writing. The title is The Big Gamble in Paradise. I'm about halfway through my first rewrite, and I think it will be completed in six or eight weeks.
I hope you enjoy this episode, and more will follow.
Episode 1
On Trace’s walk to the casino, he recalled his father’s words, ‘Set a limit you’re willing to lose before you walk in, and leave the minute you lose it—better yet, give it to some charity.’
Before leaving the Bering, Trace thought he might blow a couple hundred dollars. After a few days with his grandpa and dad and their rancher mentality, it seemed prudent to set a lower limit—fifty dollars.
He walked through glass double doors into a lobby of ten slot machines—five on each side. Half of them were occupied. A slim, unkept man sat at one machine, feeding paper money into a machine. He sat slumped and as if in a trance.
‘Not a good look,’ Trace thought. ‘You want well-dressed winners in the lobby with a fist full of winnings. That guy is a poster child for bad luck.’
A tall blond woman in a sparkling short, tight dress greeted Trace just as he left the lobby and walked into an opulent main room.
“Where can I get you started?” She said. “The bar is to your left and the lounge to your right. Our show starts in fifteen minutes. Most of our customers start with a drink and then start at the roulette wheel.”
“Thanks,” Trace said. “I can find my way.”
“We can provide an escort to show you around.”
Trace rolled his eyes. “I’m not going to gamble enough to pay for an escort; leave that for the high-rollers.”
She smiled comfortably, as if she had heard that line a thousand times. “We only want this to be an enjoyable experience for you.”
“Thanks,” Trace said. “I’m sorry, I just came off a bad time.”
“Well,” she said, “you’ve come to the right place for a good time.”
“Tell that to the guy in the lobby,” Trace said and hurried away before she replied.
Trace wondered around the room. He felt out of place, wearing well-worn denim pants and a shirt. He looked only slightly better than the man in the lobby. Everyone else was dressed to lose money and not reflect it. There were those who played and won, thinking the god of good fortune and prosperity stood on their side. There were those who thought they had figured out how to beat the odds. Each seemed to carry an air of superiority to the others.
Trace sauntered around the craps table. He watched and thought of giving it a try. He approached the cash window and asked for one hundred dollars in chips. He returned to the table and placed a ten dollar bet. He rolled an eleven. He won forty dollars.
‘I guess the clerk back at the motel was right,’ Trace thought.
After a half an hour, he won and lost, but won more than he lost. He walked away from the table with another 200 dollars.
He found an open seat at a blackjack table. After two hours, he won some and lost some, but won more than he lost. He now had a total of two thousand and thirty dollars in chips. Then he started losing. Another hour into the game, and his winnings were down to one thousand one hundred and sixty dollars.
“I’m out,” Trace said to the dealer and tossed him sixty dollars in chips. “That takes me down to eleven hundred.”
“A good night,” the dealer said.
Trace gathered his eleven hundred dollars in chips and walked to the roulette wheel. He watched the gamblers place their bets for a few spins.
Trace stepped forward.
“Your number, sir,” the croupier said.
“Today, I’m twenty-five years old,” Trace said. “A thousand on twenty-five.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’ve had a lucky night,” Trace said, “and this may sound strange to you, but I want to leave all my luck here. I came in with a hundred, and I want to leave with a hundred.”
“Very well, sir, a thousand on twenty-five.”
The clown spun the wheel and flicked the ball.
Trace watched with passive interest and murmured, “Goodbye, my ill-gotten gain.” He grinned.
The wheel slowed, and the ball bounced around the wheel and settled on twenty-five. The players at the table erupted into cheers and applause. People slapped Trace’s back and congratulated him. For a moment it felt surreal, as if he were in a display window, a mannequin with no emotion or awareness of the present.
“Well, done,” the croupier said. “Try again?”
Trace stood without motion or thought. And then uttered, “I’ll take my chips.”
The croupier counted thirty-five thousand dollars in chips and dropped them into a small black bag.
Trace walked around the casino holding tightly onto the bag. He entered the lounge and sat at the bar.
Whispers spread from person to person.
“What can I get you?” The bartender said.
“Seltzer with a slice of lemon,” Trace said, staring at his image in the mirror.
“Seltzer and a slice of lemon, coming right up,” the bartender said.
‘I wonder if anyone else in the world is luckier on this night,’ he thought, ‘or am I it.’
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