slide down to Alex’s bare toes, curling and uncurling as we chat. She polished them once, but the color has chipped away except for a few red flecks around the cuticles. It’s a look I remember from high school and I like it.
It seems obvious, suddenly, what’s going to happen between us; the only question is how. To move from the hallway straight to one of our rooms would be to forget we’re grown-ups, not college kids. We have standards, guidelines, rules of thumb. If we want to maintain our self-respect as wary, wounded, thirtyish survivors, we’ll have to go somewhere else and then come back here.
We agree on a plan that only seems spontaneous; in fact, it’s as structured as a NASA countdown, designed to land us in bed by one o’clock so we can make our early-morning flights. We’ll dress, meet up in the lobby, and cross the street to the Gold Rush Casino. We pad off down the hallway to our rooms for a quick gargle and splash of soapy water. I can almost hear the guests’ sedatives kicking in as I pass their doors.
I wear my boots. For once, they’re on my side. The angle of the heels and soles aligns my spine and firms my chest and shoulders. The problem is my khakis. They’ve lost their shape. I’m a hasty packer and hard on clothes; I roll them into tubes instead of folding them.
Alex dresses mannishly and simply in jeans and a V-neck black T-shirt. And a watch. I know the maker—I outcounseled four men there—and I’m sorry she wasted her money. It’s ISM’s fault. To help the company move its wares upmarket, we urged it to license the prestigious name of a dead European industrial designer. The inferior guts of the timepieces, which are sold alongside Rolexes and Guccis in airport duty-free shops, didn’t change, but their prices quadrupled. Poor Alex fell for it.
We link arms. The street is still crowded with hopeful oldies toting buckets of change and plastic drink cups. The important thing is to stay casual, stay light. We’re repeating ourselves—we’ve played this scene with others, and always with the same melancholy outcome—but we don’t have to draw attention to the fact, nor do we have to deny it. We’ll come through this. We stop on the sidewalk in front of the casino and count out our stake: four hundred dollars in twenties, all of which we agree to put at risk.
The craps tables are packed. We try roulette. A band plays in a corner—a cover combo specializing in stodgy classic rock. I buy two hundred dollars worth of chips for each of us and note our different styles in stacking them. Alex divides hers into four piles, while I build a tower.
“Red?”
“Whatever you like. Just don’t bet a single number,” I say.
Ten minutes later she’s richer, though not by much, and I’m on my way to doubling my buy-in. Make no mistake: good luck is always significant and earning is no substitute for winning. We’ve made the right choice in coming out tonight; the wheel confirms it. I raise my average wager and hazard a high-odds corner bet, which hits.
A cocktail waitress arrives with our free drinks, two light beers, and I tip her with a chip. This always feels good, for some reason. Mr. Big.
“I have a confession,” Alex says.
“You’re married.”
“I know you. We’ve met before. I heard you speak.”
I look at her, keeping one eye on the wheel. To make the ball go where it needs to I have to coach it.
“Three years ago. At a seminar in Texas. You talked on career development, remember? I think the event was called Prepare for Power.”
It’s black—I’ve won again. “I’ve done a few of those. They keep me upbeat for my real job. Shafting people.”
“I went with a girlfriend. She dragged me. You were good. I was a mess at the time, completely drained. I’d just broken up with a famous businessman who’d done a real number on my self-esteem. I sat at the back of the room because I’m shy, but I felt like you were talking to me personally. The line I
It seems obvious, suddenly, what’s going to happen between us; the only question is how. To move from the hallway straight to one of our rooms would be to forget we’re grown-ups, not college kids. We have standards, guidelines, rules of thumb. If we want to maintain our self-respect as wary, wounded, thirtyish survivors, we’ll have to go somewhere else and then come back here.
We agree on a plan that only seems spontaneous; in fact, it’s as structured as a NASA countdown, designed to land us in bed by one o’clock so we can make our early-morning flights. We’ll dress, meet up in the lobby, and cross the street to the Gold Rush Casino. We pad off down the hallway to our rooms for a quick gargle and splash of soapy water. I can almost hear the guests’ sedatives kicking in as I pass their doors.
I wear my boots. For once, they’re on my side. The angle of the heels and soles aligns my spine and firms my chest and shoulders. The problem is my khakis. They’ve lost their shape. I’m a hasty packer and hard on clothes; I roll them into tubes instead of folding them.
Alex dresses mannishly and simply in jeans and a V-neck black T-shirt. And a watch. I know the maker—I outcounseled four men there—and I’m sorry she wasted her money. It’s ISM’s fault. To help the company move its wares upmarket, we urged it to license the prestigious name of a dead European industrial designer. The inferior guts of the timepieces, which are sold alongside Rolexes and Guccis in airport duty-free shops, didn’t change, but their prices quadrupled. Poor Alex fell for it.
We link arms. The street is still crowded with hopeful oldies toting buckets of change and plastic drink cups. The important thing is to stay casual, stay light. We’re repeating ourselves—we’ve played this scene with others, and always with the same melancholy outcome—but we don’t have to draw attention to the fact, nor do we have to deny it. We’ll come through this. We stop on the sidewalk in front of the casino and count out our stake: four hundred dollars in twenties, all of which we agree to put at risk.
The craps tables are packed. We try roulette. A band plays in a corner—a cover combo specializing in stodgy classic rock. I buy two hundred dollars worth of chips for each of us and note our different styles in stacking them. Alex divides hers into four piles, while I build a tower.
“Red?”
“Whatever you like. Just don’t bet a single number,” I say.
Ten minutes later she’s richer, though not by much, and I’m on my way to doubling my buy-in. Make no mistake: good luck is always significant and earning is no substitute for winning. We’ve made the right choice in coming out tonight; the wheel confirms it. I raise my average wager and hazard a high-odds corner bet, which hits.
A cocktail waitress arrives with our free drinks, two light beers, and I tip her with a chip. This always feels good, for some reason. Mr. Big.
“I have a confession,” Alex says.
“You’re married.”
“I know you. We’ve met before. I heard you speak.”
I look at her, keeping one eye on the wheel. To make the ball go where it needs to I have to coach it.
“Three years ago. At a seminar in Texas. You talked on career development, remember? I think the event was called Prepare for Power.”
It’s black—I’ve won again. “I’ve done a few of those. They keep me upbeat for my real job. Shafting people.”
“I went with a girlfriend. She dragged me. You were good. I was a mess at the time, completely drained. I’d just broken up with a famous businessman who’d done a real number on my self-esteem. I sat at the back of the room because I’m shy, but I felt like you were talking to me personally. The line I
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