THE LITTLE WHITE DIE

The die had seen the newcomer and felt excitement. As much excitement as an inanimate object could feel. Which of course depends on the object and what it was doing. For the little white die with black dots and rounded edges it knew exactly what it was doing. It was doing its purpose. It was being rolled into a cardboard box. How joyous. What a simple act full of possibility. The rush the die felt never dwindled when it was being used in this way. Because this die, unlike it’s compatriot, didn’t believe it was anything other than what it was. And took such joy from being especially that. As long as it was being used, it was happy.

Which wasn’t always so. 

A long time ago it was from a child's board game. What board game? It could never rightly guess. For it was a die and had no concept of the human language. Nor did it have eyes so it could not read the bold white lettering on the box it came from. Or on the laminated board that the players rolled it and it’s old family on. It tried to ask the little plastic pieces that the family moved across the board on painted spaces but they seemed to be on different wavelengths. Frankly the dice thought the plastic game pieces were beneath them while the game pieces thought the same of the dice family. They tried to avoid each other best they could. But that wasn’t important. What was important was that when rolled the family would cheer and jeer and laugh and gasp. 

Emotions poured out of them. Just from the dice doing their jobs. Such simple jobs. Hardly even a job. Just from existing and moving and rolling the family would lose their minds. The die always wished it could express itself like that. It was envious in a way. These complex meat bags with appendages, would hang on every toss and turn and landing of the die. Enamored with them and their outcome. Do any people pay this sort of attention to one another? The die would wonder. Rarely would the die see people look at each other like how they stared at them. So very invested. In awe. Infatuated. Drunk on the very essence of the die and it’s little black dots that would face to the heavens. 

But the small family had its moments. He saw when he was lucky enough to see, the glances, the laughs, and the long lingering looks they shared with one another. The husband to the wife, the wife to the daughter, and the daughter to the younger baby. They all looked at one another in different ways, sometimes expressing it with a word, sometimes with a touch. Different emotions in different couplings. So many combinations... their expressions, their interest… was as varied as the dice outcomes they would roll. And this is when the die realized they were all not so different. And after that each time the die was used, well, the little die never took it for granted.

For it was so special to be able to share their attention. If only for a little bit. If only to catch a glimpse of those looks at one another and how they adored the dice. 

But the die knew that good times end. Eventually. 

He watched them age. He watched them stop playing as frequently. And one of the last times they did, they seemed uninterested. They no longer hung on every roll of the die and its family. They no longer hung on every word that they spoke to one another. And eventually they played a game that they never finished. 

A game never finished is an ill omen. 

The daughter knew this. As yelling exploded in the household the daughter looked at the little white die. She took it in her tender hand and clutched it. Whisking it away to her room. She played with it some and the die was satisfied. As long as it was being used it was happy. Even without it’s family. She carried the die with her everywhere. Until one day losing it in the park. 

The die did not know how long it was there for. Dice didn’t have a brain to comprehend time after all. But it was found a dozen times and lost again. Its purpose was lost. It was sure it would never be used again. Never be rolled again. Never make anything happy ever again. It would just exist until it didn’t. Eventually the sand around it would wear it down into nothing and it would be lost, truly. That was okay. It was just thankful that for a while it knew its purpose. It achieved it. 

But of course that did not happen. One day a boy found the die and stuck it up his nose. He was stuck there for sometime until the father of the boy removed it, scolded the boy, and placed the die in the trash. The die sat there on top of a greasy fast food paper bag when it was found by the man with the waxed mustache. He of course was looking for a leftover meal and aluminum cans. But instead he found the little white die. After that it wound its way to this new home. Playing a new game.  

And now the new flappy balding man picked the two dice up. He looked and paid attention to every detail on the die’s little frame. The die almost squealed in excitement. Although of course it was never even close to doing so because dice don’t have vocal cords. The man shook it in his hand and the excitement around built.

He released. They scattered across the box’s walls and landed finally inert. It’s single black dot was facing up. 

“One. He rolled a one. Well this was good. If my cohort is a six the newcomer would win!” The die always wanted whoever was rolling it to win. They would win their little stacks of paper and seemingly be pleased. The die knew that paper was important but could not figure out why. It was always dirty and unhappy and didn’t seem like it had much of a purpose other than being traded around indefinitely. 

On looking over to it’s cohort (Not that it had eyes to truly see) it saw that the red casino die also had a one facing up. “Damn, that means the roll was two. He loses” 

“Bad luck. Craps” Solomon said, smiling. He collected the little stack. “Let’s go again before we let someone else collect money off you?” He winked in a most handsome fashion at the newcomer. 

“Alright,” He placed two bucks down. “I’m ready now.” He retorted.

Bone, you could tell wanted in on the action but he would have to be satisfied with side bets. Solomon made the rules; it was Solomon's dice afterall. 

“If only my cohort had landed on a six not a one. What a time to match!” The white die liked it’s buddy. Even though the red casino die was quiet and often sad. Even when rolled. You see, it was part of a set. And long ago its partner was lost. So now it was alone. Or felt that way even with the new little white die. They were not of the same mold. The die understood. Losing your other half would be hard, it would make anything unconsolable. The white die did not hold it against it. And being sullen is a beautiful thing sometimes, especially for a die that can’t truly experience that emotion.  

The next rolls were an eleven and another eleven. This made the newcomer win two bets in a row and the momentum and energy around the dice rose. They congratulated him and he began to roll the die in quicker successions. This made the white die feel joyous. And excitement peaked when the white die landed on a six. It was ecstatic. They were holding their breath as the red die continued to spin in place after its bounce. The casino die slowed and stopped and was not a five and the newcomer did not win right away again. Instead it was a three. So the roll was nine and now they had to land on nine again for him to win. The people above muttered the same sentiments in their odd click clacking, lip smacking guttural and hissing language. 

The white die knew it nor the casino die were to blame for the lackluster results. As much as it wanted to win for the man on every roll. It was not up to it. Neither die could decide what to land on. They were simply made. Crafted. Created to have different options. They were helpless to fate or to the winds or whatever you believe once they were released. The die could want more than anything in the world to land on one but unfortunately there were always many outcomes. That was it’s design. In it, it held great fortune and great tragedy. It never truly got to pick. It wondered if people ever felt the same about themselves? 

Of course not. They were much more complex and knew much more than six little options. They had to be able to make anything they wanted out of anything they were given. 

Right? 

Humans were creatures of actions after all, and dice are creatures of effect. Different from each other. The little die had to wait around and be acted on by a person to share its purpose. It had to wait for intervention. It had to be found and rolled. Whereas humans do the finding. Humans can track down their purpose and walk right up to it. Because they have legs, you see? What good are legs if they don’t take you to your destiny? But the die thought maybe that wasn’t right. The die knew that many people that played with them were troubled. Solomon would say so often. Talk in length with many of them. He was troubled too. In late night discussions he would say how he had traveled around the world. “But, everywhere is too similar for me. You know why?” he’d ask. “All those places had only one thing in common I could think of. Me.” 

Maybe Solomon’s travels were like a roll of the die. Maybe they were closer to each other than he thought. Every time Solomon ended up somewhere new it was like how the die would stop spinning. Maybe he wasn’t happy with the outcome on top. So he’d roll again. 

But you can roll a thousand times and never get the number you want. It all comes down to luck. But that wasn’t always bad. The number would show up eventually. It had too. You just had to hang in there and keep rolling. Most of the time that's half the fun.

Sometimes winning one dollar is more exciting than winning a hundred. That’s what the die determined. If you rolled fifty times before you hit your number, before you win. There's a certain energy to that that can’t be replicated. Not even when you win one hundred off the first roll. It’s not as rewarding. 

But all this thought (that couldn’t rightly be happening because a die has no soul) was interrupted by the newcomer picking up the die. He rolled and rolled again. Fishing for that nine. Holding his breath a seven wouldn’t end his session. While doing so the die heard them speak about their bets, side bets. How best to play the game. The die had heard similar discussions over it, thousands of times now. It was paying attention to the words in between those. All the while so hoping it would contribute to a nine for the newcomer. 

The die learned that this newcomer was looking for the vagabond king. That meant he was looking for Solomon. But Solomon was right there. In front of him. And his tight lipped smile underneath that beard would not give himself away to the stranger. But the others looked at him. Letting the newcomer talk. And make a fool of himself. He kept repeating that he was looking for the ‘Hobo King’ which the die was sure was not a real thing. Finally Solomon corrected him. 

He hated that word used for him. The die knew. But on his correction he still kept himself quiet. Hiding who he was. It wasn’t the others to say so they kept this secret under the table. Like side bets between themselves. The die still rolled. And rolled. On each different number money would trade hands but the newcomer would not win his. The dice landed on numbers all around nine and it’s rival seven. They circled the two like vultures do, the die thought, not that it has ever seen a vulture. It didn’t have eyes to see. 

The newcomer breathed deep. He told them of who he wanted to meet. A gangster. Not one well liked in their ranks. The die had heard, he was known for peddling drugs and acting like wasn't still a teenager. A few more questions were thrown at him. And he responded in between tosses. The die didn’t mind that he would hold them for a long time. The excitement of the roll lingering. The die enjoyed the touch of the man's sweaty palm. He enjoyed being held. The casino die was the opposite, it was all business. He just wanted the bet to be done and move hands. Endless rolling sickened him. A miserable existence if you are a die that doesn’t enjoy your purpose along the way.

The newcomer said he was looking for drugs. Solomon did not believe this. The others bit their tongues.

He said he was looking for a friend of his. A mutual friend who disappeared on him in New Orleans. The friend owed him money. Solomon called him a liar. 

He said the man was not actually a friend, but a money lender. A bigger gangster than this little Pablo really. Solomon thought a while. The others discussed. They had never heard of a money lender working with Pablo. They never knew Pablo was loaning money to begin with. But if there was someone in the city like that. Pablo or his troop might know. They were often at the casino. The real one. Not this back alley cardboard one. 

Solomon stopped the newcomer. The die almost fell from his shaking hand. So eager to plop the die into the box again. Ready to finish his turn. A new bet was placed between the men. 

Solomon countered if the newcomer rolled his nine, he would take this man to the Vagabond King. He would get the location of this gangster. The man would depart with what he wanted. It was up to the die to decide. If he didn’t, if the seven came, he would walk away empty handed. 

The man agreed. He looked down at the little die in his hands. 

Now the die didn’t know what to do. He belonged to Solomon and now the bet was no longer little pieces of meaningless paper. It was secrets. It was hushed tones that made the die so uneasy. It was things that made people raise their voices and never use the die again. It was no longer a game but something more. Something the die didn’t like to be. Spurring on someone else's life, their path, that’s what legs are for, why put it on the die? This die belonged in a child's board game. This die had come a long way. This die liked trading paper. Now it was something more. Now something terrible hinged on it. And it didn’t know what to do. What could it do? What could it do? It was a bastard thing to do. To place weight on anything but yourself. Even a die. 

But humans always did silly things like that. Flip coins to decide their fate when they knew what they wanted to do deep inside. Why did they do that? Was it because they didn’t actually want what they wanted? They wanted to be punished or reassured they were wrong? If the die was one of them it would never do such a thing. 

As the die faced up in the man's palm. It understood what the newcomer was thinking. Because dice can read things like that. Obviously.

He thought not about his fate. Or about who he was looking for. He seemed to not even care about the bet at all. He had sadness to him and was caught in remembrance. The die was turned over in his fingers and the man thought about how this die, this little white dirty die, reminded him of someone. He wondered how far this little white die had come? The story it could tell if it could talk. The funny thing is he not only thought that but he tried to listen to the answer. 

The die never was looked at like that before. No one had opened up to it quite like that. Why would they? To carry it in their heart and look at it as more than just a piece of plastic. The die noted it wasn’t an eager asking look. Not a “What can you do for me?” look. But one of kindness. Of curiosity. Of gratitude. Of apologies.
The die knew what it would like to do. It decided it would like to help this man. But maybe that was rolling the seven? Maybe turning him away was the best thing the die could do. It knew his road only ended in a dead end. Or worse. 

No, it wanted to help him. So the die told its coworker what to land on. The white die would land on its own selected number. They would try and get this nine. They would get this man what he wanted. Not that they actually could at all. They were just carved pieces of luck. Not able to have an actual dialogue at all. Furthermore, if a die could even want to land on one side more than anything in the world it still was helpless to its role. Wasn’t it? 

The die was now not so sure. 

Maybe believing changed things.