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A selection of two short stories. Written under a pseudonym for privacy. |
| These are two stories that are included in the print version of the same title ("Wired"). The print version will not be posted, but has three other stories and one poem. I may post the poem in the near future, but not yet. Also in the print version: my real name is used. Online, everything is given to my pseudonym for safety. |
| Untitled By Tony Cohen The following will consist of one general poem, followed by a more detailed recollection. I “‘Why didn’t you call me?’ the raspy voice asks. I hear water running. ‘Why? I dunno,’ is all I care to say. The water pours from a drain.” My cell phone rings as I walk through my dark house. I was returning from a dinner party with a few friends and I had been in the house less than five seconds. Coincidence? I thought so. Everyone has had the experience where they walk in the house and the phone rings immediately, as if on cue. The strange thing was that I was expecting the call. I was even expecting that it would happen as soon as I entered the building. Taking the cell phone from my pocket, I’m already saying, “Hello?” The voice on the other end takes a deep breath and lets it out. My blood runs cold. “Who is this?” he says. I take in a breath to speak, but he beats me to it. “Why didn’t you call?” Stay calm, I tell myself. Staying calm is the best possible solution. That’s when I hear something like a liquid in the background. “Why?” I say. “Why didn’t I call? Gee, I dunno.” Wrong answer. I know that as soon as the words are out of my mouth. There is an eerie pause that makes me want to hang up and run. That’s when I visualize a faucet pouring water. Pouring and pouring and pouring. It just never ends. Why was there water behind the voice? I still don’t know, but I think it could have been an intimidation factor. If that is true, it was working. II “I pull the cell phone away from my ear. ‘PRIVATE NUMBER’, it reads. ‘What number is this” I ask. My suspicions better be wrong. ‘You know,’ he says. I don’t. At least… I don’t think I do. ‘What number is this?’ I demand again. An uncomfortable pause. A faucet pours.” It was getting creepy by this point. I took the cell phone from my ear and looked at the caller ID. Unfortunately, not even Verizon carries every number. “Private Number” is what it says. The screen glows a ghostly blue color. I’ve been on the phone for thirty seconds now. “What number is this? Who is this?” I said as my voice quivers. I’m afraid that this is who I suspect it is. I’m hoping against what I already know to be true that my hopes are right. Please don’t be him. Please. Yeah, get real. “You know,” is his reply. No. I will not admit it. It simply can’t be true. Unless…he’s messing with me. If he knows something about me, he could use that to his advantage and my disadvantage. There’s a line in there somewhere. I take the phone away from my ear again. This was getting even more intimidating by this point, so I check again just to be safe. “Private Number.” I look on the kitchen counter behind me and notice a remote for my security system. There is a special phone remote that has a network of my landline and my cell phone. I push the button labeled “Trace” and hope that something comes up. “What did you do?” he asks. “What?” “You did…pushed something.” “Me? No!” I say with all the sincerity I can gather. It’s more difficult when you’re lying to someone who might be a criminal over the telephone. “I think you want something from me,” the voice mumbles. I can still hear that water in the background. “No,” I say, “but I would like to know what number this is. In fact, what number is this?” The voice inhales deeply and exhales into the receiver. Chills. “Why do you want to know?” I can think of many reasons. Perhaps more than I should be able to name. “Just curious,” I say, which is half-true. The water continues to pour. I wonder if he’s inside or if he’s outside near a pool. It’s around seven o’clock at night, so I can only assume that it’s the former. He still doesn’t answer me. I am now becoming more nervous than I thought possible. I try to calm myself using certain techniques. The man on the other end is quiet, but I know he’s there. He’s just waiting while he stalks his prey. III “‘555-3754,’ he says to me. 555-3754. I know that number and I know how. A public lavatory, I suddenly remember. That’s where this all started. But why me? How? How could they trace me? Splash! Something falls into a pond. I hear it over the phone. How could they trace me? My phone?” I can calm myself fairly easily. New Age comes through again. I’m still wondering how they found me. I know how I found them. “What is the number?” I said angrily. “555-3754,” he says. “Got it?” Got it. I knew it would be familiar. I knew that it would be that number. It was very obvious that misfortune would find me. I know exactly where I found it and I’ll tell you how. I was at a restaurant two nights before this incident. Yes, it was a dinner meeting at an Italian restaurant in downtown San Francisco. I had to take a bathroom break and happened to notice a telephone number scribbled on the wall. It looked relatively new. After all, it wasn’t scratched, worn, or faded. It looked like it could have been written ten minutes before I walked in. Now that I think of it, it may have been. The number was 555-3754. Coincidence? No. Walking into the house while the phone rings is a coincidence. Taking a vacation during the “slow” season with no prior knowledge is a coincidence. But when someone calls you from a number you found at a random restaurant two days earlier, it is not a coincidence. I did what most Americans would do. I took out a notepad and pen and wrote the phone number on a sheet of paper. What to do now? Do you call the number or leave it? My decision, which I wouldn’t change if I could, was to leave it. Take the money and walk. It could have been like the personal ads in the newspaper or it could have been a criminal. I guessed the correct answer. Now here’s where it gets strange: I never wrote my phone number on a wall. I never wrote it on that pad of paper. In fact, I never took my phone from my pocket. I checked my outbox and it didn’t read any strange calls. No text messages. And no out-of-place reports. I’m not a teenager that enters his phone number on those online advertisements. I don’t use my cell phone for anything except business. I never use it for any sign-up information. How could this total stranger receive my private line? It would have been much easier—and possible—to look for my name in the phone book. I’m listed under the “N” section. There’s a loud splash in the pond that has certainly formed by now. I hear the water land around the puddle. The thoughts return to my mind after a brief distraction by the water. Even today I can’t determine how they found me. If they somehow noticed my phone call to another person, they could have recorded the number but I doubt that the timing would be easily attained. It would also be extremely coincidental. “Who are you?” I ask with a slight air of annoyance in my voice. The man breathes shallowly and quickly. I don’t receive an answer. IV “555-8735. That’s my number. They didn’t—and shouldn’t—know that. ‘You should’ve called,’ the voice continues. ‘That’s why I posted the number. That’s why I called you…’ He’s got my attention. My undivided, undisputed, unadulterated attention… until I remember there’s pie in the refrigerator.” His number is 555-3754. My number is 555-8735. I don’t know how they found that number, but they weren’t meant to. They shouldn’t know that and I don’t want them to. Of course, I can always request a new phone number from Verizon. But what if they find that? For all I know, that information is public record and can be viewed by anyone. Maybe Verizon has a complete phone book on their website. After all, I’ve never visited their site. I have the right to remain silent. If I keep quiet and don’t admit anything, he won’t know anything and he won’t suspect anything. “I think you have the wrong number,” I say while I try thinking of something else. “No, I don’t. I’m sure of that. Besides, the number is—” he stops before he lends me anything I shouldn’t know about. “You should’ve called,” he tells me. “I don’t understand,” I said. “What are you talking about?” “You understand everything, my friend. You should’ve called me. You know that. That’s why I posted the number. I wanted YOU to call ME. That is why I decided to call you…” he continues, but I don’t hear him. He has my attention now. It’s like those scary movies where the killer calls you over the phone line and threatens you. They always play out your death like a writer does to a director. Then they mumble on about how much they like you and why they like you… This is not the case. He carries on about how important it is to do what you’re told. The problem is, it was just a number on the wall. There weren’t any instructions that said I should call or when to call. It just said “555-3754”. I’m still trying to think of something else to calm my nerves when I remember I brought pie home from the Italian restaurant in San Francisco. That would be good after—or even during, for that matter—this peculiar phone call. The deep, raspy voice loses my attention and the pie wins it. “Listen,” I say, interrupting his speech. “No, you listen!” he hollers. “I have a question for you. If you answer correctly, you win. Now if you lose—” I don’t have to hear the rest. It’s just Scream in real life. He’ll ask me a question about a horror movie and if I answer incorrectly I don’t make it through the night. I never hear the question, though. He changes the subject before he completes the sentence. The security system box beeps at me one time, which causes the man on the phone to become silent. I still hear his loud breathing, but he doesn’t say a word. The security system reads “Call Trace Completed”. For the readers that think they have the ending figured out, it wasn’t coming from inside the house. V “‘It’s important to talk,’ he goes on. ‘It’s important we talk. It’s good that I see you.’ That pie’s going to taste good, I’m thinking. ‘Sorry, I’m too busy to see you.’ ‘That wasn’t what I meant,’ he says. ‘I see you now.’” The man on the other end of the phone is still quiet. I’m assuming that he heard the machine beep. Maybe he even deducted that the call was being traced. They say that a bug in a phone makes a noise. From what I heard, it’s like a ticking noise. So if you ever hear clicking or ticking during your phone call, you’ll know what it is. Of course, this wasn’t a bug. So that idea was out the window. However, that doesn’t mean he didn’t suspect he was being traced. “Talking,” he said. “Talking is important. It’s important that people talk. It spreads information. And with information is knowledge, with knowledge there is power, and with power there is change. And change is good.” Blah, blah, blah. I’ll wait for the movie. “It’s important that we—you and I—talk. It’s also good that we meet. That I see you.” Think of an excuse! I try to find something that I’m doing that can be used as being busy. My schedule flashes through my mind. Nothing on Monday. Tuesday I’m wide open. Wednesday is a thirty-minute meeting at noon. Thursday is television night and Friday… “Sorry, can’t do it. I’m too busy this week—month,” I say. There is a deep inhale followed by a loud exhale. “That wasn’t what I meant,” he hisses. I hear water boiling in the background. “I see you right now.” I pause for a moment. “What was that?” “You’re standing in the kitchen by the counter. There’s a picture from when ‘The Wedding Singer’ toured through the Orpheum Theatre on the wall. You’re wearing a—” I stand still as he continues describing everything with surprisingly clear detail. There is no possible way he could be this up-to-date. Unless he saw me earlier in the day. Now I thought I had exposed his plan. “Okay, what am I doing now?” I ask as I turn on the television. I keep it on mute so he won’t hear it. “Right now you have the television turned to Discovery Channel,” he says in a voice that seems too calm. I’m being watched. Like a caged animal. VI “What? Double take. Soap opera drama. Did NOT see that coming. Someone crashes through a window, on a course with me. His body hits mine and he tackles me. Honeywell alarms go off all around. The police will be here soon, I tell myself.” For some reason, I’m surprised he doesn’t say something like, “I know what you did last summer.” Not that I have anything to hide. The phrase “paralyzed with fear” certainly holds true to this situation. You’re stranded in one position with a reality that you know exists, but you don’t want to exist. Just seconds after that, someone crashes through a glass door that exits onto my porch. Broken glass falls everywhere as the man’s body flies through the air and collides with mine. I fall to the ground with the force of his body. My cell phone lands ten feet away from where I land and the central security system beeps again. My call is still traced. Loud alarms go off all around me. The man on top of me is injured from the impact, so he lies still on the ground. I was in shock for a little while, so I wasn’t aware of what was happening. Then I hear him say something, which brings me back. I try standing, but it is of no use. Honeywell is sending a signal to the police station regarding the situation. My landline rings and I know immediately that it’s Honeywell. They always call if they’ve been sent a signal. It reminds me of the credit card companies that make you verify your purchases over the phone. Flashing red and blue lights illuminate the room as the cops pull into the driveway. After that, I don’t remember anything. VII After the police arrested the man, I checked the central security system. The call was traced and the location was printed on a sheet of paper. The address was at the intersection of 45th Street and Fairview Avenue. I knew that address. It was a mental institution. A mental institution where the extremely dangerous criminals were sent. So if you ever find a phone number scribbled on a bathroom wall, it’s up to you to decide. For me, I just stay away from public bathrooms. After all, no one likes them anyway. Copyright © 2008 by Tony Cohen. All rights reserved. MCN: CD002-0D46A-48E06 |
| Addiction By Tony Cohen “Place your bets!” the dealer yells. I shuffle the chips in my hands. The maximum for this table is five hundred dollars, which is the average maximum for casinos. Ah, the heck with it, I think as I place two one hundred-dollar chips on the space in front of me. The dealer calls for the betting to stop and deals everyone two cards: one face up and one face down. We’re playing blackjack and the object of the game is to beat the dealer’s hand. Everyone is playing against the dealer. As my brother explained it, you’re all on the same team. The second objective is to come close to twenty-one points without going over. These “points” are the numerical values of the cards. All face cards are worth ten points and aces can be worth one point or eleven points. I glance down at my cards and notice that I have an ace and a seven. Eighteen or eight, I think. “Hit me,” I say and the dealer instinctively gives me another card—a six. Thirteen, I think (the ace now counts as one point). “Hit,” I say, hoping against the odds that I’ll get a seven or an eight. The dealer gives me a six and I say, “Stand.” Now my hand is nineteen and I’m done for this round. The guy next to me pulls his cards up too far and I see that he has soft twenty, or, in normal terms, an ace and a nine. “Stand,” he says. The next guy is too far away for me to see what he has, but he says, “Hit, please.” The dealer hands out a ten and the poor guy turns up all his cards to reveal that he went over twenty-one by two points. The fourth and final player has a five showing on top and says, “Hit.” He is also dealt a ten and turns his other card over so we see that he had fifteen and then received his ten, putting him over by four points. It’s finally time for the moment of truth. The dealer turns over his cards and is revealed to have eleven. He takes a hit and receives a king. Twenty-one. He takes my two hundred and the other man’s bet and prepares for the next round. I use the old blackjack principal referred to as “doubling up”. The theory behind this is that if you lose one hundred dollars, you double your bet and might win two hundred. Dr. Edward O. Thorp disproved this theory in the 1960s. I put four one hundred dollar chips on the table and wait for the dealer to deal. Everyone around me is betting around one hundred dollars. The dealer deals quickly to everyone at the table and I receive a natural—once again, an ace and a jack. Because this is twenty-one, I automatically win. Unfortunately, no one has time to take cards. The dealer turns over both of his to reveal a natural as well. I didn’t win. I tied the dealer. The deck is going bad. It’s time to leave the table. Another dealer yells, “Place your bets!” I walk over to him and put fifty on the table. The cards are dealt and I receive another lucky natural. And this time the dealer doesn’t turn his cards over! Everyone at the table takes hits. By the end, only one player is left standing. The dealer turns over his cards and has eleven. He takes a hit and gets a six. He must stand. I finally win blackjack. “Winner, winner, chicken dinner,” the dealer says. I don’t know how that was started, but now whenever a natural is dealt, the dealer always proclaims that phrase. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. I walk away from the table again. The security probably thinks that I’m playing a system. I’m not. Even after adding my winnings into the picture, I’m still in the hole one thousand dollars. The first rule of gambling is to never play with money you can’t afford to lose. I never was a fan of rules. And now I’m in debt. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. I searched the Internet for the chances of beating a slot machine. It was calculated at 1 in 32,768. The worst part about slots is that there’s no system to play. You’re on your own. I’m not in the books for playing a system. I’m in the books for the list of people that can be fleeced. I try leaving the casino undetected and it works. For now, at least. I’m in the hole $1,762 dollars and that is still the beginning of the story. My name is Sig Edgar Wilson and I’m a compulsive gambler. II Beating the system. Beating the dealer. Beating the casino. Beating the house. Beating the game. No matter how you say it, it means the same thing. I wanted to beat the game, the house, and the dealer, but I couldn’t. Somehow, I found myself in the casino again the next day. I began by betting thirty dollars in slots—ten dollars per row. I pulled the lever and the symbols spun…and spun…and spun. The first column comes to a halt, displaying the famous “BAR”. The second column stops next, displaying “BAR” as well. Everything’s looking up, but the third column still has to come to a stop. I already know what will happen. The third column stops abruptly, displaying a cherry. I lose. “Grit your teeth and place your bets,” is a saying from a famous gambling book. I use this principal and bet thirty again. Again, each column, each row, abruptly stops. I lose again, getting deeper and deeper in the hole. I now owe approximately $1,852. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Five-card poker is next. I walk over to the table and place the minimum on the table—two dollars. The cards are dealt and each player receives five. The first round of betting now begins. I’m in the last seat, which gives me a slight advantage. “Slight” is the key word. The brief rules of this game are fairly simple. Everyone is dealt five cards. You look at your hand and can choose as many cards as you want to throw away. You are then dealt that amount of cards from the unused deck, which is like rearranging your poker hand. First up is a woman wearing a red dress. She places two cards on the table, which indicates that she wants two new cards. I can’t see what she receives from my position, but everyone will soon know. The second player is also a woman. She places four cards on the table, wishing against the odds that she will receive a flush is my guess. The third player is a man wearing a leather jacket. He puts his whole hand on the table and receives five new cards. Now it’s my turn. “Nothing,” I say. My hand is everything I could want. A straight, which means I have a three, four, five, six, and a seven. My chances of winning are very high. Everyone bets. I bet five hundred, the usual maximum. My new strategy is to drive the others away by betting as much as I possibly can. Those who think I’m bluffing will soon be sadly mistaken. After the only round of betting is finally finished, it’s down to the first woman and me. I turn my cards over revealing my straight. In five-card poker, you’re playing against the other players, not the dealer. She turns her cards over. And she’s smiling. She has a straight flush. All in spades, she has nine, ten, jack, queen, king. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. The odds of being dealt a straight flush are forty over 2,598,960. In English, about 0.0015%. Beat the game. Beat the odds. Beat the system. Beat the house. Beat the dealer. So close and yet so far. I’m now in the hole approximately $2,652, after spending eight hundred dollars on one round of poker. When you’re as addicted to gambling as I am, you learn new ways of cheating. For example, you always try to sit in the last chair. The worst possible scenario is the first chair. The last seat allows you to see everyone’s cards and you can build your hand off that. Second, play a game that gives you a chance. In short, play blackjack. You can beat it by paying attention to the game. Because the cards used in a round of blackjack are placed on the bottom of the deck, they cannot turn up again. If you see all the fives on one round of play, the fives won’t appear throughout the rest of the game. The deck has a memory, use it to your advantage. The slots, as I said before, can be forgotten. Your chances of winning aren’t high. When you do win, you’re already in the hole over sixty dollars. Winning only helps a little. It’s first grade math and anyone can see that. Unfortunately, very few people do. The day I lost eight hundred dollars in one round, I didn’t notice the fine print. I kept playing, knowing that very few good cards were left in the deck. After a straight and a straight flush, there was almost no chance of getting another great hand. Placing two dollars on the table in front of me, the dealer closed betting and dealt everyone five cards. I looked at my five and noticed nothing. I had no pairs, no consecutive numbers, absolutely nothing. I had to trade everything in for a new hand. The woman with the straight flush had left, which was the smart thing to do. Take the money and leave. Drive it like you stole it. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. The first player was the woman from the previous round. She stands with her current hand. That thought crosses my mind. If I could convince everyone that I had a great hand, maybe they would all leave the game. The second player is the man wearing the leather jacket. He takes two cards and then is forced to stand. You can only exchange once. Then it’s my turn. I trade in everything and put it all on the line. The dealer gives me five new cards. I have one pair, which has only a small chance against the other two. Next is betting and I have a few decisions to make. The first woman bets twenty dollars. The second man puts twenty dollars on the table to stay in and raises it fifteen. Now I have the honor to finish the round of betting. It’s thirty-five dollars to stay in the game. Looking at my hand and noticing the pair of twos, I realize that it would be an advantage to myself—and my bank account—to quit. I say, “I’m folding,” and turn my cards over. I could have walked away. There was nothing holding me at the table. But I needed to know the outcome. The dealer announced that betting had officially ended and then called for everyone to turn his or her cards over. The first woman’s hand was nothing more than I had. All she was privileged to have was a pair of twos. So far I’m glad that I quit. The second player turns over his cards and has nothing. He just has five cards thrown together that don’t amount to anything. He was bluffing. That was his move. In the hole to date: $2,654. III By this point, I knew I needed help. Las Vegas had clubs all over the city for gambling addicts like me. I chose one that reminded me of my parent’s house. Hopefully I would feel at home. Upon entering the building, there was a long hallway filled with doors on both walls. A sign on each door read “Therapy in Session”. I walked to the front desk and talked to the receptionist. “I’m Sig Wilson,” I said, “and I would like to attend a therapy session.” “We have one starting in about ten minutes. It’s down the hallway in the last room on the right.” “Thank you,” I said. I walked down the hallway toward the door described and walked inside. The chairs were arranged in a circle, with a total of ten. I took my seat among the other eight people in the room. Vegas is probably the worst place to be if you have a problem with gambling. The window on the far side of the room had the curtains pulled, so we wouldn’t feel any pressure. We waited about another ten minutes while waiting for the instructor to arrive. When she did, it was about 1:30pm. She was around thirty with brown hair and blue eyes. She was dressed casually, but not too casually. She first began by having us recite the serenity prayer, which was on a sheet of paper we were handed. After that, we began with introductions. “The first step to overcoming your addiction,” she said, “is admitting that you have a problem. Thankfully, you have all passed that step because you are here with us today. Next you must admit that you are powerless against your fear and that nothing you can do can possibly fix that. What I want you to do is state your name, that you are an addict, and that no one can help you escape your addiction.” I’m thinking, Maybe this was a mistake. I wanted help, not negative monologues. We went around the circle while introducing ourselves. If you’ve ever seen a movie with a support group, you’ll know the experience. The first person said, “My name is Amy and I’m a gambling addict. I admit that there is nothing I or anyone else can do to fix my condition.” “Let’s greet Amy, everyone,” the instructor said. “Hi, Amy,” we all said. The next said, “My name is Barry and I’m a gambling addict. I admit that there is nothing I or anyone else can do to fix my condition.” “Hi, Barry,” we said. Everyone else said the same and then it was my turn. I was sitting in the last chair, the best possible gambling move. “My name,” I said, “is Sig Wilson and I’m a gambling addict. I admit that there is nothing I or anyone else can do to fix my condition.” “Hi, Sig,” everyone said. After a pause, the instructor continued. “Good,” she said. “Now that we know each other’s names, we can focus on why we’re here. Everyone in this room has now admitted that there is nothing they or anyone else can do to fix their condition. I know what you’re going through. I was an addict for five years and sought help after reaching the $500,000 mark.” Five hundred thousand dollars. Winner, winner, chicken dinner! She continued, “I am a living example that, yes, there is help and everyone in this building is willing to provide that help. Everyone in this group should be willing to help each other.” She looked around the room at the faces that were once filled with excitement at the idea of visiting Las Vegas and visiting the casinos. Now they were cold and filled with experience. Too much experience. “There is a way out,” she said, “and it is a tried-and-proven method. For decades thousands of people have been exposed to this method and many of them were healed. Compulsive gambling is a disease, but we can heal that disease. What we are asking you to believe in is something above yourself. It has been phrased as ‘a power greater than your own’. Some people call it God, some Buddha, some believe in the Universe, and some simply cannot name it. They just know that it works and it works for good.” Barry speaks up: “Are you saying we should find religion?” “Not at all,” the instructor says. “If that is what you decide to do and it works, then go ahead. But what we are asking is that you believe that there is a power higher than your abilities. A power that can cure you of your gambling addiction and fix that mindset for now and forever. If you want to become religious, that’s fine, but it is not required. Simply believe that you are not the highest power on earth.” She looks at each individual while saying, “If you can do that, you can become free again.” About an hour later, everyone left the building with a new idea in their head. It seemed so simple and so obvious. It was one of the all-too-familiar situations when you know there’s something more to learn, but no one will tell you what that is. The fact is that there was something more to learn, but that only came with experience. The easy part was believing in this force above our abilities. The hard part was sticking to that when temptations developed. Before we left, our instructor gave us more wisdom on what to do if we felt a sudden urge to run to the casinos and lay money on the table. “You must have something to do that will change your mindset,” she had said. “Whether that is going to the computer and writing a journal, listening to the radio, watching television, taking a bath, or cleaning the house is up to you. Another experiment we are currently trying is online gambling with no risk. It’s all a game where you use fake money, but still play the game. We haven’t determined whether that fixes the urge or encourages it, but time will hopefully tell.” Now I had an entire list of ideas that could be called “fixes” or “quick fixes”. The part I wasn’t looking forward to was trying them under fire. If I discovered that none of them worked, I could have a relapse and add another thousand dollars to my debt. IV “Place your bets!” the dealer yells. You shouldn’t be here, I tell myself. Another voice is my head says, Who cares? The dealer asks me if I want to play. Who cares? I care! I put twenty dollars on the slot in front of me and the dealer gives me two cards. The sound of slot machines spinning fills the room. I have a three and a five, which makes eight. The dealer is showing an ace, which means that we can have insurance. Insurance is an extra bet put alongside the original bet. It is betting that the dealer has a ten as his second card, which would automatically give him twenty-one. If the gamble pays off and the dealer has twenty-one, you win the round. My rule is to always take the insurance, that way you can’t lose. I lose the bet, which means he doesn’t have a natural. Everyone bets and takes cards until it’s my turn. I take a hit and receive a two. “Hit,” I say with confidence. I am dealt a ten and now have twenty. “Stand,” I say. The dealer turns over his second card and is revealed to have a five, or soft sixteen. He is required to take a hit and gets a ten. He now has sixteen again. He takes another required hit and gets a five. Twenty-one. The name of the game. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. In the hole to date: $2,854. I wake up in my bed. I touch my face and feel sweat. A dream, I tell myself. It was only a dream. I pick up my list of fixes and look at the first one. It says to get a drink of water. I stand up and try to avoid the clock on the way to the bathroom. If it’s before 2:00am, the casino might still be open. While I drink, I remind myself that I no longer owe $2,654. I’ve paid off three hundred dollars, so I’m only $2,354. Thank goodness. My therapist had taught me that I needed something to take my mind off the addiction when it returned. If I felt a sudden urge to put money on the table, I needed to have an activity or a phrase that would help me. It could be as simple as, “Calm down” or it may require going for a run. For many, these are only fixes for up to five minutes. My therapist also said that figurative gestures could translate into reality. For example, if I wrote my fears on a sheet of paper and burned or tore that paper, my mind might understand that I don’t want those problems anymore. They say that your mind is smarter than a computer. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. V Three Months Later My name is Sig Wilson and I am a compulsive gambler. My name is Sig Wilson and I am addicted to gambling. My name is Sig Wilson and I love the rush of putting money on the table. I still think those same thoughts everyday. I still remember and want to feel that rush again. The rush of chance. And the idea that you don’t know what will happen. I haven’t walked into a casino for two and a half months. I still attend group therapy sessions at the same building where I requested help. Most of the original group has left, but there are two that still remain. We heard news the other day about one of the people in my group. The leader said, “I am sorry to inform everyone that Marty has relapsed after three weeks of staying away from casinos.” Marty was in the first group session I attended. Some of the people in my group found their solution and decided they didn’t need help anymore. Maybe they smartened up and left Las Vegas. I still attend the meetings because I feel like they are family. I’m there to support and to be supported. We’re all in this together. That’s what we tell each other at every meeting. And I still get a funny feeling in my stomach when I walk down the hall to my group therapy session every week. The names of those that have recovered are on the walls. I walk down that hallway every week and see a golden plate that reads: SIG WILSON AFTER A BRIEF RELASPSE IN MAY 2008, HE HAS PAID OFF HIS DEBT AND HAS BEEN CLEAN SINCE JUNE 2, 2008. My name is Sig Wilson and money no longer holds power over me. But those four words still bring a feeling of excitement into my mind. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. My name is Sig Wilson and I am a recovered gambling addict. Winner, winner, chicken dinner. Copyright © 2008 by Tony Cohen. All rights reserved. MCN: CC176-3398E-F5910 |
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