Tunnel Vision

by Gary Braver

  “You guys are the best.”

  They chatted some more, catching up with what they were doing. “My mom says you helped keep the rust off the joints.” And he mentioned how he was scheduled for having physical therapy.

  “So, what are they saying about getting back on your feet?”

  “Thanks to you guys, maybe two weeks with a cane. Back to normal in a month.”

  While they talked, Anthony fidgeted with his BlackBerry, taking photos of them. “By the way,” he said, “you were talking in your sleep.”

  “I was?” Zack played dumb.

  “Some kind of ancient language,” Geoff said.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  Anthony pressed some buttons and held up the BlackBerry. The image was fuzzy and the reception weak, but Zack could hear himself muttering. “Sounds like nothing.”

  “Father Damian here thinks you were channeling God.”

  “Huh?”

  “I said you sounded like you were speaking in tongues.”

  “Tongues?”

  “It only sounded like glossolalia,” Damian said.

  “You mean like when people babble at religious revivals?”

  “Yeah. But it turns out you weren’t babbling,” Damian said. “Believe it or not, you were reciting passages of the Sermon on the Mount in Aramaic.”

  “What?”

  “The truth, man,” Anthony said. “They got some ancient language scholar from Harvard to confirm it.”

  “That’s bullshit.” He played the video clip again. “I’ve never heard that before.”

  “Then maybe it was God,” Geoff said, giving him an electric grin.

  “Give me a break.”

  “Just kidding. But it is wicked weird,” Geoff said.

  “You’re not gonna start preaching or anything?” Anthony said to Damian.

  “No, but you might consider the possibility that the Holy Spirit was passing through you. In fact, a lot of other people did.”

  Then they told him how religious zealots had flocked to his bed for miracles. They also told him that for security reasons he’d been moved to this undisclosed room.

  “That’s crazy. I had no idea.”

  “You were in a coma, man. But it’s pretty much blown over now.”

  “But still.” How odd that his mother hadn’t mentioned all that.

  “Whatever, I’ll send it to your phone so you figure it out,” Anthony said. “So, when are they letting you go home?”

  “Hopefully a few days. They still want to run tests.”

  “Any problems?”

  “Just some minor problems with math calculations.”

  “There goes your poker game.”

  “The doc thinks it’s only temporary. If nothing else, my mom will be happy. She’s convinced that Texas hold ’em is hastening the decline of Western civilization.”

  “Well, you don’t need math to pull down the slots,” Anthony said. “Maybe when you’re out we can whoop it up at Foxwoods.”

  “From the frying pan into the fire. I’m already in debt up to my ass.”

  “We’ll keep an eye on you. Your mom has brought you to zero with us.”

  “How about that?” Thanks, Mom. He remembered that he owed his Discover card a small fortune. He didn’t want to think of the interest compounded during his coma.

  They chatted until the nurse came in to say Zack had to rest. They said their good-byes, and the nurse led them out, but not before Damian said a prayer for Zack’s full recovery. He watched them leave, thinking he was lucky to have such friends. Thinking that he owed his mother big-time. And thinking something else.

  Anthony had left Zack’s iPhone on the night table. He picked it up and played back his coma mutterings.

  The first time, all he heard was meaningless mumblings—not even distinct syllables or patterns, which made him think that the claims were even loonier than suspected. He didn’t know what Aramaic sounded like, but this was pure deep-sleep blather.

  He played it a few times with his ear pressed hard against the tiny speaker.

  Suddenly the string of nonsense morphemes took on a vague familiarity. He couldn’t determine if it was real language or not; and he knew that he didn’t understand a syllable of the mutterings. But just beneath the skin of things, he sensed that what he had uttered was embedded deeply in his brain.

  TWO

  22

  THREE WEEKS LATER

  From the distance, it appeared as if the Emerald City had fallen out of Oz and into the middle of the Connecticut woods.

  Foxwoods Resort Casino was a series of towers pressed into a huge multilayered structure blazing with lights. According to Anthony, it was the largest casino in the world, with nearly five million square feet, two-thirds of which was devoted to gambling and serving fifty thousand people per day. Apparently the Pequot Indians were making up for the bilking their cousins took on Manhattan Island.

  Three weeks had passed since Zack’s release from the hospital. But for a slight headache, he felt normal. He no longer needed a cane and was back at the NU gym regaining strength. He was also back at his apartment and working on his thesis. He didn’t tell his mother, but he still owed nearly $4,000 on his Discover card. He had put on weight, his hair had grown back, and he sported a closely trimmed beard to discourage public recognition. The likelihood of that was low since in the YouTube video he looked like roadkill. Fortunately, no crazies had stopped him on the street for a miracle. A few reporters had met him on his release. He’d explained politely that he was not a miracle, that coma patients sometimes wake up, and that the Easter date was pure coincidence. As for reciting Jesus’s words in Aramaic, he had no explanation.

  A week later, he was a nonstory.

  Zack had never been to a casino, so as celebration of his “rebirth,” Damian and Anthony drove him to the Mashantucket, Connecticut, resort. Despite his mother’s worry, this wasn’t going to jump-start an addiction. He had sworn off online poker. This was simply an outing with pals. And maybe, if he was lucky, he’d make a few bucks to pay down Discover.

  Stepping into the casino was like entering a hysterical penny arcade. Machines jingle-jangled, whistles blew, sirens wailed, coins tumbled, lights pulsed. Roulette wheels, gaming tables, and one-armed bandits were running at lunatic speed. The place was a full-scale blitz on the senses for the sole purpose of creating an adrenaline rush to toss about one’s money. And it was working that Friday night. The place was mobbed, with people moving up and down aisles holding plastic tubs of quarters. This was nothing like the movies with women in elegant sheaths and men in tuxedos with martinis. This crowd could have been right out of the bleachers at Fenway: baggy jeans, tight pink shorts on fat bottoms, bandannas, tattoos, Hawaiian shirts, Red Sox tees, Bud Lights. “Not exactly Casino Royale,” Zack said.

  “Lucky for us,” Damian said.

  “Look around you, man,” Anthony said. “What you see all comes down to this: They want your money and you want theirs. The rest is just excuse.”

  “You cynical devil, you.”

  “It’s the truth,” Damian said. “The place is a temple to mammon.”

  “But it’s not going to stop you from dropping a few bucks.”

  “Heck, no. When in Rome, et cetera.”

  “Think there’s gambling in heaven?” Zack asked.

  “I’m counting on it.”

  They walked a few crowded aisles as the jangling of slot machines brought to mind the Wordsworth line: “The still, sad music of humanity.”

  Most players looked like regulars, feeding coins and pressing buttons, undeterred when a pile of winnings didn’t jingle down. Or when they did. They settled at different machines, Zack finding one next to a middle-aged woman with freeze-dried yellow hair and a black Harley-Davidson T-shirt, smoking a cigarette and drinking what looked like a Pepsi. She had just won a small pile of coins.

  “That’s the one you want,” she said, nodding at a “Double Diamond Deluxe�
�� across the aisle. “I’ve got a sixth sense.”

  He thanked her and deposited four quarters into the slot and hit the button. The machine made a lot of noise, but the rollers turned up nothing.

  “Keep doing that,” the woman said, and left.

  Four more times he fed the machine. Four more times he lost. “Nice sixth sense,” he said. He found Damian and Anthony and headed into the poker room, which boasted over a hundred tables open 24/7 with limit and no-limit games all the time.

  Anthony and Damian wandered off while Zack moved to the Texas hold ’em area, where he floated from table to table. He had about $400 in cash, which kept tugging at him to settle somewhere. After a few minutes, he fell in with a gallery around a foursome—a young black male in a red T-shirt and tinted goggles; two white guys in their forties, one wearing a plaid watch hat with a ruddy Irish face, the other a round guy with a smooth face and quick eyes. The fourth player was a heavyset Asian in his thirties with chips stacked like castle turrets. He glanced at Zack, then went back to the game.

  Throughout the hands, the other players were loose, commenting on the cards. But the Asian guy was without affect. He didn’t engage in the banter, nor did he fidget, perspire, or yield the slightest expression. He looked like a Buddha in a black golf shirt whose only communication was finger flicks to the dealer. Zack watched a few hands until the black guy sensed Zack’s interest and asked if he wanted to join in. But Zack said, “No thanks,” and quickly moved away.

  He could barely get out the words because something strange had happened. He had watched four hands, getting a mental flash of the Asian’s pocket cards. The first occurrence he discounted as a mere hunch that the guy had a pocket pair of nines. When, in fact, the guy did turn over nines, Zack told himself that he had unconsciously registered some microexpression or a body cue. During the next hand, it happened again. The guy peeked at his cards, and Zack saw an ace of clubs and a three of hearts. Both the turn and the river cards were aces, and the guy won on three of a kind.

  It was the third hand that spooked Zack.

  The blinds went in, and the dealer dealt the two down cards to each player. Bets were made, then the dealer laid down the flop, a ten and three of clubs and a queen of hearts. The first guy folded, leaving three others and the Asian. The bet was the black guy’s and he slid $50 onto the table. The Asian and the other guy called him, and the turn card was a three of diamonds. The Asian bet a weak fifty, and the next guy hesitated, then met the fifty and called. The river card was an ace of spades, which got the black guy to fold, leaving the Asian and his opponent, who bet $200—raising the pot to about $600. When the Asian did a quick recheck of his pocket, Zack’s mind glimpsed the corner spots—two queens, diamonds and spades—as if seen through the guy’s eyes.

  The guy looked up at Zack as if sensing the weird link. But the other player snapped him out of it. “To you.” The Asian broke his hold on Zack and bet another fifty. When the final bets were made and the cards were dealt, the Asian guy turned over his pocket cards and claimed the pot with three queens, two in the down cards.

  Zack quietly slipped away from the table and headed for the men’s room. His head had a weird buzz, and his heart rate had kicked up. At the sink he splashed cold water on his face and glanced in the mirror at himself. What the hell was that? Just a fluke. A statistical anomaly, he told himself. This whole place is a temple to flukes. But three times in a row? Maybe it was some kind of déjà vu in reverse. When the guy turned up his pocket, you only thought you had seen what he had. Let’s not forget that four months ago, you did a blunderbuss with your head and a telephone pole.

  He left the men’s room and went back to the poker tables. He thought about going to a different gaming room—watch the craps tables and wheels for a while. Or maybe find Anthony and Damian at the blackjack games. But something pulled him back to table thirty-three.

  The Asian guy caught Zack’s eye as he approached, then looked away.

  Two more hands passed when the black man announced he was quitting while ahead. He tipped the dealer and got up. He asked Zack if he wanted to play, and without thinking, Zack said, “Sure,” and sat down.

  “You have a name?” asked the white guy on his left.

  Zack told him, and the guy said his name was Jeff DeRonde. The others introduced themselves—Ralph, and another guy who joined the table was Sammy. The Asian guy was Winston Song. Zack bought $400 in chips. His abdomen felt as if a bird were trapped inside. He kept glancing at Winston, half anticipating some weird connection, but there was none. The first hand went by, and he and Jeff DeRonde dropped out early. Winston did the same. Zack had picked up nothing from the guy when he’d looked at his cards. It was as if the radio had gone dead. By the second hand, Damian and Anthony found him.

  “Hey, man,” Damian said. “Playing the big boys, huh?”

  “Until they clean me out.” Two more hands went by, reducing Zack’s holdings to $200. Still no more imagined glimpses.

  But on the next hand, it was back. The dealer dealt the pocket cards, and Winston open-raised to $15. Zack had been dealt a three of diamonds and a jack of spades. He called, as did the others. The flop was jack of diamonds, two of clubs, and six of diamonds. Winston bet $50 into the growing pot. Zack called, and two others also called. The turn was a nine of diamonds, and Winston bet $75. Zack raised another $50. The river was a queen of diamonds, leaving a final board with four diamonds. With the diamonds on the table, his three gave him a flush. The guy named Jeff on his right had nothing and folded, leaving Zack and Winston. And about $400 in the pot.

  Winston looked at his down cards. Zack saw a deuce of diamonds and an off-suit king. He felt himself shudder at the core of his body. He had the guy. Anthony nudged him to show his pocket cards, but Zack shook his head. That caught Winston’s eye. Zack pushed most of his chips into the pile. Winston looked at him for a chilled moment. Then he pushed in his chips, raising Zack another $50. Zack pushed in his remaining chips. Winston flicked over his pocket. A king of clubs and the two of diamonds.

  Zack turned over his cards. A “Whoa” rose up from the table as the crowd took in Zack’s cards. And for the first time all night, Winston’s face broke its mold. His eyes expanded as he took in Zack’s three of diamonds. Zack had beaten him with a three.

  “Thought I was bluffing?” he said as Zack raked in the chips. “Took a hell of a chance.”

  “Jesus, man! That was sick,” Anthony said in disbelief. Damian just shook his head.

  Zack had won a pot of over $1,100.

  The next three hands yielded nothing, and he folded early. So did Winston. Again Zack thought he had fugitive flashes of his down cards, but since he never turned them up, Zack had no way to confirm. A little after midnight, Anthony joined the game while Damian stood beside him with a beer. Zack still was up about $900. The cards were dealt, and Zack pocketed two nines. The flop was a jack, a four, and another nine, launching Zack with three of a kind. Everybody stayed in as the pot approached $500. Winston had something because he smooth-called as Zack ran up the pot, scaring away two of the others, including Anthony. The turn was another jack, and the river was the last nine, giving Zack four of a kind. Winston stayed to the end, narrowing him at best to a spade flush, a full house, or four of a kind. The other possibility was a bluff. The pot was nearly $2,000, including about $700 from Zack. Winston looked at the river card, then pushed onto the table a stack of chips totalling $500, which equaled Zack’s chips. He looked at Zack with that flat, expressionless face as the people around them—now twenty strong—buzzed in anticipation of Zack’s response.

  For a long moment Zack held Winston’s eyes, which were unreadable flat onyx ovals. Not a giveaway tic in his face. “I fold,” Zack announced.

  A murmur hummed from the gallery of onlookers. “Had me going there,” Winston said as he raked in the chips.

  “What did you have?” Anthony said.

  Zack didn’t respond.

  “No, reall
y, man. Musta had the flush.” Before Zack could stop him, Anthony flipped over Zack’s two pocket nines. The gallery let out a gasp. “What the fuck!” Anthony said. “You folded with four nines?”

  “Nobody folds with four of a kind,” Damian said. And the crowd agreed.

  Damian looked at Zack. “You were priced in to call, man, and you folded.”

  Winston gave Zack an intense glare and turned over his winning cards—two jacks, giving him four of a kind.

  The crowd let out cries of dismay. “I don’t believe it,” someone said. “Holy shit!”

  “This is sick, really sick,” someone else said. “He folds four nines, and four jacks takes the pot.” The crowd continued to buzz over Zack’s wild hunch that saved him the rest of his money.

  Zack stacked his chips and got up. “Time to go.”

  Winston picked up the river jack and turned it over, looking for giveaway marks. Then he flipped it down. “I don’t know about you, kid,” he said. “You’ve been doing that all night.”

  Zack felt his chest tighten. “Doing what?”

  “Reading me. Nobody folds with four nines.”

  Zack could not think of a comeback, so he shrugged and gathered his chips. As they started away, two men in dark sport coats came up to Zack. Before he knew it, the three of them were being led away to an alcove where security guards asked to see each of their IDs.

  “What did we do?” Anthony asked.

  “I don’t know what your scheme is, but you’re counting cards and that’s a violation.”

  “We weren’t counting cards,” Anthony protested. “I swear.”

  But the guards looked about as negotiable as a firing squad. They handed them their driver’s licenses, and one guard went to make photocopies and check their database while the other guards held them against the wall, discreetly avoiding attention. When the first guard returned, he returned their IDs. “Your names have been entered into a database, shared with casinos from here to Las Vegas.”