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Luck…
Some say it is what you make it.
Others call it a self-fulfilling prophecy.
More often than not, people think of luck like it’s some sort of spontaneous combustion. But in reality, it’s more akin to showering yourself with diesel fuel and honing your juggling technique with a trio of flaming tiki torches.
That said…
If luck is what happens when opportunity meets up with preparation to give him the ole congratulatory reach-around, what do you get when the ill-prepared start running out of options?
Members of the jury, the prosecution would like to introduce Exhibit-A to the court: Gambling.
Let’s face it.
Every dead society that's come before us has passed down tales of tempting fate.
Of taking risks.
It’s the adhesive that binds us all.
Mankind’s never ending quest to defy the Gods and beat the odds. The insatiable need to expand our thresholds and push our limits to new extremes.
To boldly go balls deep into the new and unknown.
It’s undeniable.
The human urge to gamble is profound.
Primal.
Universal.
We’d sooner take unnecessary risks to gain things we don’t need, finding this a much more appealing prospect than receiving rewards when nobody’s watching.
When the chips are up, we look like a genius. When you’re down and out, they’ll say you have a gambling problem.
But it’s only a gamble if you are assuming a risk.
It only becomes a problem when you start losing more than you win.
Which you will.
The fact of the matter is that trying to control external forces is a physical impossibility.
Controlling yourself can prove to be harder.
The thing about gambling addicts is we love to surround ourselves with chaos, for amongst the mayhem lies a scene to behold.
Anything.
Anything other than the mess we’re making.
We set up shop in the middle of a mine field, because where there are bombs, there is smoke.
And when people are looking at the smoke, it means they aren’t looking at us.
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“And they’re off…”
In the beginning, it’s like this.
You know the feeling when you fuck up big time and everyone knows you fucked up big time, but there are still people in your life who are understanding and who can forgive you, and in that moment you feel safe.
You feel loved.
Or when that person you’ve had a crush on suddenly makes the first move and relates to the fact that the feeling is mutual, and in that moment you feel special.
You feel happy.
Well.
Multiply that tenfold, and that’s how winning a bet feels.
“…Inconspicuous strikes the front out of the two hole…”
They say money won is twice as sweet as money earned.
What they don’t tell you is that you end up treating it half as important.
That which is not earned is not respected.
Easy come. Easy go.
You see, to the pathological gambler, money isn’t the real end goal. It’s just a way of keeping score.
It’s a catalyst.
A tool.
As sex is to intimacy. Or poor people are to war.
“…the young colt Mr. Biggs is out to an early lead…”
The illusion of luck has always been enough to keep people coming back for more.
Even against their best interests.
Less like being bitten by the bug. More like getting possessed by a demon.
The trick is to go in believing you’re going to win.
It hurts less that way.
You only suffer once.
“…Dynamite Daisy is within a head of the front runner…”
On a giant screen, galloping thoroughbreds get whipped by jockeys in colorful costumes, while thousands of men and woman wearing the same two outfits cheer from the stands, with faces that get painted on billboards and smiles that belong in fairy tales.
“So what the fuck happened last night?” Franks says to you, staring at the giant screen, “Come on Silver, let’s go 3.”
Girl was dead on arrival. Guy was a tree that needed shaking.
“…Outlaw Josey Wales is advancing along the rail…”
“Shake? You pruned the fucking tree.” Franks says. “I gotta refund that security deposit now, asshole.”
A handful of the hunched over retirees make their rounds, shuffling in subdued rotations around the room.
Each with their own unique halfhearted efforts to hide the retrieval of discarded betting slips which pepper the floor, all searching for an overlooked winner.
Some drop a coin. Others pretend to tie shoes that don’t even have laces.
All looking for the hope they lost.
“…Royal Mistress closes the gap on the back stretch…”
When polled, the elderly list gambling as their number one hobby.
Bingo parlors and casinos offer a place for them to gather and feel a sense of belonging. Most of the higher end resorts are kind enough to offer free shuttle services to retirement homes. But only two times a month.
On the days after social security checks arrive.
“…Outlaw Josey Wales is four lengths off the lead at the half mile mark…”
“What’s this I hear about you searching for some missing hooker?” Franks asks.
Overflowing ashtrays and racing forums litter the rows of tiny cubicles, where shrunken men use tiny pencils to make their marks and pick their ponies.
Who said she’s a hooker?
“Come on 2, let’s go Daisy,” from an old man a few seats down.
Frank stares holes into the man, “Let’s go Silver!” He turns to you, “I’m saying she’s a fucking hooker, fucko. And you’re out there playing Liam fucking Neeson with my client’s offspring, chopping off fucking fingers, leaving fucking messes for me to clean up, doing your fucking job, while looking for this fucking hooker. What gives?”
“…now Long Dong Silver is two necks off the lead pack…”
The most sinister part about being caught in the fangs of addiction is the inversely proportional reward scheduling. Your brain starts requiring more of the same thing to get the same experience.
The more you need it, the less you want it.
Towards the end, you struggle to feel anything. Numbing the pain becomes numb as the baseline. It becomes a series of repetitive mechanical movements. All efforts aimed at a steady pacing of release.
You are a machine that has had the self destruct button engaged.
Trying to torture yourself into bliss. Filling the void by making it deeper.
Nothing else matters.
“…Destiny’s Child is staying on, looking to angle between rivals…”
It was one of your clients who came to me to find the girl.
The elderly man chimes in, “Come on 2! Let’s go Daisy!”
Frank raises his voice, “Well la-di-fuckin’-da. Isn’t that great. It’s like you robbing Peter to pay Paul to fuck me up the ass. Get up 3! Let’s go Silver!”
“…Inconspicuous has a three length lead as they swarm in…”
In off-track bookies like this one, when the race is nearing its finale, the rising ambient noise is loud enough to make you pay attention.
And for most in attendance, the desperation is clear enough to make you feel included.
Even when you’re the loser.
The catch is that it was ALWAYS the house’s money. Everybody else just takes turns holding it.
“…Inconspicuous is under pressure…”
“You tuned up one of my best mules too. Put him in the fucking hospital.” Franks says, “Not that I give a shit, but again, you’re costing me more money than you’re worth. Tony’s a top earner.”
“Come on 2. Let’s go Daisy,” the old man shouts.
I do what I’m paid to do. Job’s a job.
“…The field begins to stack up…”
Frank is glued to the giant screen, “You need to do what you’re fucking told. And I’m telling you, leave this one alone. I already took a hit on one, just call the whore awol, for good. Bing, bang, boom. Tell the client she ran off with the circus or some shit. Nobody’s gonna miss another dead hooker.”
Who said she’s dead?
“…Long Dong Silver is losing ground…”
Casinos actually have a name for that exact moment when you ruin your life. An industry term they’ve dubbed “the moment of extinction.”
Where you’re left with nothing but regret.
Frank glares at you, “You know something, kid. The thing about horses and guys like me, is guys like me have plenty of ‘em in the stable. And when they don’t do their fucking job. They get put down.”
“…Inconspicuous and Long Dong Silver are neck and neck…”
Cheers and shouts and prayers and curses begin their rising crescendo as the horses enter the final stretch.
Two of Frank’s goons stand at attention, one at your six, the other moves to your right flank.
“Are we understood?” Franks says to you.
“…Dynamite Daisy and Inconspicuous hook up as they enter the last turn…”
All these people…
Hypnotized and mesmerized. Dead-eyed and doped up. Nameless and faceless.
Trading paychecks for temporary escape. Using fixed incomes to get their fix.
“…Dynamite Daisy closes in…”
All this begging to win.
All these wishes waiting to be granted.
All these pleas of the desperation help to drown out the sound of you chambering the gun that’s now pointed at Frank’s dick under the table.
“…Daisy hurls into the lead…”
Whatever you say, Frank.
It’s a very useful delusion to believe you have full control over your fate.
But the benefits of believing you don’t are far greater.
“…Mr. Biggs is a neck behind…”
After all.
If we have no say in what happens, we can never really be wrong. If we aren’t the ones behind the wheel, it’s really not us that crashes.
“…and it’s Dynamite Daisy who wins by a nose…”
There’s a freedom in reaching rock bottom. You can’t break something that’s broken.
“…followed by Mr. Biggs…”
Most of us don’t realize how lucky we truly are.
“…and Inconspicuous in third…”
Frank shrugs and rips up his ticket stub, “Hey. You can lead a horse to water but you can’t make it suck your dick.”
“Haha, Whammo! I told you Frank.” From the old man.
Frank sneers, “Yea, yea. Get bent, you liquored up piece of cat shit.” He then gets up and leaves with his henchmen in tow.
Replace the gun in its holster, finish your drink while the dust settles.
Approach the cashier cage and hand them your betting slip.
The teller inserts the ticket into the scanner, “Congratulations, sir. All large bills?”
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