Preston L. Allen

It Is a Gun, It Is a Gun

I am a lucky gambler.

I own three homes, which I do not live in. I lease them out. I own two cars—two very nice cars—both of which I drive.

Depending on what day of the month it is, I am invested in fifty to a hundred businesses. I have stocks and bonds worth seven million dollars on today's market. I also have, much to the dismay of my accountant, seven million dollars in cash in the bank, of all places. We have argued over this many times, but I like to have easy access to it, an easy access that I hope never to use. I just like to know that if I ever wanted to, I could cash a check for seven million dollars. My poor worry-wart accountant. Does he know that during the days of my degeneracy, having seven million dollars in chips in front of me was not an unusual thing?

Reckless. Wasteful. Bad money management, he calls it, but I know what he is really thinking: what if you get the itch again?

He sees how I live my life, he sees where I live, and he does not trust. He keeps waiting for the inevitable slide back. For me to cash the whole thing in and bet it all on black. There is always that possibility, I guess. You might say I'm sort of high risk. I live in these casinos. I wouldn't live anywhere else. I live with a deck of cards in my pocket. But I do not gamble. When I am not downstairs watching the others, I play solitaire in my room. I play solitaire seven or eight hours a day. It helps. It scratches the itch. I can't help it, I like to see the cards fall. I like to see the cards fall and I'm not losing any money.

I should be happy. I think I am. I am rich. I am near that which I love. The monkey is off my back. What makes me happiest, though, is knowing that I have lost everything I own four or five times over and I still have all this. This is a lot. This didn't used to be a lot. This used to be what you start with in order to get more.

Bet these little millions, I would tell myself, they are only chips, not money, and then you will be rich. That is how I used to think. That is how I still think sometimes.

See, you get in this zone where you're risking your entire net worth every day and every night and the rush is so incredible. These hundred-thousand-dollar ante games, with these captains of industry, these money men, these really rich guys, this pot with two million in it, and you raise it four million, and these big shots fold their cards—these really big shots fold—and you rake in another couple million. They deal you another hand, and you look in the hole, and I'll be damned if it's not Aces again. But something goes wrong this time—or maybe it goes right.

You say, Aces, aha, I can win another big pot. I can be rich. I can bet everything I'm worth on this hand and be rich. And you look down at your chips—you've got like ten million dollars in chips sitting in front of you. You multiply that by the number of big shots sitting at the table that you figure will call the hand—they call every hand, these three degenerates—they're big shots. One of them, the Chinese guy, he owns all of the shoelace factories in Taiwan . He's always joking, If I lose ten or twenty million dollars while I'm here in Vegas, no problem. I just go back home and raise the price of shoelaces by a penny, ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. It's kind of funny. It's kind of not. He's got that kind of money to throw away, he's a whale, he's a whale so big he makes you look like a guppy—but you've got Aces. You can clean him out. You can send him back to Taiwan cleaned out. Raise the price of shoelaces worldwide. ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha. Then you will be worth . . . but you are already worth . . . there's ten million in chips sitting in front of you!

This is when you say to yourself, But it's only luck.

It's only luck.

You are not magic.

You are not special.

You have no great skill.

It's only luck.

Ten million is ten million.

And ten million is a lot. Ten million is too much and Aces can be beat. You know from personal experiences that Aces get beat all the time. If he beats these Aces, he takes your ten million, and the price of shoelaces won't be affected at all.

But you will go back to driving a bus.

This is when you freak. Simply put, you freak out. You've got Aces and you freak out. You lay your cards down. You fold your Aces. You are freaking out.

You watch the rest of the hand play out. The three big shots are in it to the end. The Chinese guy from Taiwan wins the pot. A big pot.

You know how much it had in it? Twenty million dollars.

You know what he won it with? Two Jacks.

You would have killed him. You would have cleaned him out. What the hell did you fold for? You had Aces!

You rack up your chips and cash out. You leave the table. You go upstairs and lie on your bed. Alone. You hear a heart pounding fast. You hear sobbing. You reach for the phone and dial the one that you love, and you tell her, I just blew twenty million dollars.

She says, You lost twenty million dollars?

You say, No. I folded. I should have stayed in the hand. I would have won.

She says, So why did you fold?

You say, Because . . .

She says, Because what?

Because . . . I don't know.

You don't know?

I don't know. I don't know.

And she says, Maybe you should find a new line of work.

You don't know. You don't know. You don't know. So all week you are grieving. The monkey is shrieking. All week you're losing like crazy. It's seven days before you win another hand. The money is going away. You're too ashamed to count how much per day. So you stop for a test. You stop, just for a test. A little, teensy, weensy test. Just to see what it feels like to spend a month at the beach doing nothing.

Suddenly, it is like a weight lifted off your shoulders.

Well, not suddenly, because the first few days are hard. The nights harder. It helps if there is a woman there with you, and there always is because you have plenty of money to flash. This pretty island girl, she strokes your ego in a way that almost fills the void left by not gambling. And you think, Here now. There is this. This is nice. Maybe not as good as gambling, but nice.

A month later you go to your money, and it has grown. That is the day you realize that you are rich. You have had millions of dollars before this, but this is the first day you realize that you are rich. You are at this beach on this island. You are the rich guy. All of the girls—most of them way too young for you—are after you. You let them catch you. This feels sort of good. You go to your bank account, and again it has grown, and you think, Did I really lose three million dollars one night?

It is a crazy idea: if you leave your money alone, it will be there for you the next day. If you do not gamble—shit, your bills are too small to eat through this mint—so where is the money going to go? The monkey interjects a cynical thought: What good is having all of that money if you don't use it? You tell him to fuck off. He digs his claws in deep, so deep you can't even breathe, and you are pleading, pleading, Leave me alone, monkey, please, please, please leave me alone, please, try to be my friend, be my friend, monkey, oh my god don't kill me, don't kill me—and you grab that pretty island girl and you fuck her and fuck her until she swears you love her. Then you fuck her sister too.

You end your vacation. You go back to Vegas, but you continue the test. You play your solitaire. You live in your casino. You chase your pretty girls. You do not gamble. It is hard, but you do not gamble. The desire is still there. So is your money, and it is growing—larger now than even your desire. You think: So that's what banks do, they pay you to hold your money. What a concept. Did I really lose three million dollars one night? What was I thinking? Oh my god.

The monkey says, You also won six million dollars one night, don't forget.

But you are learning to ignore the monkey, who does not have one, single original thought in his head.

Then you see someone hit a jackpot, and the monkey digs in deep. The itch wants to be scratched. So you scratch. You and that woman, what was her name? Now, she was a degenerate. You scratch that itch, man. You scratch. Half a million dollars in twelve hours. Every penny of it feels like blood. The monkey is humming sweet songs. He is happy to be back. And that woman, what was her name? She wants to keep going, she says she has a hunch about the end machine—so you let her keep going. A hundred dollars a pop. Then four machines at a time—her purse on one, her drink on another, her cigarettes on another, her lighter on the lucky end machine. Four hundred dollars a pop. Another two hundred thousand down. The jackpot goes off, finally, and damned if she doesn't win it. Eight hundred thousand dollars! And she's hugging you and squeezing you and then (upstairs) blowing you, and you're thinking, But didn't we pump seven hundred thousand into those things? That's only a hundred thousand dollars net profit. Didn't I earn more than that in interest while chilling down on that island with that girl?

Good questions. Good questions all. Monkey, any thoughts?

So you play your solitaire while that woman (What was her name? What was her husband's name?) takes her winnings back downstairs to the machines, and you plan another test: If she wins again, then I will gamble, but if she comes back up here a week from now asking for money—.

Of course, in a week she has given it all back. ALL of it. LESS than a week. You say, Amazing. The monkey says, But that's not the point—she's a degenerate, it won't happen to you, I promise.

She says, Can I have some more money?

You give her a thousand dollars and she slaps you, curses you, spits on you, and says. This is all you give me?

It gets so bad, you have to call security to your room.

Amazing, you say.

The test continues. And the itch. And solitaire. A daily diet of solitaire. God, you need your solitaire.

You go three months without gambling, without thinking about your bank account, but when you finally check it, the money has grown some more. You figure it in your head: the interest is more than a year's worth of really big jackpots. And you do not smell like smoke. Your eyes are not heavy with sleep. Your bills are paid. But that girl (S. Her name was S.), she comes back to you. She says that she is leaving her husband, her children, for you. She says that she loves only you. But you know better. You say to her, No one is putting a gun to your head. You don't have to keep playing. You can quit. Your life will improve. Believe me, I know. She says, but I can't. You say, Nobody has a gun to your head. She says, It is a gun. It is a gun. It is right here against my head. You say, You got that monkey on your back. She says, Man, this is so much bullshit. I want to be with you, don't you fucking understand? You tell her, But I have someone already. She says, No, you don't, you degenerate. Stop fucking with my head, okay? You don't have anybody. Everybody knows that. You tell her, I have somebody, I really do, somebody that I love. Somebody whose love was strong enough to make me see that there is no gun to my head. Somebody whose love is bigger than this thing. Somebody whose love I miss. She says, Not me. No way. I don't love anybody that much. Shit. I just want to gamble. You tell her, Thank you for being honest. Then you open up your safe and give her ten thousand. She takes it like she's in a hurry. She does not kiss you. She does not spit. You call the one whose love has saved you.

You tell her, I love you. I want you back. I'm not that man anymore. I beat it. I finally got that monkey off my back. I want to come home.

You hear the tears in her voice when the one you love tells you, There's no home here for you to come home to. I've found somebody else. It's too late.

She hangs up without waiting to hear what you will say.

You can't believe it. You simply can't believe it's been that long. Five and a half years have passed since you've lived at home. Six months since you've visited.

You look down at your watch.

Too late.

You call the other one, the one who had it so bad you had to let her go, you had to kick her to the curb, send her back to her mother (and her boyfriend) in Miami for her own good. You tell her you are desperately lonely. You tell her you are thinking dark thoughts. You tell her about the monkey. You tell her you think you want to die. C.L. tells you, Send me the money. I'll be out there on the next plane.

You tell her, No money. I'll send you the ticket.

She insists, Cash. I've got to clear up some things down here.

No cash, you insist.

She says, I've got to clear up some things down here. Plus I need to buy some new clothes. I want to look good for you. Send me the cash. Load the card. Stop treating me like a child.

You tell her, We're talking about dying here. I'm thinking of killing myself, do you hear? This is me. This is me!

Her voice is patient, controlled, carefully masking the desperation, which almost, almost, almost doesn't come true. She says: I need the cash. Load the card with cash, and I'll be there for you. I still love you. I swear.

This is what she says, but what you hear behind her speaks a louder truth. You hear them. You hear the machines behind her. It is the diamond machine. She is there right now, banging the diamond machines in the swamp. You know what will happen if you load her card with cash. There is nothing that can tear her away from that machine when she is like this. Whether you send her that cash or not, she will not get on that plane and leave a hot machine behind. Whether you kill yourself or not, you will never see her again. You know all this and yet you load her card with cash (three grand) as soon as you hang up the phone. You still have hope.

You call back fifteen minutes later, and she doesn't pick up.

Twenty minutes later, you call the bank and check the balance on the card, and she has withdrawn every penny that you sent.

What did you expect?

But you own three homes and two very nice cars, the monkey reminds.

He's back. He's back strong. So you run.

You get in one of those nice cars and you drive. You drive. Three hours later you stop driving. You do not know where you are. There is sand and sky on either side of the road. You get out and look at the desert. It is desolate and it is beautiful. It is not Miami . It is not home. But it is beautiful. All of that sand. Cars hardly ever pass, but a car pulls up. Before you decide that it is the same white station wagon that you have been seeing in your rearview mirror all afternoon, a short, stocky man with a very red face jumps out of it and hurtles into you, knocking you to the ground. You recover. Now the two of you are wrestling on the hot road. He is crazy. He wants to kill you, he says, with his bare hands. He's got his hands around your throat. You hear children crying, and you think of your own boys whom you haven't been to see in almost six months. Has it been that long? But you have houses and cars and money and monkeys and this guy is strangling you. You reach up and put your thumbs in the man's eyes. He growls and adds more muscle to the death grip on your neck. You strain with all your might and head butt him. He loosens up enough for you to catch your breath, to get your hands on his throat. He is rubbing his eyes and groaning. You arch up and head butt him again. That does the trick. You push him off and spring up. You reach for your car door. You hear him groan behind you. You hear him shout, Stop, fucker, or I'm gonna shoot you. You turn, and there is a gun in his hand. You raise your hands and say, But why? What do you want? He says, Fucker. You fucker. He's got the gun aimed at your heart. He's rubbing his eyes. He's saying, Fucker, you fucker. S is my wife.

He pulls the trigger.

What you remember best is the sudden thunder, drowning out the cries of the children, but the blow is like a sledgehammer to your chest, slamming you back against your nice car, and you collapse to your knees. You remember being on your knees. You remember trying to pray. Trying to clasp your hands. Trying to pray to Him, trying to tell Him: pleaseGodpleaseIpromiseGodpleaseIpromiseI . . .

You hear the crying of children, and you see their red faces leaning out of the windows of the station wagon. They are crying, daddy no, daddy no, daddy no.

S's husband backs up. He looks down at the black gun in his hand. He looks down at you. Then he's sobbing into his cell phone, I just shot somebody. We need an ambulance. I shot him bad.

You hear the sound of thunder. A gentle rain begins to fall in the desert. Against your face. You hear the screaming of children. They are the children on the bus. Quiet down, children. Quiet down.

pleaseGodpleaseIpromiseGodplease

You black out.

Cover Design: Joseph McNair