is the happy note. It’s like a machine going jackpot. It’s like a royal flush in hearts. “That’s my boy.”
If I were still a betting man, I’d bet on him to score again. I’d bet on his team to win. I’d bet on his team to win every game. I would bet and I would win.
66.
When we get to GA, my fat girl takes her usual seat in the back near the exit and prepares to nod off during the proceedings as she always does. She is not much interested in being rescued from her dangerous vice, which she does not consider a dangerous vice. She is only there because of me. O.C. is in the middle of upbraiding the new guy, D, who is insisting again that he is not addicted to gambling but in desperate need of money—gambling is merely a means to come by it.
D, beefy and college-aged with sandy blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, was caught skimming from the cash registers at the FoodGarden grocers where he was a manager, and they made him come here after his six-month incarceration at the county jail. He is gesturing wildly.
“But I paid back the money.”
O.C. says, “You’ll just do it again.”
“And this will help? Give me a break. Where do you think I got the money to pay them back with? I won it gambling, that’s where.”
“You can go back to jail.”
“I gambled in jail.”
“You got the monkey on your back.”
“It’s no damn monkey, man. What I did was wrong. Stealing is wrong, but I’m not a gambler. I stole because I needed the money.”
“Which you then blew at the casino,” says O.C. “The gambling will make you do worse than steal. In order to get a grip on your life, you’ve got to get a grip on the gambling first.”
D makes a dismissive gesture with his hand when O.C. tries to put an arm over his shoulder. The others are nodding their heads and saying, “It’s the gambling. Yes. Gotta get a grip on the gambling.” D shakes his head at them defiantly.
“Take P, for example,” says O.C. “P might have something to tell you about what the gambling made him do.”
I frown. I don’t much like D, who is a windbag.
D frowns. He doesn’t much like me either. He tells O.C., “Fuck P.”
O.C. says to me, “P, you want to say something helpful to our friend D?”
“Yes. Tell D to go fuck himself.”
D says, “Fuck you, P.”
“Fuck you, D. Ignore O.C. You should keep gambling until you get lucky like me. I wish you luck, you thieving little weasel.”
“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, P!”
“I rode in on a million-dollar horse in case you didn’t notice.”
“But you’re here just like the rest of us with your cowboy hat.”
“You got that right.”
“With all your money.”
“Amen.”
“You’re pathetic. You’re really pathetic. If I had your kind of money, if any of us had your kind of money, we wouldn’t be in here. But look at you. I know about you. I know what you did to your son. I know what you did to your mother.”
Low blow. Dead mothers are off limits. Dead sons, too. I say to him, “But do you know what I did to your mother?” I’m looking him dead in his beady, ash-gray eyes. “If she’s a gambler and she gambles around here, I probably rode her harder than any horse. In fact, let me take a good look at you. Hey, I think you’re my son.”
“Fuck you, P.” He’s coming at me with his fists balled. O.C. is restraining him.
I’m laughing at him.
“Fuck you, P.”
“Too late, I’m already fucked. Mmmm. One thing about yo’ mama, she sho’ ’nuff was good,” I say, licking my lips.
“Fuck you, you piece of shit.” Now he’s breaking out of O.C.’s grip.
He’s charging right at me. Knocking over chairs. Fists balled. He’s a big windbag. He’s a pussy.
But so am I.
And I got fists, too.
We’re locked onto each other. We’re bouncing each other off the walls. The others are shouting. “Break it up! Break it up!” Their arms reach out to grab us.
I hear my fat girl scream, “Hit him, P! Hit him!”
They’re pulling us apart. I’m laughing. Huffing. Trying to catch my breath, but laughing, too.
They’ve got us separated, me and D, got us sitting in chairs facing each other. Everybody surrounding us has their hands on our shoulders to keep us from going at it again. I’m still trying to catch my breath, trying to stop laughing, because I want to say something to D, who’s got a real good left. I can feel the whole side of my face swelling from where he hit me. But I got him good, too—there’s blood on the ground beneath his chair. My daddy taught me to hit like that. Somebody moves out of the way, and I see that D’s bleeding from his nose and from somewhere higher on his head. O.C.’s shaking his head in disapproval. He’s saying something about calling the police. He’s warning us about the possible legal consequences of our actions. He’s warning us never to do something like this again or he will have no choice but to act. He hands D a damp rag and tells him to put it over his face. Someone else says, You need some ice in it, and runs to the fridge to get some ice.
I have caught my breath. I have stopped laughing. I announce: “I want to say something helpful to our friend D.”
“No,” O.C. says, putting up his hands. “You will say nothing.”
I’m trying hard not to start laughing again, but I don’t hate D as much now that he’s shown me he’s got a good left for a pussy, so I restrain my urge to crack a smile or snicker. Instead I plead, “But O.C., that’s the whole point of coming here—to share with others of like mind.”
“You can share with others of like mind next meeting,” warns O.C., “but not tonight. I’m the only one who’s going to talk anymore tonight.”
“My name is P. I am a gambler.”
“Shut up, P! Don’t let me have to pick up the phone.”
“My name is P. It has been 563 days since I have gambled.”
“I’m picking up the phone.”
“It has been 563 days. It has been hard—”
O.C. puts his chest in my face and shouts at me, “When I tell you to shut up, you’d better shut the fuck up, P!”
I don’t want to tangle with O.C., who was a pro football player and is still in really good shape. But I shout right back at him, “He needs to hear this! My name is P! I am a gambler! I haven’t gambled in 563 days! It has been hard! It has been very hard! Despite the fact that I am rich! Despite the fact that I no longer believe in luck! I used to think it was about luck! I used to think it was about wanting to make money! But it’s not! It’s deeper than that. I want to gamble because I am a gambler.”
O.C. sees that I’m not screwing around and steps back. He sees that I’m not playing some kind of prank on D. “Go on, P. Go on,” O.C. says, as though he even had a chance in hell of stopping me. No one can stop me tonight. I have to say what I have to say to our friend D.
“I am a gambler, so I gamble. There may have been other reasons to do it back in the beginning when I got started—belief in my own skill or talent, belief in luck, a need for money or excitement or fun—but now I do it because I need it like I need air. I am rescued from it. I don’t do it anymore. It has been 563 days. But being rescued from it is the hard part. Being rescued from it is like living death. If you believe in luck, you feel empty when you stop believing. Now you know there is no luck. Now you know that if you play you’re probably going to lose because that’s just the way it is. That’s what gambling is designed to do—make you lose. You know this now. Therefore, you do not play. You no longer believe. But there is that place inside where the belief used to be … When you were low, you would go gamble and you would be lifted. When you were depressed, you would go gamble and you would feel
good, win or lose, because you were pumped full of the belief, the possibility, that you might win. It was exciting. It was your drug. And you felt its effects whether you won or lost. Gambling teaches you to feel good even when you lose. Even if you have a bad day gambling, you are still pumped. A losing day is still better than a day not gambling. The only problem with losing, for a gambler, is that if you lose enough then you can no longer gamble. That’s the big problem with losing. It’s not about losing money. It’s about not being able to gamble until you find some more money to gamble with. It’s about waiting for that next paycheck, two long weeks from now. It’s about borrowing from friends and family, not to pay bills, but to gamble. It’s about stealing—taking money from the registers at FoodGarden, for instance—stealing not to get rich, but so that you can get back to that casino to your drug. Winning is not your drug. Gambling is your drug. Gambling is what lifts you.”
“Amen,” somebody says. And the others join in. D is holding the rag filled with ice under his nose. The anger has gone out of his eyes.
O.C. tells me, “Go on.”
I go on.
“So now you are rescued. But gambling is your drug. Gambling is what lifts you. But now you no longer believe. Now you know better. But you still get low. Now what lifts you when you are low? Nothing. There is no replacement drug for gambling. Sex. Family. Money. Charity. Love. Nothing. The call never goes away. It keeps calling to you. Its voice is sweet. Play, it says, play just a little. You do not believe in it anymore, so you do not play, but you remember how good it felt to be lifted. Win or lose. Nothing can replace that. Nothing can replace what you used to believe. Therefore, you end up believing in nothing.”
“Nothing. Nothing.”
“Amen. Amen.”
“Tell it,” says my fat girl.
“That’s what pisses you off the most. You let it get out of hand. You let it control you. Now you’re not allowed to do it at all. Not even in moderation. All of these little old ladies and tourists and regular people going into casinos every day, betting their little pennies and nickels for fun, and having fun! They bet a few dollars—they lose and leave. Laughing. Oh, what great fun they had. Why couldn’t you have been like one of them? Why did you have to go and let it control you? What made you so different from everybody else? What?”
“What, Lord? What?”
“Amen. Amen.”
“Preach it,” says my fat girl, clapping. “Tell it.”
“So now you’re cured. All being cured means is you don’t scratch anymore. But nothing ever gets rid of the itch. You itch all the time, but you do not scratch because you are cured. What kind of hell is that? My God, I’m itching. I’m itching every day.”
“Lord.”
“Help us, Lord.”
“Amen.”
“I went to my boy’s game today. He was wearing the number 13. Now I am seeing the number 13 everywhere I go. I see it on license plates. I see it on street signs. I do not believe that if I play this number in the Cash-3 that it will hit tonight. I do not believe that if I play it on the machines that it will play. I do not believe that if I play it in the lottery this weekend that it will hit. But I am seeing it. It is calling to me. Its voice is sweet. If it plays in the Cash-3 tonight, it has nothing to do with the fact that it was on my son’s helmet. I know this. I know this. I know this. The payoff is 500-to-1. I don’t need the money. I’ve got millions, but wouldn’t that be awesome? It would lift me, D. I would be so high.”
O.C. is doing his best to stop it, but they’re all saying, “That would be awesome. That would surely be awesome.”
The fat girl is saying it. “That would be awesome. Amen.”
D has that rag full of ice to his face, and he is saying it, and he’s not thinking about how he’d be able to pay off all his little debts, he’s not thinking about how he wouldn’t have to work at a dead-end job anymore—he’s not thinking like that, he’s not thinking like a chump, he’s thinking like a gambler—he’s thinking wouldn’t it be awesome to put everything he owns in the world on a 500-to-1 Cash-3 and feel that high when those numbers come in. Or not.
I know where he’s coming from. I’m thinking it, too, even though I no longer believe.
O.C. is trying his best, but the place is out of control. O.C. is not happy about it. I address the frowning O.C. and I tell him, “Sorry, man, sorry to mess up your meeting like this, but it would be awesome. It really would be. And I know that you know it. I see through your face. I see through your stone face. I see your tells. You itch, O.C. You want to scratch. What’s wrong with a little scratch? You know it would be awesome. You know it would be. It would make you so happy. It would make me so happy. It would make us all so happy. Sing it with me like you know how to sing, ping-ping, ping-ping. This is our happy note, O.C. What’s so wrong with being happy?”
PART V
Murder
THIS IS MY CORINTHIANS
He lived a gambler’s dream. He gambled millions of dollars at a time. What a high that was. What a high.
—C.L.
Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels, and have not charity, I am become as a sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not charity, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not charity, it profiteth me nothing. Charity suffereth long, and is kind; charity envieth not; charity vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not her own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil; rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Charity never faileth.
—1 Corinthians 13
I am impatient. I am unkind. I envy those who win. I want them to lose. Always. I am puffed up. I behave unseemly. I am selfish. I am easily provoked. I have evil thoughts on my mind. Always. I rejoice in the wickedness of my ways. I am in denial. Something is wrong with me, but I can’t take knowing that something is wrong with me. I believe in nothing anymore. I have no dreams, no ambitions, except to keep playing. I hate myself. Hate? I loathe myself. I am weak. I am a failure. This is my Corinthians.
—P
The only addiction stronger than gambling is charity.
—O.C.
Bullshit.
—P
Go to hell, P.
—O.C.
I am in hell.
—P
67.
His phone rings in the middle of the night, but he does not reach over and pick it up from the nightstand, answering it groggily from sleep. When his phone rings in the middle of the night, it is a cell phone, and he retrieves it from his pocket and answers it quite soberly, for he is a gambler and wide awake at a casino playing the machines. Ping-ping.
“Hello,” he says.
“Professor.”
“P! Where are you?”
“You know I can’t tell you that.”
“Are you all right? I saw it in the news.”
“I’m all right for now.”
“P …”
“Look, here’s the deal, what about lesbians?”
“Lesbians?” The professor is completely baffled. “P, are you okay? Do you want me to help you with this?”
“Lesbians have roundness,” P says.
The professor stops pressing PLAY. Now he understands. He says into the phone shouldered to his ear, “Yes. Lesbians, as all other women, have roundness. Men are still attracted to their roundness. It is the lesbian who is not attracted to the man. Now, this has interesting ramifications.”
“Ramifications,” P says. His voice is trembling.
“Well,” the professor says, selecting his words with care, “this means that, if she chooses, she can still display her roundness to profitable effect as far as males are concerned. She can, if she chooses, profit
from her roundness in the same manner as all females. In most cases, she simply chooses not to because, for various reasons, she is unaffected by or perhaps repulsed by the male form. In fact, she herself is attracted to roundness.”
“It’s a shitty theory.”
“P … my God, P.”
“I think what it is, is that we are equally attracted to each other. We are attracted to their roundness, but maybe they’re just as attracted to our … muscles or whatever. Girls get turned on, too, right?” P sobs.
“P.”
Then silence.
“P?”
“What about hookers?” he asks.
The professor sighs. What’s the use? “The hooker, okay,” he says.
“Good one. The hooker. In fact, the hooker is a direct and very obvious application of the theory. The hooker has roundness that she profits from. Men pay her for the pleasure of relieving themselves in her roundness, and like the lesbian, the hooker may very well be otherwise repulsed by the male. On the other hand, the hooker may be fooling us all. She may very well be using her roundness for financial profit and gaining much sexual gratification from it at the same time. In other words, she can have the best of both worlds anytime she chooses.”
“Is the casino a hooker or a lesbian?”
“P, I can help you. I know people.”
“I don’t think I like your theory, professor, but I see your point. She is unaffected by me. She is round and curvy and I am attracted to her, but she does not like me. She gives me a good time for my money, all of my money, but really she is repulsed by me.”
“There is still hope. The boy is not dead.”
“Aha! The casino is a bisexual hooker. Her roundness attracts women, too. I’ve seen it. I’ve seen it!” he suddenly shouts.
“P! P!” the professor cries, as his phone goes silent because P has hung up.
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