After spending an excessive amount of time in Las Vegas casinos, Donny began noticing all the psychological trickery that the casino owners put hundreds of man-hours and millions of dollars into developing. During his first month of being a professional gambler, he noticed how easy it was to get lost when trying to move from one area of the casino to the next. This was because, he realized, the patterns of the carpets and the positioning of slot machines made it appear that every direction you looked in was exactly the same at any given location. Then, on a hunch, he went traveling down the strip and discovered that all casinos lack windows and wall clocks. This allowed gamblers to spend excessive hours and dollars in the confines of the buildings, believing they’d only just gotten there. There were also subliminal signs posted everywhere like, “A Winner Every Time!” and “Money! Money! Money!” that people didn’t even read directly, but the words became imbedded in their heads like the penis hidden within covers of Disney movies. But Donny really read the signs. He became a part of the psychological trickery.
People didn’t notice him anymore. It had been at least a year since anyone had asked him for a picture or autograph. He liked it that way, now, though when they first came up to him years before, he had glowed brighter than that damn Vegas sun. He’d been in newspapers, interviewed on TV, and had appeared or starred in a dozen documentaries on casinos and betting odds. Donny was immune to luck because Donny always won.
Statistically, he was an anomaly. He was a quiet, humble man, and he’d never lost a single game of luck he’d ever played. At games of skill, where any kind of talent was needed, he was around average; he would be up a little while, but eventually the house made him its bitch just like the rest of them. To others, it was important because they didn’t know if they’d ever make it back. To him, he just went to the slots and waded through a hundred small wins until he hit the inevitable jackpot.
Who loves a man who always wins? Everyone.
Donny hadn’t spoken to his ex-wife since she’d remarried. He’d heard through the grapevine that she lived in Tennessee with a small business owner and they had two kids, a third on the way. He’d heard she was happy.
He looked at the gamblers and envied them. The excitement they must feel to know that they could hit it big or lose everything. The fun they must have gambling, even if they lose. The rush must feel like a shot of heroin right into their veins. Would it kill them or make them stronger? They didn’t know until they told themselves to stop and meant it forever.
What excites a man who can’t lose? A woman.
As he swam in the ocean of vices, passing the legal hookers and toting a winning streak that had lasted him 39 years, he wondered where he’d be if he had the guts to move. Donny loved the heat of the sun right above him, baking the earth dry. He could live in Arizona or New Mexico, maybe meet a pretty young native girl with caramel skin and hair so black it looked blue in the sun. She would make jewelry in a small shop that smelled like chilies and dust, and she would look up from her swiftly moving fingers when she heard the door grind against the dirt and smile when she saw it was he who was coming through the door…
He put another dollar into the slot machine every time he imagined this. It kept him attached to reality. His favorite machine was called “The Glass Cannon.” There were all sorts of explosive images like sticks of TNT and matches and barrels of gasoline. The glass cannons were clear and beautiful. Donny figured they would explode if they ever shot a real cannon ball. The damage would be horrendous. Shards of glass bursting in all directions for yards and yards as the ball flew to its target. It seemed to be the most unrealistic item in any slot machine, and yet it was the one he played whenever he felt he was drifting too far from reality.
This was his life. Donny was the only man in America who was forced to sign a contract with the city gambling bureau that made him promise he’d never play for more than 40 hours a week and would never stay at any one casino for more than two hours at a time. His job was going out whenever he felt like it and bringing home the money for rent and groceries and cable Internet. If he left, how would he be sure he’d succeed at anything else? He was tied to the machines more than the addicted gambler. He didn’t work the machines, he worked for them.
Where does a man who always wins live? Anywhere he wants.
Donny’s apartment was right off the strip, an expensive little two-bedroom that he’d bought with his fourth big win. He and his ex had planned to have a little family right there in Vegas, where he’d come home from his boring, but adequately paid job every night and she’d be a comfortable little home maker. Then, somewhere in the middle of the desert, she’d found God. She’d decided a life of vice was a sure sentence to Hell. The kids would grow up around desperate gamblers, hookers, strippers, and all-you-can-eat buffets. Greed, envy, lust, gluttony—four out of seven ain’t bad.
He could have left with her. As he ordered the third free drink of the evening, he realized he probably should have. Then he wouldn’t be miserable. Then he wouldn’t know his true power, and he could be a boring schmuck just like every happy guy he knew. But Vegas was his home, and he was afraid to leave. Being here made him feel safe. He trusted it more than he trusted his wife.
Donny was no more of a threat to the casinos than the average lucky guy. He never won millions, so they let him keep coming back. Sometimes he wished they’d make him go away. Sometimes he hoped he’d strike it big, not to be rich, but to be kicked out.
The only hand he held was the lever on the slot machine. And that hand would hold him right back.
