One More Hand

When you get into your late sixties, you realize that, time-wise, no matter what you do, you are playing Black-Jack against the house.

Everything, win or lose, rests on your next card.

And you are always playing with your next month’s rent money. Life isn’t Monopoly.

So you have to keep winning.

Because the moment you lose, the house cashes in your chips.

The next card you get has a prayer on it.

Game over.

Sometimes there is no royalty in your cards.

So you play the hand you are dealt.

Hope for the best.

When I wrote The Wise Ass, just a few years ago, but well into my sixth decade, I felt like that guy. The first time player who had never seen the inside of a casino. Never been to Vegas.

Afraid to ante up.

The decades before, I never had the balls to sit down at the table. If I didn’t play I couldn’t lose. Gambling is scary. One of my ancestors lost his small fortune at the track. Don’t stick your neck out. Play it safe.

Be a lawyer. A happy flea on the winning dog. Get your adrenaline rush from their blood.

I had sat on the side lines watching the high rollers in entertainment score big.

I always kept my eye on the writers. Bestsellers. Movie deals. Exciting to watch. Food for dreams. Trying not to think about it when you are awake, leading that life of quiet desperation.

Suddenly, you’re in that last act. Wondering if you are ever going to retire, but thinking you’ll probably die at your desk.

Then, when you least expect it. Opportunity knocks.

There you are, driving your ten year old metaphor with white walls west from Colorado to Disney World, to check off one more thing on the Bucket list. You have a grand in cash in your pocket to spend on your trip. Just enough.

As you are passing through the southern tip of Nevada, on that last stretch before Cali, your car breaks down just outside of Laughlin. It will take $500 bucks and a few hours to kill before you are back on the road.

Suddenly Disney looks only half as much fun. Maybe, you’ll turn around and go home.

Something to think about while you wait for the car.

But its hot out, so you need to find a cool place to rest.

Turns out there is a small casino corridor just a few blocks from the garage. Can’t hurt to look. Nothing to worry about. It’s not Vegas, where all the Sirens sing.

You take a hundred of your stash and change it in for a small handful of chips. You can always change them back. But it won’t hurt to take the tour. Walk the floor. Just so you can say you did it.

You watch some silver haired tourists work the one armed bandits, as your eyes adjust to the interior light. You hear the cries of the roller throwing crap at the crap table as each of the gone cold die stare back at him with snake eyes. A wealthy mutton dressed up as a lamb, but still very attractive thanks to the gym, a little Botox and maybe a few surgical tweaks, leers lecherously at the handsome young cowboy beside her as he places his small stack of her chips on red 16 at the roulette table. He’s feeling the luck of youth and dreaming of making enough money to get to Hollywood for his big break in acting while she’s dreaming of recapturing that one more night of passion he promised her for that few hundred dollars in chips. She’s not looking for love. Neither is he. No one will be disappointed.

The desperation in the air is palpable. Then you realize its coming from you.

You see an open seat at a curved table. You watch and recognize the game your friend, Joe Serrano, taught you back at Aunt Violet’s Flop House. 21.

Of course, he always won. Lucky bastard.

At worst, it will be a painless lesson. One hand. All in. Then back to the garage. You can say you tried.

Just like sitting down in front of the blank screen on your computer.

The first hand I was dealt started with a Nine of Clubs and a Two of Diamonds. No royalty. Luckily, the next card off the top of the deck was a Jack of Hearts. 21. Pay me.

Deal. Again. Let it ride.

Each new hand you leave your chips building on the table. In for a dime, in for a dollar.

The heart races and the adrenaline flows. You cannot believe your luck.

Over this last three years, I’ve kept that winning streak going three more times with The Claire Saga. Sometimes, like with TWA, it just took the one new card. Other times it took a few more cards to cobble together the win. But each time I’ve managed to beat the house.

Every hand has reached 21. The House hasn’t drawn a card.

All the other players have left the table.

It’s just me.

Of course, now all of the Casino’s mucky-mucks have come over to the table to see why a crowd is gathering around. The Surveillance Team has their overhead cameras trained on me. The Pit Boss has changed out the Dealer. The friendly old Barber type on my low rent table has been swapped out for some young, beautiful woman with a mesmerizing set of peepers, a black-light smile, magician hands and about 600 ccs of silicone beneath a few open buttons to distract me. The management has their best spotter standing behind me trying to figure out if I’m counting the cards.

After all, who the fuck is this old lucky bastard who walked in off the street while just passing through.

Suddenly the alcohol beverages are on the house, coming faster and tasting a little stronger. I’m feeling the buzz.

I glance at my iPhone, my time is almost up, that car must be ready by now. Maybe I should cash in my chips. Head to Disney World. Take the win. Get out.

But I feel like I got one more game in me.

My inner circle has read the novel. They’ve got their hands on my shoulders and keep cheering me on. I’ve seen the cover, and its a killer.

Maybe this time, my fifth, I’ll win on that fifth card. A five-card Claire, Charlie is overrated.

But I’m hoping to win on the first two cards dealt – Black Jack.

If the House doesn’t beat me this time, maybe I’ll skip Disney World for Hollywood.

I just glanced at my phone. I have until April 16th.

Fuck it. Let it ride. Let’s see where the ley lines meet.

And, it’s another Friday. The weekend before Halloween.

Maybe that’s what has got me excited this morning.

I can feel the magik.

It feels like Christmas.

Hopefully, you fine, five readers have a fun costume party tee’d up for the weekend.

Maybe some spooky movies are on the menu.

Maybe a scary book. The Exorcist fits both those bills.

If you got kids, carve a pumpkin, make those last minute tweaks to their costumes for Tuesday.

Let them be who they want. Let them dream.

And don’t be afraid to dream yourself.

It’s never too late.

Dare greatly.

But now, get that last cuppa in you and get off to work, where you can plan all of your fun while the boss thinks you are producing.

Me, I have a legal brief to write, but I’ll be dreaming of that game of Black Jack.

Hoping for an Ace and some royalty off the top of the deck.

First, a kitty to cuddle and some rounds to make.

Dreaming and/or working, let’s make today a great one.