Richard Lange - Sweet Nothing

He runs Lupe’s ticket through his machine. The payout is $108.80. I have him apply two dollars of that to a win bet on Tooth Fairy.

“How do you want the rest?” he says. “Twenties okay?”

The horses have reached the gate. Mine will be the clerk’s last wager for this race. I’ve waited until now so that whatever decision I come to will be final. You could second-guess the move I’m thinking of making forever, and it’s going to haunt me whichever way it goes. It’s going to change the things I say to myself when I can’t sleep.

“Sir?” the clerk says.

I barely get the words out: “Give me a hundred to win on five.”

The clerk repeats the bet as he types it in, then hands me $6.80 in change and closes his window. We’re gambling now, friends. I spin the cylinder and press the revolver to my temple. If Rocket Man wins, Lupe will never know I borrowed from her. If he loses — he can’t lose. I don’t even want to put that out there.

I feel like my skin is two sizes too small, like I’m going to rip if I move too fast. I make my way gingerly to the nearest bar, spend Lupe’s change on vodka. The race starts as I raise the glass to my lips.

The announcer’s voice bounces wildly in the cavern beneath the grandstand. “Rocket Man,” I hear, but that’s all I can make out. I move closer to a blurry monitor and crane my neck with the other men standing there. Rocket Man is in front, he’s in front, and then he’s not. The favorite has finally come in, and Rocket Man is a distant third.

Pow! My brains are all over the table. I finish the vodka and hurry to the exit leading to the parking lot. Lupe, Lupe, Lupe. Forgive me, chica . You deserve better. And, really, what chance did we have? You’ve got Jesse, a job, a place in this world, and I’m still walking a tightrope where every time I fall, it’s a mess.

I get all the way to the gate before my conscience catches up to me. Betting Lupe’s money was my mistake. All she did was happen upon a crime in progress, and what kind of dog would I be if I stranded her here because of that? I’ll lie to a liar, cheat a cheater, and rob a thief blind, but that’s that world, not this one. In this one, I’m obligated to set things right. I’ll admit what I did, scrounge up the money to pay her back double, then crawl away on my belly.

I turn and head back to the grandstand even though most of me still wants to run the other way.

THE FIRST PERSON I see when I get inside is Paul. He’s hiding in a corner, watching hungrily as two drunks wave wads of money in each other’s faces. That gun has obviously given him big ideas, and I suddenly get an idea of my own.

I sneak up behind him and bark, “Hands up!”

He whips around, frightened.

“Better be careful,” he says when he sees it’s me, then pats the bulge under his shirt.

“Loan me twenty dollars,” I say.

“Go fuck yourself,” he replies.

“Security!” I yell, not quite loud enough to be heard over the din but loud enough to spook Paul.

“What the hell?” he whispers.

“Give me a twenty,” I say.

He hesitates, licking his lips while trying to decide if I’m bluffing. His hand is shaking when he finally passes me the money. He’s angry, humiliated.

“I’ll pay you back,” I say.

“I’ll pay you back,” he says.

It could very well end that way, but I don’t have time to worry about it now. I hurry to the betting windows, stopping only long enough to consult a tote for the current odds.

My Hail Mary is this: I take the twenty from Paul and put it with the four dollars I have left in my pocket and box four horses, the two, four, five, and seven, in a superfecta. If these horses come in first through fourth in any order in the next race, I’ll win somewhere around a thousand bucks. It’s like throwing your last dollar into a slot machine — a sucker’s play — but it’s the only chance I’ve got.

MY PHONE RINGS.

“Where are you?” Lupe says.

“I ran into a couple buddies. I’ll be up soon.”

“But we’re all alone.”

“A few more minutes,” I say.

“You better have my money,” she snaps, then ends the call. My God, how many times has this girl been fucked over? I decide to hole up in the bathroom in case she comes looking for me. I find an empty stall and lock myself inside. At first I stand, facing the door, but that’s too weird, so I cover the seat with toilet paper and sit down. My day began in jail, and now I’m trapped in a racetrack shitter. Somebody’s made some bad choices. Again.

Talk to a shrink or a counselor or the folks at Gamblers Anonymous, and they’ll give you all kinds of explanations for why you do it. They’ll tell you that it’s chemical, that you have a death wish, that you secretly want to lose in order to be punished for the sins of your past, that you’re trying to return to a childlike state where miracles still happen.

It’s a lot simpler for me: I gamble because I want to win. I like to win. It makes me feel good. And you need something to make you feel good after ten hours of loading trucks for some prick who thinks you’re dirt, after sitting across the desk from a parole officer who’s waiting for you to violate, after listening to your mom put you down again like she has your whole life. When I take a chump for twenty bucks on a pool table or pick up a few pots in a card game, something opens up inside me, and I’m as good as everyone else thinks they are — no, better. For an hour or a day, however long my streak lasts, every move I make is the right one, and my smile can bring the world to its knees. The only problem is, it can’t last forever. You have to lose eventually so that someone else can win. Bitch and moan all you want, but that’s the first, and worst, rule of the universe.

It stinks in the stall. I hold my nose, breathe through my mouth. Lupe calls again, and I let it go to voice mail. A text comes in a few seconds later: Where the f r u?

I’m going to lay off the ponies after this, stick to what I know best, eight ball and hold ’em. I’m going to get serious about getting serious: practice more, enter some tournaments, start acting like the pro I want to be. The jail thing was a stumble, not a fall. I’m still standing, still in it, still the only one who can bring me down.

The announcer’s voice comes crackling over the PA. The race has started. I unlock the stall and run out to watch it on the nearest screen. The shouts of the spectators fill the cavern beneath the grandstand so that I can’t hear the call, but three of my picks look to be in position coming out of the backstretch, and the final one is moving up.

My heart is pounding, and I set off at a run for the finish line. Skirting the crowds gathered under the monitors, I burst into the sunshine and fresh air and push my way up front where everybody is yelling “Go! Go! Go!” as the horses cross the line, my horses: seven, two, five, four. I pump my fist once, just once, and those aren’t tears you see, you fucker. Those aren’t tears.

I WAVE LUPE’S money over my head as I approach her and Jesse in the stands. “Hey, hey, hey,” I say, doing a little dance. Lupe isn’t having any of it. Her eyes are icy cold. She snatches her winnings out of my hand and tells Jesse to get up. He looks like he’s been crying.

“Take us home,” Lupe says.

“Whoa, now, at least give me a chance to explain,” I say. Old friends, I tell her, guys from way back. One of them had gotten married; another’s dad had died. I tried to get away, but you know how it is. Sometimes you have to hear a buddy out.

“I don’t care if it was your mother you saw,” she says. “Nobody treats me like that.”

“Like what?” I say.