Milwaukee II

To make the big bucks you bet on a number. I know that much. I can multiply my cash by thirty six, not just double. What number should I put it on? I sat on the small stool and thought. One stool of many jammed too close to each other to fit as many people as you can on this table. I ponder and wander across the numbers. I want to put my hand on their little tiles. To learn each one. To feel the power that lays under the scrawl on the felt. 

1- 36… so few numbers in the infinite spectrum of such. But numbers stack against each other. Used again and again to become something greater. It’s like a stream as they build up their power. Broken loose to rise. It made my stomach churn thinking of the collection in front of me. I imagined myself on a table stretching to the horizon. Numbers piled up and extended onward. I imagine placing my life on one tile as I walk across this boardwalk and let the ball roll. God it feels good to let go of it all. To let luck decide. But it was terrifying too. This is the bet our ancestors make for us. Placing our delicate little life on a bet and letting the world roll the ball. So if they did that, I can at least saddle up and choose one out of thirty-six…

 But on the left side there sit the zeroes… I could place it on zero or double zero. Those are what skew the odds to the house's favor, I realized. It would be foolish to place my coin there. They don’t work for me. Although I felt like a zero my whole life...

But maybe they do too? Maybe they resent their job. Maybe they would look favorably at me this one time. 

I’m being silly.

I withdraw my hand, clicking the chips in my palm curiously. Feeling their weight.

I’m gonna put it all out there. I have forty dollars now. I bite my lip. 

I go through the numbers again. Searching for the one to win me my due reward. I know in my heart of hearts that the numbers are all the same. They all have the same odds of catching that little white ball. But deeper than that I know, I don’t truly believe that. There is a dark part of me. Childish, foolish part that believes numbers have power. I am not superstitious. I have stated that plainly many times in my life. Bluntly. Unapologetically. 

But I am actually. Worse, that means I am a liar. To myself most of all. And everytime I say those words I think about the small rituals I do when no one is looking. To ward off dangers and hold onto luck. “But it’s just for small things,” I say to myself. “They do not dictate my life” or “I don’t even believe them.” But why do small things not dictate one's life? Isn’t life mainly small moments? And if you don’t believe in them, why do it? Why hold my breath driving through tunnels, or never touch a ouija board, or throw coins in a fountain and wish on them. 

No, I am a liar. 

Secretly I believe those tiles are not just printed on felt. They are printed on hope, chance, luck and fate. When I place my chips on there, for a spin, I live in a moment that is not just random numbers. It is a childlike world. One that taps into that hidden place inside of me. The small part of me that used to think the stuffed animals by my bedside protect me from the monsters in the dark. Or that there were worlds beyond the wardrobe if only I could enter them. Or that luck was something that could be caught and hung onto like a kite. 

Or if you leap from a great height you might fly.

And in these weeks of chasing an illusive man was I not correct? Things were not as they seemed? The unexplainable mapped and charted by a dog I call my best friend. So why can’t numbers call to you, if you know how to listen? Why can’t fate take refuge in a small felt tile? It hung on a die before this. Why couldn’t I tap into that right now? Why couldn’t I get lucky one more time?

I need a number that calls me. I will know it when I focus on it.

I have felt like a zero my entire life. Maybe that one? But the zeros don’t feel like me anymore. She hated those disparaging remarks I made.

But still I feel like a loner. A weirdo. A loser. 

I need a number that is me. That surrounds me. A number that is hardly chosen. That is forgotten about. 20 and up might be good for that. I imagine they are not picked as often as other numbers, like one through 9.

Teen numbers might be good… But my teenage years weren’t my fondest.

Increments of ten rule our life, why wouldn't it rule our betting? Even numbers after that. Even numbers make everything easier, that’s ingrained in us as children. I'm sure people bet on the evens more often than the odds. And I am odd. That sounds good to me.  

But hmmm. Maybe not one that ends with a five. A number that ends with a five is almost an honorary even number. 

No tens, no evens, no fives. 

So what do I pick? What does that leave me? Maybe I am overthinking this all… Maybe I leave it to someone else to decide. 

~

What would you have me pick? Reader. 

You, who I can tell, are hunched in lowlight. Squirreled away from a world that passes around you. You thought you would have respite here? What a notion. I have not had respite in some time and you ask me to treat you differently? 

Oh, you thought you’d get away from me unscathed huh? You thought I would stay on these pages, far away. But I can cross worlds, remember? I know you haven’t forgotten. It’s the only reason you keep turning my pages. Ushering me forward to my damnation. You have been inducted into my world, so why can’t I enter yours, just a bit? I know these very thoughts and movements are typed out into a book. I know because I read it some, remember?

I held the very same book you held… mayhaps? 

It couldn’t be the same book… Could it? 

But why not? These are strange times.

And now you are thinking. Thinking hard how you got to claim this book. Did it not fall into your hands by a play of fate? Don’t worry, that's been happening a lot lately.

Just pretend it’s all fiction. It’s often easier that way. A little trick the author used. A little break in style, direction, and prose. Of course this story doesn't exist. Of course it can’t... But have you not been listening well? There are many worlds hidden behind each other. Like a stack of mirrors in a hallway that stretches forever. Have you not passed through them yourself? Have you known something to be true and walked into a room and now that thing has changed. It was not how you recall at all. Oh yes. Indeed.  

Now I feel your worry. Don’t become like your friend on the pages. God, can I call you my friend? I think you spur me forward. I think if you put the book down we might all make it out of this alive. But I don’t want you to. I want to see this to the end. Live your life how you see fit, friend. 

I will call you that. I haven’t made a friend in sometime.

Do you think you’re apt for this story too? I hope you do. But... Do as you wish, and believe what you believe. Do it as blandly and as boring as you like. As surely as you like. Say “I don’t know many things but I know this to be true!” even if I am telling you it’s not. You don’t have to believe me. We all state sure-words even if we don’t believe them ourselves. I said that earlier, did you read that part?  

I know you question it. That’s all I want. I want you to look around with eyes made fresh. Like that small part of me that’s hidden. That’s hidden in all of us. I can tell the same is true for you. You aren’t sure about a thing. Deep down. So just fall into that a bit. Fall into that small dark place so reading these pages are easier for you. Where the worlds don’t rush by like a river unfelt but instead lift you up like how a boat is lifted on a calm sea. 

And think of this my reader, my friend. Think of the numbers before us. Thirty six numbers. And two zeroes, you mustn't forget those. What would you have me pick? Let’s win together. Shut out this cruel world. A distraction. For a little. 

We are all winners, baby. Our prize waits for us until we claim it. At the end of things. 

What is the number, tell me?

Good. 

Now hold your breath.

~

I watched the ball come to a standstill. It didn’t quite register what had happened until the dealer placed his marker on my tile. Placing it on my little stack of chips. 

“Winner,” He said, raising his eyebrows. He hadn’t expected it either.

Some passerby gripped my shoulder. “Good job dude,” I heard him say. I couldn’t even tell you what they looked like. He was already whisked away in the traffic of this place. I was too focused on my chips. He called me a winner? No, I must have done something wrong. I won’t believe it until they hand me that money.

“So what?” I stammered. “I won like a hundred bucks or something?” I asked.

Thomas was smiling and already waving over the pit boss. He laughed at my naivety. “40 dollars,” He said int in that southeast asian accent. “1440.” He stated. 

“Oh, that’s a lot of gas money.” I muttered.

Thomas laughed again repeating what I said to his boss as he approached. 

“It certainly is a lot of gas money.” A square shouldered man in a suit said to me. His belly rolling over the edge of the roulette table. Thomas counted out my chips which took a short while. He handed me one hundred in single chips, two twenty dollar chips and thirteen black chips. 

When they and my original forty were all scooted in front of me I just stared at them.

“And I can just take these?” I asked the pit boss. 

He smiled and nodded. “But,” he added. “If you want you can play more. Thomas can stay awhile and keep spinning. This might be just the start for you.” 

“I think he’s off work soon.” I noted.

They looked at each and Thomas shrugged.

“He doesn’t mind.” The pit boss said. 

“No, it’s okay. I’m sure he’s had a long day” An idea crossed my mind. “Actually... I wonder if someone else is working tonight?”