The House

1

The house always wins. Anyone who tells you differently has never played a game for money in their lives. You bet a small, relatively safe, amount and a win may come or it may not. Doesn’t matter to you because you only played sixty cents per game. So, you play again. Pull the slot. Roll the dice. Spin the wheel. Call for the next card.

But you lose.

Oh well, it’s only sixty cents. But now you’re in for a dollar twenty because you play again. Time passes and fifty tries later, you’re down thirty dollars. Not an awful lot but it was still money that could have gone into the gas tank. But you’re sure you’ll break even because sometimes you do win. Of course you do. That’s just how they get you to come back.

I’ve been in and out of most gaming houses from Atlantic City to Vegas. Even the small houses that are renovated from once fully operational paddleboats along the Mississippi, and the first thing you notice when you walk into one of those joints is the change in the air. It’s like the management has either bought fresher, cleaner air (if the place is top dollar), or the flowing cigarette smoke has just attacked your face, and you’re all the sudden blinded by the smell of cheap cigars and booze.

Once you get past the smell, for better or worse, you notice the first living soul in the place. Usually, a man but could be a woman. Money doesn’t discriminate between the sexes; it hates us all equally. The fella behind the booth just looks down at you with a tired face that says he would rather be anywhere else and asks for your I.D. You give him the card, and he gives it a once over, only checking your birthdate and then comes the real appeal of the evening.

Winding rows of blue neon lights that fade into green, yellow, orange, and then Lord knows what else, line the borders of the walls and the ceiling above. They shine down on a tacky carpet that once might’ve belonged in a ‘90s movie rental store.

The nicer joints don’t have these carpets.

The nicer casinos are lined with a smooth glass door with either gold or silver handles. The fella at the door isn’t at the door this time. They’re walking all over the place, being merely foot soldiers to big brother’s hairy eyeball in the sky. The carpets here aren’t tacky at all but are beautifully woven fields of red (the darker the better) or blue with golden leaves strewn about them.

The lights and the carpets only give way to the single thing that holds all casinos alike. You only walk a bit farther to the main floor and there you see the slots.

Every person has their favorite slots. They all walk up to the machine, guts hanging over their belts, breasts that were once perky and the apples of every man’s eye now sagged and worn over by the years. Some have wrinkles around the eyes, some hold their eyeglasses around their necks with chains, some holding a dollar fifty beer that they paid well near ten dollars for, and others sipping free soda from a meager paper cup. They’re all as different as the machines they play, but there’s one thing that holds all slot gamblers alike. It’s the eyes.

They look with eyes that don’t see any of the natural beauty of life around them anymore. They all hold the immaculate hope of bigger dreams and deeper pockets. They sit in brown padded chairs, only transfixed to the screen in front of them. They’re hypnotized. Zombied to the sparkling lights and dazzling colors, hoping and praying for that big number. The amount of their greed is as plentiful as there are combinations of different wins. Each of them has their favorite game, and if they find that machine taken, they hover. They wait. They can’t help but stand at a safe distance, hoping the squatter moves from what they believe to be rightfully theirs. They’ve played that machine more than the years they’ve been alive. How dare they be suggested to go to a different game? Oh sure, everyone has their favorite game, and I was no different.

#

For a smaller rural area, The Branded Iron can be really alive on a Friday night, but tonight was different. It may have been the poor sap who was playing cover songs of the Eagles on a little stage right before the card tables, it may have been the overabundance of ladies there to celebrate a bachelorette party, or it may even have been a louder ruckus coming from the live sporting area where the Stanley Cup playoffs was in full swing that night.

Who could tell? All I could say about that evening was that my favorite slot machine was open. Like I said, everyone has a favorite.

I always enjoyed a good gangster film growing up. Still do. And when I first saw the machine titled Mafia Fortune, I jumped on the chance to play and never looked back. Just sitting there playing and watching the small screen icons spin themselves into a little hysteria, while seeing the large-scale picture of a Mafia boss above the screen look down at me, tommy gun in one hand, half burnt cigar in his mouth and his sleeves rolled up to show his tattooed forearms, I felt like I was one of them.

I took the card that held my money on it that I got from the lady at the cashier’s counter. I put it into the machine like a guy would put ranch dressing on a salad. I knocked back a sip of my rum on the rocks from the bar and began to play.

#

At first it was slow going. That was alright, I knew how this all went. I wasn’t an occasional fish in this pond, I was a frequent swimmer. I bet small at first. I started at sixty cents per line, up to five possible winning lines. Not a bad start I thought — never mind the fact the minimum bet on this machine was in fact, sixty cents.

2

The mafia boss looked down at me from his perch above the screen. The screen itself rolled in its own delirium, sending equal amounts of pins filled with both hope and despair up and down my spine. The first column of images stopped, relics of a bygone time, from old-fashioned weaponry to mounds of folded bills. The second column stopped, giving off a new set of images, some the same as the first column. The third stopped. Then the fourth and finally the fifth. A green line floated across the screen, showing a line of images that were the same.

Fifteen cents won. I hit the yellow button that glowed behind a black printed word. Bet Again, the button flashed, and so I did.

The columns set off again in a frenzy. The mafia boss looked down at me with deep green eyes and a bit of stubble on his cheeks. I was sure in another life, that guy was probably given some fancy nickname. Joey Green Eyes, I thought laughing to myself. The mobster looked down at me with a smirk around his lips that held his cigar in place. The columns stopped again; one, two, three, four, five. A few more lines this time, not many but just enough to double my bet. I now sat at a dollar thirty-five up from the time I started. Not too bad after only two tries.

I hit the button again. A little sing-song voice drifted in my head.

One column, two columns, three, four, five,

what a time to be alive,

I glanced up at the mafia boss and gave out a chuckle. Joe Green just looked back, his green eyes piercing into mine. The knuckles around his tommy gun began to grow white under his tightening grip, almost like he was about to turn and shoot. I could feel a chill go up my spine and I gave out a shiver. Then I saw out of the corner of the machine, sweet Vanessa, Joey Green’s girl.

How could I forget about Vanessa? That soft hue of red hair flowing down to her shoulders, her lips pulled back to give a light smile as she began to drape her hands on the mafia boss’s shoulders. She started to run her hands across Joe’s chest, and they both began to smile at me, as if they knew I was there. Like we were all just old friends sitting at a card table.

I sat back in my chair and felt my spine crack from the bottom to the top. I took a small sip of my drink and looked up at the looming figures above the screen. They looked back at me, hands running across each other. Their smiles were deep and inviting. I wanted to go there. To be in that world and smell the air, to live in the world of the thirties where men were men, the booze was good, and the music was hot. I took a small sip of my drink again and shook my head. When I opened my eyes, Joe Green stood there as he did before. Tommy gun in hand. Cigar in the corner of his mouth, prison tattoos on his forearm. Vanessa wasn’t there. She’d never been there. Of course she wasn’t. That would have been crazy. I hit the button again.

One column, two columns, three, four, five. What a time to be alive.

I saw the columns stopped one after the other, and for the first time since I can’t remember when, I began to feel a winning streak. I was feeling pretty good for the first time that day. My rum on the rocks shone a deep amber. The liquid was smooth after I got over the biting spice of the initial moment it touched my lips. It was nice. Inviting. I wanted more. So, I sipped and hit the button.

People walked around me, moving from here to there. I took little notice of them, and they took almost no notice of me. To them, I was nothing but a fellow gambler. A similar creature on God’s Earth. They walked by, taking no notice of me and more importantly, no notice of my winning streak. I was happy about that. I didn’t want their attention. My luck was mine and no one else’s. Why should they be privy to my fortunes? If they saw how well I was doing on this machine, it would no longer be my machine.

Above the screen, Joe gave me a smirk that bit into his cigar. The tip of it glowed a fiery red as the smoke drifted into the air around him and seeped into my nostrils. Roars of black Fords and Wraiths moved up and down the Manhattan street beyond him. Along to my right, an old man in shirt sleeves and an olive-green smock was selling fruits and vegetables. A newsstand to my left ran numerous headlines announcing Johnny Dillinger’s death in Chicago. I met Joey’s deep green eyes. He began to laugh. Not an evil laugh either, but a warm and welcoming chuckle as he reached out to me.

“Old Dillinger’s dead,” Joe said, his teeth moving around the cigar. “The poor old sap, he was one of the good ones for sure, kid. Oh well, what can ya do? Out with the old, in with the new. Push the button.”

Vanessa was back. She stood far down the sidewalk behind Joe. She was dressed in furs and wore that sleek black dress. She looked at me, and I'd be damned if she didn’t raise her finger to me and gestured to me to come closer. Inviting me to go deeper. She beckoned me with every curve of her body along her waist and breasts. The finger she used to gesture me closer, pressing me on, moved along slowly from her lips to the curve of her body.

I hit the button again, and Joe smiled. “Ain’t she a trip?” He said as he winked at me.

My legs began to grow numb. My face was beginning to lose more feeling as I played and played. I was on a hot streak for sure. There was no way I was going to stop. People walked by me, taking no notice of me. I was happy about that, of course, but starting to feel a little creeped out too. A hot machine always draws a crowd. I wasn’t even aware of my total winnings at that point, I just knew I was hitting it big every time. I was feeling like a pitcher would have before he unknowingly throws a perfect game. It was just me and the machine. It was my night. That’s when I glanced down at the bottom of the screen.

My winnings held just above thirty-five thousand.

Usually when you hit money big, there are lights. Sirens. Big flashes of happiness and everyone from all over the floor would come over and congratulate the winner, and you would hear stupid jokes and remarks like some stupid idiot with socks in his sandals claiming he’s your second cousin twice removed, could you help him out? But I sat there alone. I pulled my ticket out of the machine to claim my winnings. There was no mistake here, the ticket read thirty-five thousand and seventy-six dollars. I got up from the seat, leaving an imprint of my bottom as I walked away. As I walked back to the bar to refill my glass, my ticket clenched in my other hand, holding for dear life, I looked back and saw Joe, looking resplendent and fine with his tommy gun in one hand, a cigar in his mouth, tattoos on his arm and eyes that wouldn’t do anything else but laugh with complete delight.

3

When you win about a million at a casino, it would move you into a higher tax bracket, almost by default. I was happy that I hit big but didn’t hit that big. The number on my ticket never changed as I walked to the payout counter. I had almost expected it to, like some sort of cruel trick of the eye, but it never did. Thirty-five thousand and seventy-six. That was the number, and I was happy for it.

I jumped back only a little when I saw the girl behind the counter. Darker red hair, tied behind her head in a ponytail, black rimmed glass, she reminded me of someone. I glanced back at the direction of the slot I had just come from, but it was out of view. I was losing my marbles. There was little to no denying it, but having just won the biggest payout I may ever win in my lifetime, I felt good. Calm. Cool. I felt completely within myself.

“Hello, sir,” the girl behind the small gold bars at the counter said. Her lips were lifted in a curt little smile. Polite but tired from a day’s work. “Can I help you?”

I turned around, bringing myself back to a sense of reality. “Uh, yes please,” I said, coughing just a little. “I would like to cash this ticket out, please? Could I get maybe ten percent of this in cash?”

She took the ticket and her eyes grew a little bit at the number. I didn’t think my request would happen, but it never hurt to ask.

“Well, congratulations, this shouldn’t be a big problem,” she said. Her smile became more genuine, showing a line of straight and clean teeth. I gave her my thanks and she started to get up from her chair. “I’ll be just a second, sir.”

“Yep, sounds great.” I leaned on the counter and glanced around the room. The poor sap with the guitar and little stage had made his way from the Eagles to Jim Croce. Not bad, but this guy wasn’t gonna play Carnegie anytime soon. Others filtered in and out of my view, moving from this machine to the next. Characters of all shapes, sizes, and colors sat at the far card tables under green glass lights from the ceiling. Some tables were even designated smoking area tables. I couldn’t remember a time when you were able to smoke indoors, but it was no real difference to me.

The girl came back but wasn’t alone. Behind her stood an older gentleman in an immaculate three-piece suit. As the girl counted the money in a collection of bills, all of them showing my dear friends Benny F., Ulysses G., and Andy J., the gentleman held out his hand, showing a grin that would have split his head in two if it were any bigger.

“Please allow me to extend my congratulations to you sir.” His hand was immaculate and clean. His tie was triple knotted, his cufflinks sparkling from the lights above. “What a great night for you, I’m sure.”

“Yeah, just lucky,” I said as I shook hands with him. I felt a small chill run through my arm as we shook. I wanted to get out of his grip. I wanted my arm back. I wanted to grab my winnings and get the hell out of there, but when he put my hand in both of his, I felt my nerves and chills subside into a state of comfort and all at once began to relax into his smile.

“Luck probably has something to do with it, of course,” he said, now placing both his hands behind his back. He rocked on his feet from heel to toe as he spoke. “We certainly specialize in luck, but we like to see people make their fortunes and change their lives for the better here. It gives me a sense of pleasure and pride that we’re doing some good in this world.”

“I s’pose.” I glanced over at the counter where the girl was starting to fill out some paperwork for the rest of the winnings.

“I wonder if I could make an invitation to you?” three-piece suit man said.

“What kind of invitation?”

“How would you like to play in our private room, where the stakes are a little higher, the drinks are a little better and the luck and the odds never run dry?”

My brow creased as I looked back at him. “You can’t guarantee wins. Don’t bullshit a bull, mister.”

He let out a chuckle as he reached out for my shoulder. “Oh, I assure you there’s no bullshit here, sir. Come, what have you to lose? Even if it’s for a small amount that you play, you could still walk out a winner, if only it’s that ten percent you just took in cash here that you lose.”

One thing that I have always felt in my heart is that luck will always run out. I had already made a life altering sum. That should have been enough. But I wanted a life-changing one. I was ready for the high life. Tired of working the seven to four shifts of back-breaking labor. Drinking from the bottom shelf. I was ready to go from beer and pizza to steak and wine. Besides, it was Friday and the weekend stretched out in front of me and I was feeling lucky that night.

“Yeah, alright,” I said.

The gentleman’s eyes danced as he took my hand for a second time. “Wonderful, my dear fellow. Please collect your winnings from Angela here and we’ll proceed.” It was only two or three more minutes for me to collect my money and sign for it, good ol’ Uncle Sam needs his cut, and I followed Mr. Three-Piece across the casino floor.

We passed all the slot machines as we walked. Past the few number of card tables, a couple roulette wheels, the bar, the restrooms, the Bob Dylan wannabe with the guitar and toward a small door.

The door itself was nothing special but the three-piece suit guy looked over his shoulder as he reached into his pocket for the keys. No one was watching us, in fact, no one seemed to even take notice of us as we walked toward the back of the casino. The man unlocked the door, and we both stepped into the seeping darkness of the room beyond.

#

The room itself was draped with heavy red curtains, tied back from the walls beyond them by imitation golden rope. Ferns adorned every corner of the room. The ceiling was supported by strong marble columns that ran up with lace carvings. The wooden floor reflected the dim wall lamps that hung off the wall with golden fixtures, giving whatever amount of light the room would support. Dealers stood at the tables in the middle of the room, dealing out cards to the patrons that sat there.

The patrons themselves were dressed to the nines. Pinstripe suits and wing tipped shoes were accompanied by fine ladies of the evening. Their long and beautiful hair of all colors, from black to white to blond to red and brunette, were either worn long or short. Luxurious minks hung around their shoulders as they sipped from their wine glasses. Some of the ladies were playing at the tables, others were watching their dates play the odds, either winning or losing against the house.

The room was quiet except for a simple amount of chatter from each table. Choruses of hit me, or stay, drifted into the air. Their voices were raspy and drawn out. They were tired, I could tell. Not so much by their voices but by their eyes. Deep with purple, bluish hues around them. Strings of blood vessels ran from the corners to the iris. There were no white eyes here. I wasn’t sure if it was the abundance of smoke in the air from the cigarettes, or the over consumption of liquor they were drinking from the bar in the far end of the room, but all the players had those same drawn, dead-eye stares as they played on, and on.

“Right this way Mr. Jones,” the three-piece suit man said as he led me into the room and to the nearest table. The green felt on the leather-lined table was smooth to the touch. The touch of the table’s surface helped my nerves draw further away from the surface of my skin. The chairs were finer leather, adorned with brass buttons that ran along their edges. A cocktail waitress brought me a rum on the rocks, which I didn’t remember ordering, but I was happy for it all the same.

“We cater to comfort as well as fortune,” the manager said. “Sometimes we can’t guarantee one, so we supplement with the other. It seems to me, Mr. Jones, that you have stumbled upon both tonight. If there’s anything I can do to make your stay more pleasurable, please let me or your dealer, who will be here soon, know and we will be happy to oblige.”

The manager gave a small curt bow as he said this. He was turning away from me when I called him back. There was something off-putting about this room. An unease filled the air as cigarette smoke filtered around me. The clinks of glasses drifted and added small parts of percussion to the sweet symphony of chatter. I didn’t believe that cheery voices and conversation came from the mouths of the poor dredges that occupied the room with me. I still can’t believe it.

“Pardon me,” I said. “But the guests here don’t seem all that happy for appearing like folks who have won a bit of money here and dressed as well as they are.”

“Is there a question in there, sir?” He looked at me with a cocked eyebrow, daring me to ask him any kind of question that would contradict how he ran his casino.

“No, no question,” I said. “I guess I’m just curious as to why these folks seem to not be having as good a time.”

The manager stood upright and considered this for a moment. He looked around the room, surveying his guests more than seeing them, as if this was the first time he had met any of them in his life. “Fortune, I suppose, looks different to every man and woman who holds it. Some may find it gratuitous while others think it a curse.”

I looked a little closer at the tables and the other guests, taking in the manager’s words carefully. They were all playing the exact same card game, no more than two players per table with one dealer. But this wasn’t what surprised me. What threw me for an idiot was the lack of money and chips on each table. There were no chips or money on my table either. In fact, there was nothing on the felted surface but a single deck of cards with a hole drilled in the middle.

“Where are the chips?” I asked the manager.

“Oh, you won’t be needing them, sir.”

“I won’t?”

“No, you won’t be betting with money, sir.”

That nervous feeling was creeping up to the surface again like a ghost ship that appears from the ocean after spending years upon years on the ocean floor. “What do people bet here?” I asked.

The manager looked at me, a twinkle in his eye as he lifted the corner of his mouth to half smile. “Time, sir.”

“Time?”

“It seems to us that fortune lays well with you, Mr. Jones. We are simply curious as to how much fortune lays with you. You have taken a good sum from us tonight, and with it, you will leave here with our well wishes. But we are curious to know how you play when something real is on the line. The game, sir, is Blackjack. Or Twenty-One if you prefer, it’s all the same to us. A simple game, with a great deal at stake. A minimum bet per hand is five months of your life. A maximum bet per hand is equal to ten years of your life.”

I looked at him with eyes that couldn’t really comprehend what I was being told. I sipped a little more of my drink and put it back down on the table.

“How is this possible you wonder?” the manager said. “Well, it’s not. Not until you leave this room. You will accumulate a... balance, shall we say? And it won’t go into effect until you have left this room.”

“That’s quite impossible.” My voice sounded calm, but on the verge of hysterics. I was getting angry with this charade. But deep in the depths of my own body, I felt a shaking. A quiver. Deep down, I knew this guy wasn’t bullshitting me. Like the rest of the guests and everyone around me this evening, it was in the eyes.

“I understand your hesitance to believe. But I implore you before you make any conclusions, to meet with your dealer and then decide and think. Think, my good man, a chance to be immortal, what could be more enticing than that?”

The chatter grew around my head. The people I saw sitting there at the neighboring tables all at once, became clearer to me. These people were trapped. Not against their wills, they were of course, free to leave whenever they wanted, but their clothes told me something different. Pants that were supported by buttons rather than zippers. Boots instead of shoes. Dangling bracelets that I had known my own grandmother to wear, but never any girl I’ve taken to bed recently. Furs and minks draped around the shoulders. Feathers in bouffant hair styles. Fedoras in place of the baseball hats that I saw on the main floor. Their eyes were tired. They looked aged but at the same time, healthy against their supposed years. They could leave, sure. But how many of them would croak the big one the minute they walked out the door?

I didn’t want to find out and yet, I wanted to find out and more.

The manager patted the top of my hand and the warm embrace which held me earlier at the checkout counter where I got my winnings, was now a cold, claw-like grip. I looked into the manager’s face, expecting to see a horrid monster. A manlike ghoul that had simply emerged from a crypt with more wisps in his hair than a fine head of black tufts with a hint of gray at the temples. But I saw none of this. I saw the casino manager, as plain as the page I write on.

“I’ll call for Joseph.” The manager gave me a smile and walked back towards the door that I had walked through not too long ago. I sipped at my drink before I turned around in my chair to face the man standing on the other side of the table. It took me a second glance before I realized where I had seen him before.

The dealer stood in front of me with rolled up shirt sleeves that revealed black tattoos on his forearms. His eyes poured into mine over a lower half of his face that was adorned with stubbed cheeks. The sides of his head were shaved so that the top of his head would be showered with wet black hair. His smile was wide and dangerous, from ear to ear.

“How ya doin’, Mac?” Joey Green Eyes said as he shuffled the deck.

4

If I was certain that this was any other night, if I had felt that my luck wasn’t so good, even in the slightest way, I would have gotten up out of my seat and walked away without ever playing a single hand. But this was tonight. My luck was nothing short of outstanding. I had won the biggest amount I had ever won in my life, and now it seemed I was about to play for my life.

Some people would laugh at such things. They wouldn’t even believe that such things are possible. I was one of them, but my mind and heart were changed by the sudden approach and likeness of my dealer to the cartoon gangster that was programmed to the machine I was just playing.

Joey only smiled at me as he shuffled the cards again and again. His fingers moved with incredible dexterity. He picked the cards up in one hand and made them soar into the other, all the while, his eyes never leaving mine. Those green eyes peered at me. His smirk became coy, almost boyish in its playfulness.

“Vanessa will be around in a little bit,” Joe said. “She’s uh...powdering her nose, we’ll say.”

I startled back into my chair and tried to play it off as a small move to get more relaxed. I was sure this wasn’t lost on Joe. “I don’t know any Vanes-”

“Oooohhh, come off it pal,” Joe said. He shook his head, looked down at the table and then back at me. The room was beginning a chorus of collected laughter. When I looked around, I saw that everybody was tied into their own games. Too busy to bother themselves with me. “I know you've been makin’ goo goo eyes at my gal, you might as well sit with her and be a gentleman about it.”

“I truly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Joe leaned on one arm, surveying my attempted coolness as I swerved around in my chair and sipped at my drink. “Okay,” he said. “If you don’t know what I’m talkin’ about, then let’s get started and not waste time while we still have it, eh?”

Cold shivers flew up my spine as he said this. That was a little too close to the situation for my liking, but I waved it off as best I could.

“The boss told you the name of the game is Blackjack, or Twenty-One, whichever you prefer, it’s all the same to me. He told you the high end and the low end? No, don’t answer that, I know he did. That’s why he’s the boss. What’s your first bet, mac?”

What do I have to lose? I thought. Nothing much, only a few days at most or least. There’s nothing that says I have to stay here forever like the rest of these poor idiots, but suppose my luck runs out? Suppose I put up more than I bring in? All this and more ran through my head like a girl running the Boston Marathon in the twenty-third mile. Long. Laborsome. Tiring. But one thought came to mind, and it trumped away the rest like an ace-high card; you’ll never know how it feels to be immortal if you never try to be immortal.

“Let’s start with ten days,” I said.

Joey showed straight and clean white teeth.

#

Two cards were placed in front of me, both face up so Joe and I could see what they were. A nine and a Jack. Then Joe placed two cards on the table in front of him, the house’s hand. One card was face up, the other face down. The face up card was a seven. I liked my odds of winning this first hand and I felt my shoulders begin to ease. Joe looked at me as his shoulders were forced to his jaws from his propped arms on the table. He stood there, waiting for my move.

“I’ll stay,” I said. Nineteen was a great number, and I liked what could be tonight. Besides, my luck hadn’t run out yet.

“The sap’ll stay,” Joey said. Not exactly endearing bedside manners, but I didn’t know what to expect from a gangster out of a machine. He flipped over his second card and came up with a Queen to accompany his seven. When the house cards add up to seventeen, they are ordered to stay, anything less than seventeen, and they’re required to hit and draw another card.

There are moments in physical and metaphysical beings where the universe may open wide and kick a certain event into place for the betterment of mankind or for an individual person. We hardly can tell when that happens, and it’s often followed by a question of Why me, God? But no matter the reason, the answer is almost always the same, Because I’m the house, and I make the rules. In that moment of getting ten days added to whatever life I had left, I didn’t feel anything different. I couldn’t feel anything different. The winnings and losses only collect once I leave the room. While I pondered all this over, Joe had begun the next hand. “What’ll you bet, pal?” he asked.

“So, it’s pal now, huh?”

“Just a figure o’ speech, I don’t get chummy, ‘cept with ‘Nessa.”

“I’ll bet two months.”

“Two months it is...”

He dealt out the second hand. He put a three and a king in front of me, both face up again, and a four in front of him. The second card was once again faced down. Thirteen didn’t give me a whole lot, especially considering that Joe would have to add card after card to get to seventeen.

“Hit me,” I said.

The third card was dealt as a ten.

Joey said as he began to lay his cards down. “A bust is a helluva thing, pal,” he said as he blew smoke from around his cigar. The face down card was a five, followed by two more fives. Nineteen. He stayed and won two months from me.

It was my first loss of the night. I knew it was bound to happen at some point. The run at the slot machine was too good to last. But it happened. I only had to reach into my pocket to know that. I knew I could win those two months back and more.

“Next hand, please,” I said. “Three months this time.” My right knee was bouncing up and down from the support bars of the chair. My elbows supported my weight on the table’s edge, and in the faint, dark reaches of the room, Joey began to chuckle.

“Let’s get your drink filled, mac.” Then as if on cue, Venessa slid into the seat next me, a bottle of spiced amber colored rum in her left hand.

“How ya doin’ long legs?” She said, her hair and lips as voluptuous as ever I had seen or imagined before.

“Fine, thanks,” I said, doing my best to be polite to the gangster’s girl.

“Bet’s three months,” Joe said as he began to deal.

“A sucker’s bet,” Vanessa said, crossing her legs and lighting a cigarette of her own.

“That’s what I think, but hey,” Joe said. “It’s his life.”

Two cards were laid down in front of me, a four and a five. Joe put down his cards, showing only a two.

“Hit me,” I said. Joe put down a two. I played for two more cards and came up busting once again. Joe flipped over his second card, revealing a queen. He played two more times, pulling up a three and a four to give himself nineteen and once again, taking more time away from me in a win.

“Awe,” Vanessa said, running her fingertips along my arm. “Poor little baby.”

“You had enough, mac?” Joe asked. “Or do you want more? Some saps crack about this time and run while they can. Whatta ya want?”

“I wanna win,” I said, causing Vanessa to burst laughter from the depths of her own gut. My eyes never left Joe’s. His cigar teeter-tottered in his mouth first to the left and then to the right.

“What’s your bet, playboy?” he asked.

“Five years.” The room’s volume dimmed but only a little. A few other guests looked our way, if only for a few moments, and then resumed their own games of fate. Joe cocked an eyebrow in a look that said it was on my own ass and dealt the next hand. Vanessa crossed her legs one over the other and leaned over to see the cards being played, almost daring me to sneak a peek down her dress. I would be lying to say I didn’t want to do just that, but I kept my cool and kept my eyes on the table and cards in front of me.

Joey dealt a Queen. Not a bad start for five more years. The next card was a three. The diamonds seemed to have glittered up at me from some unknown source, bringing me back to the look of my own mother’s earrings from my childhood, as I watched her pretty herself up for a date night with my old man. Simpler times. Happier times. Yet in the here and now, the times weren’t turning out to be as happy as they were only a good twenty minutes ago. I asked Joey to deal another card.

My muscles began to tighten. My leg was pumping an invisible bike tire pump. My thumb drummed against the other leg while my non-drumming hand reached for the drink. Joe placed a card on the table and slowly flipped it over.

An eight! Twenty-one! Oh, praise the Heavens!

A laugh escaped my breath as the tension left my body. My leg slowed down and my thumb finished its percussion concert. Joey’s hand had shown only a queen, and as he flipped the second card over, I knew a greater sense of relief when I saw the eight of hearts there. He had to stay. I had won perhaps the biggest bet I had made in my life.

A certain tension filled my table. Joe’s face became more of a grimace than a smile that he had been known for all these years. The house usually wins, it is true, but on a bet as big as five years on a man’s life, what bet could be bigger?

“Oh God,” Vanessa said. Her eyes were as big as teacup saucers and they danced between Joey and me. “It’s fine, Joey. Just keep going, baby.” Her voice wasn’t as calm now. The muscles on Joey’s forearms formed little hills and divots. His knuckles ran white with tight aggression.

“Your bet.” Joey Green Eyes didn’t like to lose. If his voice didn’t say as much, the tommy gun he had leaned up against the table, almost appearing out of nowhere, did.

I was determined to take the house as big as I could, and why not? For as weird as this night had been, it was still Friday and I had nowhere else to be in the morning.

“Ten years,” I said.

The room went silent. Patrons and guests froze in their chairs. Drinks and glass were still in a suspension of time and space. No one moved, no one spoke. Vanessa sat frozen to her seat, as beautiful as the evening sunsets, her fingers touching her lips. It was just Joey Green Eyes, Me, and the cards.

He laid down my two cards. The first one a ten of spades. The second an eight of clubs. Then he laid down his first card. An eight. The second card lay face down.

“What’s your play?” Joe said, tapping his right pinky near to where the tommy gun was propped.

“I’ll stay,” I said.

Joe shrugged and flipped his second card over to reveal a nine. Seventeen. He had to stay. I had won ten years, by one measly little number.

Joe grabbed his weapon in a fit of rage, his hair flying from his scalp, his temper rising like the temperature. His face ran scarlet as he swung the tommy gun to the floor, breaking it as if it were made of plastic. The rest of the room hid their glances away from us, only some daring to take a look.

“Joey! Joey!” Vanessa was on her feet and putting her arms around the mobster. She began to whisper into Joe’s ear. I couldn’t make out what she said, but whatever it was, it worked. The color had sunk away from Joe’s face as he straightened his tie and began to run his hands through his hair.

“Alright, ass hat,” he said as he moved back to his dealer spot opposite me. “What ya bettin’ now?”

5

The hours passed me by like the tides passing an ocean liner. How many hands of cards were dealt, I wish I could tell, and even more perplexing was how much time was dealt, won, and lost. As was promised to me, the clock started ticking the moment I left that room.

Joey seemed to be the only one to notice that I had left. All my fellow gamblers had stayed there, transfixed in their own life games. They gambled. They won. They lost. Their time never ended, nor had it ever begun.

The casino floor was as it was when I entered the room. The sad people walking from machine to machine. No time had passed. The idiot on the stage was setting up a recorded drum machine to help keep time for his cluttered mess of guitar playing. I put my hand in my pocket and pulled out the paperwork that showed my winnings from the slot machine earlier. That same machine was now occupied by a woman now. She couldn't have been more than seventy-five, but the wrinkles around her eyes grew, and the lines on her mouth pulled down whatever beauty she had in her youth.

I put my winnings slip back in my pocket and pulled out another slip of paper. I opened it from the folds and found nothing more than the number thirty-three in the middle, written in red ink.

 Thirty-three. Thirty-three what? Years? Minutes? Seconds? Hours? Weeks? Days? I never found out. I've counted everything up to that number for the rest of my days, never knowing, always guessing. I've returned to that same casino on and off, trying desperately to get back into that room, but I never reached that same amount of luck or fate.

My thoughts run constantly, keeping me deep into states of insomniac delirium, trying to figure out the circumstances that surrounded that night, but I've always ended my nights the same way, in drunken stupor.

But I can always feel it closing in on my shoulders. My time is ending. The cards have been dealt. And when the moment comes, I'll hit, or stand.

Time is running out.

The house has won.