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The game was over, and he was emptier than the bare field of fuzzy green felt before him on the table. There wasn’t even enough left in his pocket to tip the waitress who’d kept cold Captain & Cokes coming throughout the evening. Every one of his chips was lost to a streak of bad luck, leaving him broke, drunk, and dreading what he’d face when he got home.

John took what remained of his drink and left the table, his chair quickly occupied by a cute blonde with a handful of green chips and a shirt full of more girl than the top half of it was designed to hold. He watched her first hand, walking away miserably as she collected her winnings from a blackjack.

He finished his drink, his head starting to ache as alcohol, fatigue, and defeat caught up with him. Carol was going to be mad. No, pissed. She was going to have a fit. He knew better.

Damn it, he knew better.

He’d been doing so well, staying away from the casinos and the booze, but tonight he’d been a backsliding idiot. John cursed himself over and over for taking that shortcut home from work. Traffic had been hell; and impatience had won him over, taking him off the freeway and down this street, taking him past – and then a U-turn right back to – the glittering lights of the casino.

He slowly walked past the security guards at the door, two burly men checking ID’s on some young girls. Outside the door, he stopped, taking in the cool evening, hoping the fresh air might clear his head. A glance at his watch showed it to be a quarter past eight. For two and a half hours he had sat there, sipping Captain & Coke, betting hand after hand hoping he’d have something to show. All the while he had known Carol would have a shit fit later, but hoped that if he had won something – five, six hundred dollars maybe – she’d be less angry. He cursed himself for the millionth time. He knew better.

It was payday. His entire paycheck was gone. There were bills to pay, kids to feed. Christ, he’d been through this so many times before: out of money before the sun had set on payday, with two weeks before more money came. Credit cards had usually helped them through, but those were all maxed out. Those, ironically, had been used to pay for his counseling. He’d been to a mousy-faced psychologist to discuss his “problems” – the drinking, the gambling – but that hadn’t really helped. It was more of a weekly guilt trip, one more person he had to confess to when he slipped.

He’d tried some of those support groups where everyone tells their story and cries. That didn’t last long. The shrink he could handle, but these damned Gamblers and Alcoholics Anonymous groups felt like a bunch of grown men sobbing in a giant group hug. All it made him want was a drink, and a strong one.

The groups seemed to help Carol. Before, she had made all kinds of threats and ultimatums, had sobbed and made him feel guilty. Now she had the groups to cry to. She loved her weekly meetings, and if nothing else, it seemed to make her less angry when he did screw up. He wasn’t sure if that was how it was supposed to work, but if it made her happier, well, it must be okay.

He wanted to stop gambling and drinking. Maybe he could learn to do one without the other; have a beer in front of the TV, or maybe just a Coke at the blackjack table. It would be a start, right? Maybe he just needed to get Carol to go to those group hug meetings more, or make her go see the mousy-faced shrink. Maybe that would get her off his back, and then he wouldn’t need to drink or gamble so much. After all, when he was at the casino, he wasn’t home, and she wasn’t nagging. Usually by the time he did get home, he was fairly well buzzed and didn’t really care about her nagging. Maybe if she got more help, he wouldn’t need the cards or the Captain & Cokes.

He rubbed his eyes. He’d have to think more once he was sober, but for now he had to find a way to get some money before he went home. The green neon sign of a payday loan store glowed across the street, a place he knew well. At least if he got the money there, he wouldn’t have to tell Carol quite how much he had lost. Not that she’d be happy, but maybe she wouldn’t get quite as mad.

He wrote the postdated check and slid it under the bulletproof glass to the sleepy-eyed woman behind the counter. She counted out three hundred dollars and slid it back to him. Normally he’d have gotten more, but he was late paying them back the last couple of times, and they were leery of giving him as much. Oh well.

He slipped the money into his wallet and stepped back outside. It was nearly nine o’clock. No doubt Carol was already mad as hell. At least now he had some money. That would help. He just wished he had more. Maybe even his whole paycheck instead of a lousy quarter of it.

His head still spun a bit as he walked across the street to his car. Of course calling a cab would be the smart thing to do, but that cost money, and then Carol would have to drive him to pick the car up tomorrow. His eyes drifted toward the lights of the casino.

No, he had to stop.

But then, he did need to sober up before he drove home.

Maybe if he just played with what would have been his cab fare. He was going to spend it either way: either gamble while he sobered up, or pay a cab. At least gambling it he had a small chance of getting it back.

Maybe if he didn’t play too risky: no doubling down, no hitting above twelve or thirteen. He’d been taking chances earlier, and took some nasty losses. At one point, he’d bet ten bucks on a hand, which turned out to be two aces. He had split, then doubled down on both sides of the split, only to have the dealer top his seventeen and twenty with a blackjack. Forty bucks, gone on one hand. All he had to do was not do stupid things like that, right?

He opened his wallet and pulled out a fifty-dollar bill, the smallest denomination the lady behind the glass had given him. He could get thirty in chips and keep the other twenty. Or maybe play the full fifty; that would give him more chances to win.

Or more chances to lose, Carol’s voice echoed in his mind.

John thought about it for a long time, staring at the fifty-dollar bill in his hand.

“I know it’s a compulsion, and it’s something that won’t go away overnight,” Carol’s voice, filled with resignation and Al-Anon style acceptance. “But I know you’re trying.”

“’Step One’,” the monotonous collective voice of the sobbing group hug. “’We admit we are powerless over gambling, and that our lives have become unmanageable’.”

“I can help you, John,” the mousy-faced shrink looking over her wire-rimmed glasses. “But only if you want it. If you want to change.”

He listened to the voices reverberating in his head, which ached as the Captain’s command on him slowly dissipated. It’s all about me, he thought. I have to be the one to change. I have to want to change.

He looked at the fifty-dollar bill in his hand, thought about his wife, his shrink, the group he’d not attended in months. Thought about what he could use that money for: food for the kids, maybe take Carol to dinner.

John looked at the casino’s beckoning lights. He thought of the hell he would pay when he got home, of the hell he would put himself through trying to get back to where he had been until just a few hours ago, of how painful it would be, for him, for Carol, for everyone else. It probably wouldn’t kill him, like the alcohol eventually would, but oh Jesus it would be hard.

Out of the fog in his mind, another quote wrestled its way past the others: “That which doesn’t kill me makes me stronger.” Nietzsche. Good old Nietzsche. He smiled a little. He knew the end would justify the means, if he could get through the means. In the end, he’d be stronger. He’d be able to drive right by the casino, right past the bar. He’d be able to look Carol in the eye at night. Every night. Even on payday.

John pulled his cell phone out of his pocket and called a cab.