Eternal Vortex

Friday, 5 p.m.

To anyone else, the noise would be deafening. An endless, droning roar made up of countless dings, whistles, and chimes. Separate, any one of those sounds could be pleasant; set at the optimum pitch to set off the brain's pleasure centers. The flashing, colorful lights served the same purpose. All to make the machines look shinier. Prettier. More tempting to play. Altogether, however, it was just visual and auditory noise. Noise that would drill a lesser man's ears and overstimulate his senses mercilessly until he begged at the top of his lungs for it to stop.

To Al, though, it was just background static.

He'd been in enough casinos in his lifetime that he'd taught himself how to block it out. Frankly, he was too busy to notice the dazzling lights and obnoxious music from the other machines around him. Too locked in to care about the choking stench of stale tobacco smoke, rancid B.O., and desperation filling the air. All his attention was on the slot machine in front of him.

His gaunt face surely looked grey in the glow of those spinning reels, his blue eyes solid black thanks to his fixed and dilated pupils. He couldn't remember when he'd shaved last, or showered. Not that it mattered. Nothing mattered, except those reels and the hand balanced on the button labeled "max bet".

The reels hardly stopped spinning before his hand twitched again, tapping that button for the umpteenth time. Less than an hour into this session, and he'd already lost track of how much he'd fed this bottomless, chrome-plated crook. How deep he was in the hole. When the balance on the screen dropped to zero again, Al passed a hand through his grimy, unkempt dark waves. For half a second he considered getting up and finding something else to play. With a heavy sigh, however, he fished out his wallet and pulled out another Jackson.

Before he had time to regret it, the machine slurped the bill greedily out of his fingers. The "max bet" button glowed to life again, begging Al to hit it. Like the trained dog he was, he obeyed. Again. And again. And Again.

Friday, 10 p.m.

A growl of frustration slipped through his lips as the jackpot reels sped by effortlessly. All three just slightly misaligned. Ten thousand smackers, dangling out of his reach by a half-inch. Just as it had since he'd sat down. Mindlessly, he grabbed his wallet and opened it, planning to feed the machine once more. To his surprise and confusion, all he felt was soft, warm pleather.

It was empty. No more Jacksons. Not even a Lincoln.

Wetting his chapped lips, Al's eye wandered to the credit cards glinting in the billfold's slots. He knew he shouldn't. His wife swore she'd kill him if he maxed out another card. If he valued his marriage, the smart thing to do would be to just walk away.

But how could he? The jackpot was right there. A few more spins, and it would be his. Surely Margie would forgive him, once he came home with all that dough. 10K would buy a lot of groceries. And diapers. They might even have enough left over to pay off the car, and take a nice little vacation. A vacation that was long, long overdue.

"Evenin', Friend. Havin' any luck?"

Al nearly leapt off his stool, his head snapping toward the friendly voice. An elderly black man smiled back at him, one hand braced on the empty stool beside Al and the other gripping a handsome black and gold cane. Al had met his share of friendly strangers in the casino before... but this time, something was different. For one thing, this old gentleman seemed a lot more put together than the rambling wrecks that usually haunted casino floors: black shoes polished to a mirror shine; brown slacks neatly pressed with a crease down each leg; a cream colored sweater that had nary a wrinkle, with a starched collared shirt and tie under it no less; and a black flat cap with a little embroidered "L" in shiny gold thread on the bill.

It was more than just his appearance, though. This man had an energy around him that didn't match his advanced age at all. And a warmth that was simply magnetic. Uncanny.

Al's immediate thought was that the old guy had gotten lost on his way to the high roller room. He wasn't even sure the geezer was even talking to him at first. What reason would he have to strike up a conversation anyway with a guy like Al, still dressed in his threadbare, wrinkled uniform shirt from the hotel bar and his old K-Mart slacks?

"Who? Me?" Al stammered, shouting just a little to be heard over the noisy casino, "N-Not really. Did you... need help with something, or-?"

The old timer shook with a deep belly laugh, his bass chuckles cutting through the air. "Oh, no," he said, his dark eyes twinkling merrily, "I'm doin' just fine... it's you, I think, who needs a hand."

Al shifted on his stool, only just aware of how numb his backside had become. The old coot must be a preacher or something. That's the last thing Al needed, or wanted.

"No thanks, Pops," Al said, his tone polite but curt, "Whatever you're selling, I ain't interested."

"Really? Now, that's too bad."

The old man shuffled closer, sitting on the empty stool with a loud, drawn-out old man groan. Hooking his cane over his arm to free his other hand, he then pulled a handsome red leather billfold from his back pocket. Out of it, he drew a crisp five-dollar bill. Instead of putting it in his machine, though, he offered it to Al with a grin.

"Go on," he insisted, "have a spin on me."

It was tempting. Sorely tempting. Still, Al hesitated sharply. He might have a slight problem, but he wasn't the type of guy to accept handouts willy-nilly. Especially not from total strangers. What was this old timer's deal anyway?

"This ain't a hand-out," the old man said, his smile growing wider, "Think of it as a hand up, outta that hole you dug yourself. No strings attached. You can pay me back after you hit that jackpot."

It was like he could read Al's mind. Al didn't really trust him, but the old man was just too nice to shut down again. Plus, he felt bad for being so short with the old timer. Reluctantly, Al took the bill with a muttered thanks, feeding it to the machine immediately. He kept one eye on the stranger as his hand tapped the "max bet" button, still trying to figure out what the old fart's angle was.

Suddenly, the air split with a shrill clang-clang-clang. Al looked up, eyes wide and jaw slack with shock, to the sign at the top of his machine. The lights were flashing like police sirens, spelling out "WINNER" in big bold letters. His eyes darted lower to the reels in front of him, and his heart hammered in his throat. Three dazzling sets of diamonds sparkled back at him in a perfectly straight row: the most beautiful sight he'd seen since meeting Margie.

As his ears adjusted to the torrent of sound pouring out of his machine, Al checked the readouts excitedly to see how much he'd won. He had to check it a few times, though, because he didn't believe it at first.

He didn't just win a jackpot. He won the jackpot. The largest prize that machine could pay out. One hundred thousand dollars... and it was all his.

Saturday, 12 a.m.

It took the casino host forever to confirm that the jackpot was legitimate. Afterwards, Al was given his payout in cash, along with a free suite for the night and a dinner voucher for two at the hotel's top restaurant. They even took his picture to put on their wall of fame. Once all the hubbub died down, Al realized that the old man was still sitting there beside him. Hands folded on his cane, and a knowing grin on his lips.

As quickly as he could, Al fished out one of the stacks of bills from the bag he'd been given, handing it to the old man eagerly.

"Thank you," he said, his eyes suddenly misty, "Seriously. I-I don't even know your name!"

The old man waved away the money with a shake of his head. "I got no use for that green stuff," he said, "As for my name... you can just call me Lou."

"Lou," Al smiled, nodding, "Well, it's a pleasure to meet you. If there's anything I can do to repay you, just name it! Please."

Lou clapped a hand on Al's shoulder, kneading it with that warm, comforting grin of his. His grip was shockingly strong. Stronger than Al expected for a man his age.

"You already have," Lou said.

Al was admittedly confused by that answer. Still, he didn't think much of it. Honestly, he didn't have time to. A second later, Lou threaded his arm through Al's and pointed to the tables on the other side of the casino with his cane.

"Why don't we mosey on that way?" he mused, "I'm feelin' lucky. You ever play Craps before?"

"No, never," Al said, "Look, um... it's getting pretty late. Margie - my wife - she needs me at home. And I've gotta go to work in the morning, so-"

"Oh... well..." Lou patted Al's arm morosely as he let go, "Alrighty then. I thought we were havin' a good time. But, if you need to go, then go. Don't worry about me. I suppose I can carry on by myself. Still, it'll be hard, since I gave you my last few dollars."

Guilt weighed Al down more heavily than the duffel bag full of cash on his arm. He had no idea that crisp five was the last one Lou had to his name. Leaving him now after he'd been so generous made Al look and feel like the biggest jerk in the world. Margie would understand, surely.

"Maybe... I could stay a little longer," Al mused, "I've always wondered how you play Craps anyway."

Lou lit up like fireworks on the fourth of July, taking Al's elbow again. "Now that's the spirit," he grinned, "I knew I liked you, Friend. C'mon: I'll show you how it's done!"

Saturday, 3 a.m.

Hanging out with Lou was an absolute blast. He was a walking lucky charm, as Al won nearly every game they played together. Even games that Al had never played before in his life. Craps, Blackjack, Texas Hold 'Em; every hand, dice roll, and pull was a winner. In all his life, Al had never hit such a hot streak. The bag on his arm got heavier by the hour. He was exhausted, but the adrenaline surged through him so strongly he never felt it. And Lou... for a man who had to be in his eighties, he had the stamina of an eighteen-year-old frat boy at an all-night toga party.

Al finally pulled himself away from the tables for a moment, bending to an overwhelming urge to visit the men's room. While he finished washing his hands, his instincts told him to check his phone. His heart sank like a rock into his stomach at the twenty-five unread texts he had, plus nearly a dozen missed calls. All from Margie. His voicemail box was full, and his heart grew heavier as he listened to them one by one.

Margie was looking for him. She was angry. More importantly, she was worried. The last few messages, she cried through. Threatening to take the baby and leave if he didn't come home right away.

"Hey, Friend, what's the hold-up?"

Al jumped out of his skin when Lou's warm hand landed on his shoulder without warning. Before he could explain, Lou's dark eyes fell on the phone in Al's hand. His friendly expression growing sad.

"That's the wife again, huh?" he guessed.

"She won't be my wife for much longer if I don't head home," Al sighed. "Listen, Lou, I've had a great time. But Margie-"

"Say no more," Lou urged, "I get it. Happy wife, happy life."

His hand stayed on Al's shoulder for a long minute, squeezing it tight. Squeezing so much it hurt a little. All the while, his gaze was on the bag parked on the counter beside the sink.

"She oughta be real happy, too, considering how much you won tonight," Lou said, patting the bag with a grin, "Just think of how happy she could be if you kept going. A hot streak like this is a once in a lifetime thing. You might walk outta here a millionaire tonight. Wouldn't that make Margie happy?"

Lou was right. Of course he was. Al had made more money in the last few hours than he ever had in his entire life. The night was still young. Margie was upset, but she'd get over it once he dropped all that cash on the kitchen table. With that kind of money, they could move out of their crappy Roach Motel of an apartment and buy a real house. One with a gourmet kitchen and a big yard, and room to spare for Junior's future little brothers and sisters. Hadn't Margie said time and again that she wanted those things? Her own house, and a big family to fill it up with? She could have all that and more.

All Al had to do was keep playing. Just a little longer.

"Okay," Al nodded, "Where to next?"

Lou's face broke in a wide, toothy grin as he slapped Al on the back. "Shake a leg," he chuckled, "The roulette wheel is callin' my name!"

Saturday, 10 a.m.

The hot streak of Al's life was starting to cool off. He still won - a lot - but the payouts were smaller. And the bag on his shoulder got a little lighter. His feet and legs were so swollen, they ached. He was lightheaded from hunger, having no idea when he'd last eaten. Still, Lou urged him to keep going. He trusted Lou, more than he ever trusted anybody else in his life. Lou was like a bloodhound for cash. Like he had a sixth sense for where the next jackpot would be. Which machine would pay out next. Which cards to keep and which to fold.

Al moved like a zombie from one table or machine to the next. Following Lou like a dog on a leash. He knew he should stop and rest. Or at the very least find something to eat and drink. In the blink of an eye, though, he was standing at the Craps table again. Lou dug into that ever-lightening bag for him, setting out his chips and putting the dice in his hand. Before he could throw them, a hand grabbed his opposite shoulder and spun him around.

"What the hell are you doing here, Guldner?! Your shift was supposed to start four hours ago!!"

Al blinked, too dazed and sleep-deprived to recognize the short, bald man standing before him. It was Mr. Muntz; the hotel's hospitality manager... and his boss. Why was he there?

Automatically, Al looked at the ten-dollar Casio on his wrist to check the time. Ten o'clock in the morning? No. Surely it couldn't be that late.

"M-Mr. Muntz, I... I-I can explain," Al stammered, "I won a jackpot tonight... or... l-last night I guess, and-"

"Spare me the excuses!" Mr. Muntz snapped, "Guldner, this is the last straw! I've known you have a problem for a while now, but since you're a family man I tried to look the other way! You've run out of second chances, though! You're fired! Do you hear me?! Fired!!"

The word rang in Al's ears for a hot minute, quickly getting swallowed up by the casino's constant roar. He was so exhausted - so numb - that it held no meaning to him. By the time it sank in, Mr. Muntz had already stormed off back toward the hotel lobby.

"Fired...?" Al repeated stupidly, "Wait... Mr. Muntz... w-wait a minute!"

Before he could move an inch, the dice seemed to fly out of his hand by themselves. Al turned back to the table when he heard them clatter across its soft, green velvet surface. Seven, again. The other adrenaline-fueled zombies around the table cheered for Al. And, like magic, Lou's hand was back on his shoulder.

"You did it again, Friend!" he crowed, "What'd I tell you, huh?!"

Al was too numb to even register the win. His mind still circling his brief conversation with Mr. Muntz.

"I got fired," he mumbled, "I don't have a job. I needed that job. Margie will kill me. I gotta talk to him... get my job back now, before-"

"With this kind of money, who needs a job?!" Lou scoffed. "In a few hours, you'll be able to buy this whole casino and the hotel... and you can fire him outta spite!"

Al wet his lips as the game attendant pushed a huge pile of chips toward him. The biggest pile he'd won in hours.

"Yeah... Y-Yeah, you're right," he nodded, a punch-drunk smile crawling across his face, "Who needs that stupid job?! I hated it anyway! Gimme the dice, Lou; when I'm done here, I'm gonna buy the whole damn Strip!!"

Saturday, 7 p.m.

Al had lost track of all time. The bag on his arm that was once fuller than a bloated tick with cash now hung limp as a deflated balloon by his hip. His hot streak had gone ice cold. He was delirious from hunger, thirst, and lack of sleep. He hadn't been able to feel his feet for hours. Still, Lou egged him on, dragging him from one end of the casino to the next. He even let Al borrow his cane. Didn't seem like Lou needed it anyway. After hours of non-stop gambling, Lou was more spry an energetic than ever. In fact, Al would venture to say he looked twenty years younger than when they started.

As Lou steered him around the corner toward the pair of machines they'd met at, someone jumped into their path. A woman, which Al almost flattened. It took him a second or two to recognize her; her blonde curls were frizzy and loose, and her warm green eyes rimmed red from crying. She was dressed in her faded yellow waitress uniform, stained with baby vomit on both shoulders under her favorite, well-worn blue cardigan. As exhausted as she looked, the fire in her eyes burned with damning heat.

"M-Margie," Al stammered, unable to stop smiling at the sight of her, "Wow... this is a surprise. What're you-?"

His question was cut short by her hand skating across his face.

"Whattaya think I'm doin' here?!" she snapped, "Al, we talked about this! You promised me you'd get help!"

Al rubbed his stinging cheek with a wince, blinking the stars out of his eyes. "Margie... you wouldn't believe the streak I was on," he insisted, "I won a jackpot: a hundred grand, in one pull! It was incredible!"

"Yeah?!" she spat, arms folded tight across her narrow chest, "Where is it, then?! Show me this life-changin' jackpot, Mr. Moneybags!"

Without hesitation, Al unslung the bag from his arm and gave it to Margie. Proud to show off his winnings. She unzipped it with a scowl, plunging her hand into its depths. All she produced, though, was a handful of chips barely worth two hundred dollars. Brimming over with disbelief and pity, she threw both the chips and bag back at him with a shake of her head.

"You burned through a hundred thousand dollars in a single night," she shouted, "...and you still have the gall to stare at me with that stupid grin on your face?! What is wrong with you?!"

"But Margie-"

"Don't! Just don't!" she tore a hand through her hair, shedding a few bobby pins in the process, "I can't do this anymore, Al! I just can't! Do you know I sat up all night last night tryin' to call you?! Thinkin' the worst?! You keep this up, and we'll both wind up in an early grave!!"

Al trembled from head to toe, tears welling up in his bloodshot eyes. "I did it for you," he said, "Ever since we tied the knot, you've been talkin' about all these things you want! Things I can't give you! That I'll probably never be able to! Is it really worth bustin' my balls over trying to give you a better life?!"

Margie opened her mouth to argue, but her jaw slowly closed again. A sudden sadness washed over her as she raised her left hand. Al braced, thinking she was going to hit him again. Instead, she worked the thin, simple gold band off her finger. Laying it on the slot machine beside him.

"You've made your choice," she said, her voice barely audible over the casino's roar, "I just hope you can live with it. Goodbye, Alvin... and I'm sorry."

She walked away like a ghost, blending into the crowd within a minute. All Al could do was stand there, frozen in shock, watching her leave. This had to be a dream. The worst dream he'd ever had. She was leaving him... and he was letting her.

"Margie," he cried softly, "Margie, Honey... wait. Wait!"

Lou's strong hand clamped down on his shoulder again suddenly, shoving him down in front of the slot machine. The same machine that started it all. And Lou was still smiling.

"Don't let it get you down, Friend," he said, patting Al's back, "There's plenty of fish in the sea. One more jackpot, and you can have any woman in the world."

The reels swam before Al's eyes, melting into a shapeless puddle of color. "No," he said, "Not like her. We... We're soulmates, Lou."

Bile crawled up his throat as he looked down at the handful of chips in his hand. All that was left of his once-in-a-lifetime jackpot. It was gone. All of it was gone - his money... his job... his life. All in a single night.

"I lost it," he realized, tears pouring down his face, "I lost everything.... but I can't lose her! I just can't, Lou! You... Y-You have to let me find her! Please!!"

The man who sat down next to Al was wearing Lou's clothes, but it couldn't be Lou. This man was much younger; thirty if he was a day. That warm smile and those sparkling black eyes would only belong to Lou, though. Al's friend. Al's trusted confidant.

That's what Lou was... Wasn't he?

Al barely registered the crisp five-dollar bill being pressed into his hand by this much-younger Lou. Like a puppet on strings, Lou guided his hand to the machine's cash slot. Feeding the bill to the eternally hungry monster.

"Have a free spin on me," he rumbled, "Don't worry... you can pay me back later, when you win the jackpot."