Feisty Fern #2
“Why are you laughing?” Lisa yelled at her husband.
“It just seems funny to me, babe. Can you not just see Josh picking up his new shoes and throwing them in the trash can? I mean his brand new shoes that he begged us for. I know it’s sort of twisted, but believe me, if you could, you would realize it’s a funny image,” Barry tried to explain.
“What kind of a teacher makes a third grader throw his shoes away? There are germs and viruses running rampant in trash cans. That is not an appropriate punishment for taking your shoes off in the classroom,” Lisa was screaming now. Barry still couldn’t stifle his chuckles. “Who knows what kinds of things are in a classroom trash can? You should be threatening to sue the school district because our son could have gotten the Ebola virus in there.”
“I think that if there was Ebola in the trash can, he would have gotten it whether or not he had to fish his shoes out at the end of the day,” Barry reasoned. It was like telling an arachnophobic person that the type of spider on their face isn’t poisonous. Lisa ran into their bedroom and slammed the door.
Barry looked in Josh’s room. “Hey, buddy, you want to eat some dinner?” he asked his son.
“Mommy was worried about me or something, so she got me McDonalds already,” Josh answered without looking away from his monster truck rally.
Barry considered his options. Eat leftovers alone in his kitchen and watch TV in the basement or grab a burger on the way to the casino. He grabbed his keys. The way he saw it, he was spending the night on the couch anyway.
I-635 stretched out in front of Barry as he drove toward the Argosy Casino-Kansas City. Up over the hill, the glistening turrets and towers of the place invited all that drove past. The first time he had been to a casino was with his father. They played some blackjack, and lost. They played some craps, and lost. Barry mostly remembered the two things that his dad had told him before they got out of the car to go in. Don’t drink while you’re gambling, and walk away with something.
Barry took one step onto the casino floor and lit a cigarette. He didn’t smoke outside the casino, but inside it was the good ones. Marlboro Reds. If he was going to do something, he was going to do it right. Through the fog he could see the flashing lights and brightly colored carpeting. The chirping, squealing, clattering and humming sounds were constant. There were slot machines everywhere. Barry had never understood why there had to be so many slot machines; people liked to lose their money, he supposed. Slot machines provided a low impact method to throw it away. There were no rules to remember—they are posted on the machine—and there were no people to talk to or dealers to mess with. Slots might seem easy, but they were also booooring.
Dice were where it was at for Barry. The tables at the Argosy were a disgusting shade of yellow, rather than the standard crisp green, but that didn’t hamper the excitement of a hot roll. He stepped up to an open spot at one of the standard craps tables. The man on his right was a slight Asian man with a cigarette hanging low on his bottom lip. He wore a dirty navy blue baseball hat and a wrinkled brown golf shirt. A half empty cocktail glass fit comfortably in the man’s hand. To his left was an older man, a ring of white wispy hair circled his spotted bald scalp. He wore overalls with a gray John Deere T-shirt underneath. His leathery skin was deeply tanned, probably from years in the fields outside the city.
Barry reached between the two men to make his pass line bet.
“Yo-leven! pays the line,” the stick calls out and the table picks up. The shooter, a scrawny young man, barely twenty-one, carefully selects two dice from the six offered him. Before rolling them, he carefully lays them both four sides up on the table. The red dice tumble and crash across the yellow felt and show seven. Pass line wins again.
The young man sevens-out after a great roll, and the dice move to the Asian man to Barry’s left. He hits his point five times before his roll is over, and the table is jumping. Everyone is smiling, talking, drinking, winning. People are three deep around the table to see if it stays hot.
Barry picks out two of the red dice and shakes them in his hand exactly three times before he releases them with an experienced flick of his wrist. He rolls three sevens in a row, paying the pass line each time, before switching to eights and sixes. Around the table seven chips are thrown like candy as Barry keeps hitting those sixes and eights.
He is up over two hundred dollars, when his wrist flick overexerts itself and a die flies off the table. A seven-out follows.
An entire round of the table, and Barry can only just get his money out on the table when the seven-out rears its head. The spectators have left for another table, thinking that even if a spot opens at this one, it wouldn’t be worth putting their money down.
The chips in the tray in front of Barry shrink from eight inches, to five, to two, and finally he throws his last chip on the pass line, and a two is thrown. Craps. Barry backs slightly away from the table, and takes the cigarette out of his mouth. He just stares as the red dice bounce across the table. The outcome no longer matters.
Barry wanders through tables of glum-faced, fellow losers. The commercials show people excited and laughing, which happens only rarely. He wondered if the commercials showed people like the heavyset man at the blackjack table, his expensive shirt open to reveal the liquor stained white T-shirt underneath, sweat pouring from his face, hair disheveled after hours sitting in the casino, would as many people would come. Probably.
Barry got himself a soda from the free drink stand and began heading toward the exit. There on the right hand side of the exit, was an ATM. Barry usually left before he ran out of money, but there was something disheartening about the savage turn the dice took that made him want to stay. He would get paid in a couple days, and there wasn’t much left in his bank account anyway, so he cleared it out. His manner changed. Rather than the slow, meandering pace he had had for the past twenty minutes, he was spirited, flushed with a fresh stack of twenties. Rather than weaving through tables and slots, he sought direct routes to the craps table.
He put his money back on the table.
One hour later he was out again. It was time for Barry to go home. There was no more money, even if he wanted to play, and he had no idea what time it was. Casinos had no clocks or windows. Usually, that was comforting to Barry. The sameness, day or night, calm or storm, of the interior of the casino made him feel safe. As he turned tot find the fastest way out, he did not feel safe.
His eye caught something red on the carpet as he walked, and he bent to inspect it. There was the die he had thrown off the table. Maybe. It was a die, anyway. Barry slipped it into his pocket and continued his drag-footed walk to the car. Always leave with something, he thought as he pushed though the glass doors and into the early morning gray.
“It just seems funny to me, babe. Can you not just see Josh picking up his new shoes and throwing them in the trash can? I mean his brand new shoes that he begged us for. I know it’s sort of twisted, but believe me, if you could, you would realize it’s a funny image,” Barry tried to explain.
“What kind of a teacher makes a third grader throw his shoes away? There are germs and viruses running rampant in trash cans. That is not an appropriate punishment for taking your shoes off in the classroom,” Lisa was screaming now. Barry still couldn’t stifle his chuckles. “Who knows what kinds of things are in a classroom trash can? You should be threatening to sue the school district because our son could have gotten the Ebola virus in there.”
“I think that if there was Ebola in the trash can, he would have gotten it whether or not he had to fish his shoes out at the end of the day,” Barry reasoned. It was like telling an arachnophobic person that the type of spider on their face isn’t poisonous. Lisa ran into their bedroom and slammed the door.
Barry looked in Josh’s room. “Hey, buddy, you want to eat some dinner?” he asked his son.
“Mommy was worried about me or something, so she got me McDonalds already,” Josh answered without looking away from his monster truck rally.
Barry considered his options. Eat leftovers alone in his kitchen and watch TV in the basement or grab a burger on the way to the casino. He grabbed his keys. The way he saw it, he was spending the night on the couch anyway.
I-635 stretched out in front of Barry as he drove toward the Argosy Casino-Kansas City. Up over the hill, the glistening turrets and towers of the place invited all that drove past. The first time he had been to a casino was with his father. They played some blackjack, and lost. They played some craps, and lost. Barry mostly remembered the two things that his dad had told him before they got out of the car to go in. Don’t drink while you’re gambling, and walk away with something.
Barry took one step onto the casino floor and lit a cigarette. He didn’t smoke outside the casino, but inside it was the good ones. Marlboro Reds. If he was going to do something, he was going to do it right. Through the fog he could see the flashing lights and brightly colored carpeting. The chirping, squealing, clattering and humming sounds were constant. There were slot machines everywhere. Barry had never understood why there had to be so many slot machines; people liked to lose their money, he supposed. Slot machines provided a low impact method to throw it away. There were no rules to remember—they are posted on the machine—and there were no people to talk to or dealers to mess with. Slots might seem easy, but they were also booooring.
Dice were where it was at for Barry. The tables at the Argosy were a disgusting shade of yellow, rather than the standard crisp green, but that didn’t hamper the excitement of a hot roll. He stepped up to an open spot at one of the standard craps tables. The man on his right was a slight Asian man with a cigarette hanging low on his bottom lip. He wore a dirty navy blue baseball hat and a wrinkled brown golf shirt. A half empty cocktail glass fit comfortably in the man’s hand. To his left was an older man, a ring of white wispy hair circled his spotted bald scalp. He wore overalls with a gray John Deere T-shirt underneath. His leathery skin was deeply tanned, probably from years in the fields outside the city.
Barry reached between the two men to make his pass line bet.
“Yo-leven! pays the line,” the stick calls out and the table picks up. The shooter, a scrawny young man, barely twenty-one, carefully selects two dice from the six offered him. Before rolling them, he carefully lays them both four sides up on the table. The red dice tumble and crash across the yellow felt and show seven. Pass line wins again.
The young man sevens-out after a great roll, and the dice move to the Asian man to Barry’s left. He hits his point five times before his roll is over, and the table is jumping. Everyone is smiling, talking, drinking, winning. People are three deep around the table to see if it stays hot.
Barry picks out two of the red dice and shakes them in his hand exactly three times before he releases them with an experienced flick of his wrist. He rolls three sevens in a row, paying the pass line each time, before switching to eights and sixes. Around the table seven chips are thrown like candy as Barry keeps hitting those sixes and eights.
He is up over two hundred dollars, when his wrist flick overexerts itself and a die flies off the table. A seven-out follows.
An entire round of the table, and Barry can only just get his money out on the table when the seven-out rears its head. The spectators have left for another table, thinking that even if a spot opens at this one, it wouldn’t be worth putting their money down.
The chips in the tray in front of Barry shrink from eight inches, to five, to two, and finally he throws his last chip on the pass line, and a two is thrown. Craps. Barry backs slightly away from the table, and takes the cigarette out of his mouth. He just stares as the red dice bounce across the table. The outcome no longer matters.
Barry wanders through tables of glum-faced, fellow losers. The commercials show people excited and laughing, which happens only rarely. He wondered if the commercials showed people like the heavyset man at the blackjack table, his expensive shirt open to reveal the liquor stained white T-shirt underneath, sweat pouring from his face, hair disheveled after hours sitting in the casino, would as many people would come. Probably.
Barry got himself a soda from the free drink stand and began heading toward the exit. There on the right hand side of the exit, was an ATM. Barry usually left before he ran out of money, but there was something disheartening about the savage turn the dice took that made him want to stay. He would get paid in a couple days, and there wasn’t much left in his bank account anyway, so he cleared it out. His manner changed. Rather than the slow, meandering pace he had had for the past twenty minutes, he was spirited, flushed with a fresh stack of twenties. Rather than weaving through tables and slots, he sought direct routes to the craps table.
He put his money back on the table.
One hour later he was out again. It was time for Barry to go home. There was no more money, even if he wanted to play, and he had no idea what time it was. Casinos had no clocks or windows. Usually, that was comforting to Barry. The sameness, day or night, calm or storm, of the interior of the casino made him feel safe. As he turned tot find the fastest way out, he did not feel safe.
His eye caught something red on the carpet as he walked, and he bent to inspect it. There was the die he had thrown off the table. Maybe. It was a die, anyway. Barry slipped it into his pocket and continued his drag-footed walk to the car. Always leave with something, he thought as he pushed though the glass doors and into the early morning gray.
posted by Feisty Fern at 12:58 PM
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