“I hope Flukey is okay all alone in the car,” Sara said to me as I scanned the room figuring out what the different tables were.
“I’m sure he’ll be okay, Sara,” I said, “And he’s not alone; he’s got forty pairs of your shoes in the car with him, in case he gets lonely.” I put my arm around her waist, smiled, and added, “Or if his little feet get cold.”
“We should have brought him in,” she said thoughtfully. “He could have been our little good luck charm.”
“We don’t need luck, young lady,” I declared in a bad Texas accent. “You’re with high rollin’ Adam Fluke.”
We decided to ease into the whole gambling scene. We exchanged a twenty-dollar bill for two rolls of quarters from a lady behind a wall of glass that appeared to be several inches thick. The sign by the booth advertised the availability of cash advances from what looked like every credit card that had ever been invented. I poked a finger at it, and asked Sara, “Did you bring your ‘Maestro’ card? They accept it here.”
“Come on, Adam. Let’s get lucky,” she replied, blowing off my lame joke and dragging me to the quarter slots.
I went to town dumping my coins into slots. I held fast to the theory that by betting the maximum of four quarters each time I was bound to win big, and I slapped the large spin button each time obnoxiously. Each time I smacked the button, I made it a point to cry out, loudly and obnoxiously (because there’s just no other way), “Come on now…baby needs new shoes!” or “Let’s go, mama needs a purty new dress!” I amused myself, but got no reaction from Sara or the other gamblers.
The geniuses always go underappreciated.
I watched Sara as she conservatively dropped one quarter into the machine each time and then proceeded to use the handle on the side of the slot machine. I looked around the room and noticed the same phenomena occurring at every machine: men used the button, and women used the handle to get their machine in motion. Of course, nobody was slapping the button as loudly as I was.
“I think they should just label the button ‘Men’, and the handle ‘Women,’” I told her, verbalizing my thoroughly-researched theory.
“What do you mean?” she asked, with a playful smile on her face.
“Look around…all of the women use the handle, and all the men use the button. Why do you think that is?”
“Well…” she began, thinking through it, “I think it’s obvious.”
“Obvious?” I looked around the room, and as usual, nothing was obvious to me.
“Men are afraid. Everything is phallic to men. They see these big handles, and they become intimidated. They feel inadequate.” She smiled gleefully about her answer and raised her eyebrows at me slyly dropping another quarter in. “Women see the big handles as everything they’re missing out on in real life. So they jump at it, they grab it, and they yank it down.” She gave the handle a harsh tug as she finished and it set the drums inside her machine to spinning. I slapped my button and tried to watch both machines as the mechanisms in each came to a stop. I glanced down into my cup and saw that I had just spent the last of my quarters. Ten consecutive tries without winning once, for Christ’s sake.
“WOW! Adam, I won! Look, I won!” she yelped, grabbing my arm and pulling me over next to her. I looked into the display and saw three large cherry clusters aligned neatly across the middle. Quarters were coming so fast that they were spilling out of the metal bin at the base of the machine, and we quickly put our cups underneath to catch them. “I can’t believe I won!” she said again, overjoyed. I kissed her quickly on the neck and cheek, and then leaned back into the stream of money which I had inadvertently moved away from to kiss her.
“Man, Sara, I wonder how much this is?” I said, and began scanning the machine to see if there was some sort of legend that would reveal what she had won. The flashing “Jackpot” above the machine caught my attention, and I quickly located “Jackpot” on the front of the machine (it was flashing also): $1,000.00 for one quarter, $10,000.00 for four quarters. “A thousand dollars, Sara.” I pointed at it to show her, and she yelped again several times bouncing up and down with each. “That is four thousand quarters! Wow is right.”
“Yay, Adam…. Yay!” She continued to bounce and yip, and a man in a black suit walked over and began congratulating us. His movements were smooth, and he looked like what I imagined someone in charge of a casino would look like. The suit, the styled hair, the tan.
“Well done, miss. My name is James, and I am in charge of the floor. If you come with me we can get you straightened away over at the courtesy booth. Congratulations,” he said. “We will need to see your identification, of course,” he added.
“Of course!” she agreed, squeezing my arm. We collected the last of the loot, and followed James to the courtesy booth. “He asked to see my I.D., too.” Sara whispered to me along the way.
“Why is that exciting?” I asked her in a non-sarcastic way. I really didn’t know. Mr. Mafioso casino-man didn’t appear to have told us anything exciting.
“That means that he wants to make sure I am 18,” she whispered back, confidentially, “It’s a compliment.”
“Oh. Right.” We were then at a booth identical to the first one, shoveling piles of quarters into the metal bin, and watching as the lady closed it remotely from her side, and then withdrew the container, and emptied it into a machine that counted the quarters in an insanely speedy fashion, and digitally displayed the dollar value of what was emptied into it on her side.
As the lady finished the last load of coins and James returned Sara’s I.D. with another congratulations, the lady announced that the grand total was $1,007.00. Sara had only made it through three dollars before hitting the jackpot. “Would you like some chips, or maybe some dollar tokens for the dollar slots?” she asked us.
Sara and I looked at each other. I was down ten bucks, and she was up $997. Don’t push your luck, Fluke, I told myself.
“We’ll just take it in twenties,” I told the lady. Sara jumped again, and then jumped into my arms. Sometimes you have to know when to stop. “I love you, baby.” I told her.
“Love you, too!” she told me. I made silly remarks on our way out about how she would truly have won big if she stuck to the ‘max-bet theory’ of mine, but it didn’t faze her, and I was just kidding anyway. After all, a Fluke theory might have jinxed things. Best to let her roll her own way. She yipped all the way out of the building and to the car.
Twenty minutes and one near crash later (which came about as a lady who had to have been at least eighty years old drifted into my lane with her Oldsmobile, only taking notice to this important fact and moved back into her lane after my third blast of the horn, which made me wonder if it was her old age or the VW’s squeaky little foreign car horn that caused the slow reaction), we were back on interstate 10, but our excitement levels were significantly higher now than they were before the stop in Biloxi. We chatted away, talking about the money, wondering if we should do something meaningful with it or just piss it away in an irresponsible, yet infinitely more fun, manner.
“That’ll get us a whole lotta beers on Bourbon Street, you know,” I pointed out, with my usual focus.
Christ, Adam-boy, only you would look at a thousand dollar windfall as beer money, my subconscious whispered to me.
Sara, as usual, was a little more rational than I was. She held the stack of twenty dollar bills between her tan hands and her was face scrunched up a bit, deep in thought, her brows furrowed in the cute way that they did when she was deep in thought. This made me feel a little stupid for my beer money comment, but I shrugged it away, realizing that, for better or for worse, it was who I was.
“I’d normally frown upon that sort of thing, dear,” she said, turning in her seat, “but, under the circumstances, I agree with your sentiment. Let’s have a little fun with the money.”
I smiled at her and placed a hand on her leg, rubbing her thigh. I had a brief suspicion that she was working some sort of reve
rse psychology on me. She wanted me to tell her no way, we should invest it. I mean, she knew me pretty well.
Dutifully, I said, “Maybe we shouldn’t just blow it, Sara. I mean, the whole beer thing was just a comment.”
There, I had made the token attempt. I braced myself, wondering what she’d say to that.
“Nah. Let’s have fun with it,” she said. “I’m always so anal with my money, making sure it’s being utilized properly, spent wisely. This money,” she said, holding up the bills and fanning them out like a deck of cards, “was a totally unplanned acquisition, and we should use it for entertainment purposes.”
I relaxed a little bit, realizing I had averted what would have been a tragedy in my eyes. I was not at all responsible with money; when I came into some, I wanted to spend it. It was as simple as that. The thought of winning a grand and socking it away was incomprehensible to me. Of course, I would have relented if that had been what she wanted to do with it; after all, she’s the one who won the money.
“Well, it’s your money, Sara, so I won’t argue with you on that,” I said, squeezing her thigh. “Whatever you want to do is fine with me.” I flashed a reassuring smile at her, letting her know just how sincere I could be. It lasted for about two seconds before her face cracked into a smile.
“You’re such a liar!” she cried, laughing. “You already had plans in your little head for how we could blow it, didn’t you?”
I raised my eyebrows in what I hoped would come across as a “Who, me?” expression, but couldn’t keep a straight face and started laughing.
“Okay, okay. You know me too well,” I told her.
“I know I do, you fluker,” she said. “But maybe I won’t let you use any of my money. Maybe I’ll just buy purses and shoes and makeup with it. Maybe some new clothes for Flukey. What do you think of that one?”
“Maybe I’ll just take it from you,” I joked, reaching out and trying to snatch the greenbacks from her hand. She yanked her hand back just in time, and I came away with a handful of air.
“You just watch the road, boy,” she said, still giggling. “I’ll put this somewhere safe from your greedy little paws.” She then folded the wad of bills in half, pulled the front of her t-shirt out, and stuffed the bills down into her bra, which made her right breast look oddly square shaped.
“And you don’t think I’ll put my greedy little paws down there to get the money?”
“I’m sort of hoping you will,” she said seductively, leaning over and running the tip of her tongue along the outer edge of my ear. The combination of her tongue and the scent of her perfume nearly made me dizzy, and I had to struggle to maintain control of the car.
“You’re gonna make me crash us,” I managed to whisper to her. She sat back in her seat, smiling at me, giving me what she referred to as her “come hither” stare, which normally made its appearance when she was feeling frisky.
“Well, that’s no fun,” she said, mock hurtfully. “What am I supposed to do over here? Just ride along, bored?”
“One of the many duties of the co-pilot,” I stated, in a business-like tone, “is to not create distractions that would cause a pilot error.” I looked at her, chuckling, wanting her very badly but a little preoccupied with driving.
“And the pilot,” she stated, equaling my business-like tone, “should be professional enough and focused enough to concentrate on the task at hand.”
“I can drive under any adversity!” I proclaimed, raising a finger in the air in an attempt to drive the point home.
She leaned back to my ear, and I felt her warm breath on my neck and ear as she whispered, “Okay, well, let’s prove it.”
I looked at her, momentarily confused, and then I felt her hand on my crotch, working the zipper on my shorts down. My eyes widened with a flash of understanding, and I was suddenly and simultaneously singing praise to the gods and praying to the same gods that I wouldn’t crash the car as she lowered herself, adjusting her position so as not to knock the gearshift lever, and took me into her mouth.
“Wow,” I mumbled weakly, and I heard the blast of an eighteen-wheeler’s horn as it blew by us, honking its approval, I imagined.
****
The Hotel La Salle was small, one of those quaint, antique-style hotels, despite its location in a strip mall-like building, wedged in between a music store on the right and a drug store on its left. It was easy to miss, and we made approximately four U-turns and slow trips back up and down Canal Street to find it.
The La Salle’s selling point for Sara and I had been its proximity to the French Quarter, which was one block away, just a hop, skip, and a jump across the perpetually busy Canal Street. This saved us from having to do any sort of driving under the influence of any sort of influential substances. The price had seemed a bit steep to me, but the extra dollars didn’t seem so bad compared to a potential taxi fare or a night in jail. Besides, we had just won a thousand bucks two hours earlier. We were rich for a day!
I hunted for a parking spot near the hotel so that we could check in. There was supposed to be parking provided by the hotel, but it was nowhere to be found. I ended up parking the VW along the nearest street, which was scattered with what appeared to be a mix of homeless folks and general loiterers, sitting on the ground with signs (Vietnam vet, one said), leaning against the walls, bottles in brown paper bags, looking dirty and rather thug-like.
And here we are, I thought, playing the well-dressed tourists, a little money in our pockets, and a pretty white convertible. I think I saw this on an episode of Unsolved Mysteries once.
“Think the car’s safe here?” I mumbled to Sara as I killed the engine and pulled up the emergency brake.
“Umm,” she started, looking out her window, “well, it was safe when I parked it at your apartment. This is about the same environment.”
“Ha, ha, very funny,” I said. “You know…that Holiday Inn we saw had parking. We could still go back.” I told her.
“It was 300 bucks a night, Adam!” she looked at me, “that would knock out quite a bit of our winnings?”
“Yeah…but, it had that little elegant restaurant across the street that was open all night…” I said to her, grinning.
“Elegant? You’re referring to the all-night McDonalds?” she asked.
“Okay. I just think it might have come in handy” I finished, unable to erase the dumb grin from my face.
We got out and she hastily grabbed my hand as we quickly walked down the street and hung a right. I sensed a little nervousness on her part, and squeezed her hand, once again the reassuring man. She squeezed back and smiled at me.
It warmed my heart to know that she looked at me with a sense of safety, as though I would protect her, though I questioned myself, and I hoped it would never come to that situation. Deep inside of me festered the uncomfortable idea that, upon any sort of physical confrontation, I’d drop to the ground in the fetal position and cry like a baby. I couldn’t bear the thought of Sara, this beautiful woman who I loved beyond belief, witnessing my cowardice.
I let out a tiny sigh of relief as we opened the tinted glass door of the La Salle and stepped inside.
The tiny foyer was low-lit and instantly relaxing to me; large potted plants were spread around the room, the walls covered with soothing, peach-colored wallpaper. A dark brown wooden staircase led up to what I assumed were the rooms.
We went to the counter and Sara said, “We have a room reserved. The name is Fluke.”
The teenaged clerk glanced up and appeared to have misheard her.
“Fluke?” he repeated.
“You got it. Fluke,” she said again.
I wandered the lobby, looking at the pictures on the wall, which were black and white prints of 19th century New Orleans, looking rather gothic and French. The pictures, the history, and the decadence of the city intrigued me.
A minute or two later, the clerk tapped me on the shoulder and offered to guide me to the private parking area while Sara
went up to the room.
“Bring Flukey up with our bags,” she instructed me, giving me a small kiss on the cheek, even though I turned my lips to meet hers.
“No mouth, remember?” she said, winking at me.
Oh, yeah.
“No kisses on the mouth until I get to my toothbrush,” she had said in the car earlier, after she sat up, leaving me trembling in the driver’s seat, reaching for my cigarettes.
I followed the clerk out, and he showed me the hidden parking area, which was a small lot closed in by a chain link fence. I parked the car, grabbed the bags and Flukey, and went back inside.
As I walked up the stairs, which let out some small creaks, exactly as I had imagined they would, I realized I had forgotten what room number Sara had told me.
Shit, was it 234 or 224?
I reached the second floor, hoping that she had left the door cracked. I went to 224, which was closed, so I walked to 234, and it was locked as well. Feeling lost and a little stupid, I wandered back down the hall.
I tried the handle on 224; it was unlocked, so I picked up the bags and walked inside.
“Sara?” I called out, poking my head forward. To my left was a bathroom. I couldn’t see the room itself from my position.
“Who’s that?” I heard a man’s voice yell.
Uh oh. Wrong room.
“Uh, sorry,” I called back, working quickly to turn around. I bumped the wall, and dropped Flukey on the floor.
Shit.
“Who the hell is it?” the voice called out again. I heard squeaking, like springs.
In my frantic attempt to squat down and pick up Flukey and get the hell out of the room, the black duffel bag slipped off of my shoulder and on to the floor.
The basis of the Fluke Factor is that once something has gone wrong, all efforts to recover must go, at a minimum, doubly wrong.
I grabbed the strap of the duffel bag, and yanked it back up on my shoulder, shifting my weight in the opposite direction, which, according to physics, should have balanced me out and allowed me to stand up.
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