In thirty years, that could be almost the same amount of money as miraculously hitting a 35-to-1 bet, with far better odds of actually coming true. He imagined his dad would beproud of the quick analysis and strategic decision-making. Hey, crazier things had happened than getting a genuine compliment from his father.
“Sir,” Wren overruled him, speaking directly to the croupier. “We’d like to change our bet.”
“I’m sorry,” the vested man said, waving her off. The bets were locked. The game was starting. The wheel, with a flick of the man’s wrist, was spinning.
“You chickened out,” Wren scoffed. “I can’t believe you.”
“Shh, just watch,” he said. She’d see. She doubted him now, but she was going to have to trust him. He watched intently as the wheel spun with a satisfying click, the metal ball whirling around the outside ring in the opposite direction, like a person stuck on one of those centrifugal carnival rides. Gradually, the spinning slowed, the ball hopping in and out of the numbered divots. Arthur’s heart was going to explode, and as the wheel came to a stop Arthur suddenly regretted everything, all his choices leading up to this point. So much on the line. Not only the money, but Wren’s respect. Admiration even. His dad’s, too. The old woman and the busty lady and the hoodie guy watched with bated breath; no one made a peep.
The ball landed on a black number, sending Arthur’s heart rocketing up through his throat, his eyes popping wide in excitement. He couldn’t make out the specific number, no, because in less than an instant, the ball hopped once more, spinning and bouncing, then finally coming to rest elsewhere on the wheel.
Right there on red number 12.
His heart dropped, from his throat into his stomach. He thought he was going to be sick, or at least faint. Fight-or-flight adrenaline shot directly into his brain, making him woozy,giving him tunnel vision. He watched helplessly as the croupier reached out with that stupid little stick and dragged away his chip, his five hundred dollars. His hope at a shortcut to the life he’d always dreamed of shattered.
“Nice going,” Wren said helpfully.
“I can’t believe it,” was all he could say.
“Told you to bet on us.”
“I seriously cannot believe it.”
Five reds in a row, what were the odds? Mister Smart Guy didn’t have an answer for that one.
She sighed and placed a hand on his back, rubbed it lovingly. “Well, that was fun while it lasted. Will you just listen to me next time? Haven’t you learned by now that I’m always right?”
“Where are the people with the free drinks?” he said. Now was not the time for his pregnancy solidarity pledge. He needed a cold beer, or something much stronger, in his mouth that instant. And he was pretty sure Wren would understand why.
“They don’t do that here.”
“Oh,” was all he could say. Totally numb. “Perfect.”
At home, Arthur decided to check the mail. That was what being an adult was mostly about, he had learned. Continuing to plod your way through administrative bullshit while ignoring the constant existential devastation you were feeling inside. No matter how much of a failure he felt like, the mail needed to be checked, bills paid, trash taken out, dog walked, dinner made, dishes cleaned, the apartment then readied to do it all again the next day. He dutifully inserted his key into the mail slot and turned. He took out a stack of crap. Nineflimsy cardboard mailers that he would take inside and recycle like a good little grown-up, a bank statement, a car insurance bill, and one of those advertisements in an envelope that looked handwritten enough to trick you into opening it. He was certain that he’d switched to paperless statements with the bank, and he’d paid the car insurance online weeks ago. This entire errand could have been an email.
But upon closer inspection, the envelope reallywashand-addressed to him.
It was from Martin Lamb, the name inscribed in the wrong corner, handwriting jagged and barely legible. He ripped it open and a floppy pile of twenty-dollar bills fell out, along with a handwritten note:
Mr. Peterson—Busted by Grandma. She said Absolutely No Handouts.
Also, she kept a 20 for the cost of mailing this.
Arthur just stared at the cash on the floor. A part of him didn’t even want to pick it up.
He had failed at this, too, and he should have known he would. He couldn’t make a difference in someone’s life—what was he thinking? He couldn’t be a memorable role model for this random kid, and he doubted he would be one for his own.
He wanted to be gutted, but at least he was consistent in his inability to do anything good in the world. Succeeding would have only confused him more.
Inside, Wren was checking on Ferdinand. They’d paid Norman Bates from upstairs ten dollars to take him out for aquick pee while they were out. Ten dollars for a single pee! Insult to injury. Arthur winced. But hey, at least he had some cash burning a hole in his pocket now. Wren peppered Ferdie with questions about how it went, whether he liked his new unofficial dog sitter, as if he could answer. When Arthur came in, she grabbed his attention: “Hey, watch this. We’ve been working on it and we’re finally ready to show it off.”
“OK.”
Wren sat up on her knees in front of Ferdie, who stood rigor-mortis stiff on the carpet. She held up a treat. “Ferdie, paw.”
He stared at her, at the treat. She tried again, more commanding. “Paw!”
Ferdie unenthusiastically lifted an arthritic paw what would be generously called two inches off the ground to appease her, then flopped down into a more comfortable position. Wren began clapping gleefully.
