Chasing the win

By Louisa Prince

Just another twenty dollars, then I’ll quit. 

Neon signs glowed and flickered in the dimly lit room. Mark had been there for hours with his bulky frame hunched on the stool, eyes focused on the screen in front and hand hovering over flashing buttons on the keypad. It seemed like a good idea to stop, but things weren’t going as planned. 

It’s just a flutter. There’s no harm in it.

Such a pretty way to describe the act of having a social gamble, yet there was nothing social about this.

He placed another twenty dollars on the feeder tray and it vanished into the machine, adding to the five hundred already spent. A server walked by with a tray balanced on one arm.

“Coffee, tea… Can I get you anything, sir?” 

“No thanks, I’m good,” he said, but did not turn around.

Can’t they see I’m busy?

He lifted the glass of water beside him and sipped, wishing it was something stronger. 

Sweat broke out on his forehead and his palms itched as the counter in the righthand corner spun backwards to zero. He had gambled, and like most, he had lost. 

A melody of chimes sounded in the background, and with a huff, he swivelled in his seat to uncover the source without success. Placing a card on his screen to reserve his place, he took a few steps into the open and viewed the large display—it was only a mini-jackpot. All that noise for two hundred dollars? 

The knots in his muscles from sitting in the one spot for hours relaxed. A major jackpot was still in play, and there was no reason it couldn’t be his. He glanced back at his machine with a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, none of them able to find solid ground. Either he left as a failure or risked even more in the quest of recouping his losses. 

With his head high, he strode across to the bistro section of the venue, past tables filled with patrons and the ATM wedged into a corner. The law stated it couldn’t be near the gaming machines, but this venue took it to another level and placed it at the very back, almost outside. 

Ugh, more government rules messing with my life. 

He inserted his card into the machine and snorted at the poster displaying a gambler’s help line that hung on the wall. 

Protecting against problem gambling, my foot! Those hypocrites in parliament don’t complain about the tax revenue this brings in.

One thousand dollars flashed across the screen and his hand trembled as it reached for the keypad. Rent was due next week, and he was already six hundred dollars short. If today were any judge, it would be a hard slog to earn enough to pay his mounting bills. His eyes fluttered closed, and he chewed on the inside of his lip so hard the metallic tang of his own blood lingered. 

Get a grip! Be bold or face defeat… I’m no loser.

His decision made, Mark opened his eyes, withdrew the seven hundred dollars maximum, before returning to his previous spot. 

It was like a jackpot in reverse, watching fifty-dollar bills vanish as he fed the monster before him. A thrill zipped up his spine and his head tingled as he watched the count rise in the corner until it reached the full seven hundred dollars. He had been working for twelve hours before entering this realm. While the job was tortuous, it was his only means of making a living. 

The taxi wasn’t his, but it hadn’t always been that way. He had owned his plates and vehicle and invested in his future. Licences were expensive, but if you kept your vehicle clean and worked hard, you could earn back your investment, as many others had before him. Not anymore. 

Once a symbol of Mark’s freedom and status, the value of his licence plummeted with the rise of ride-share services. The day he had to sell it all at a loss became etched in his memory, along with the foul stench of failure that surrounded him. Images of knick-knacks lined in rows on trestle tables, their paper tickets with marked prices dangling as buyers swarmed like vultures circling a decaying carcass. 

Where the heck was the government when I needed them? A frown creased his forehead. Still flogging expensive taxi licences, while knowing it was all about to turn to crap… that’s where.

A Shame worse than death consumed him, festered and seeped into his marrow to become part of who he was as his failure displayed for all to see. Neighbours he’d once called friends, had played golf with, pulled back and avoided him. Mark recalled the rhythmic patter of raindrops on the paved driveway as he packed the last tattered box into their car. He hadn’t glanced back. Instead, he simply drove away and imagined the unused swing he’d crafted for his child, abandoned like his dreams. 

With debts paid but nothing to spare, he’d swapped a home with spacious backyard and towering gum for a cramped space reminiscent of a coffin. Three tiny rooms on the ground floor of a building on a main road, with a hum of passing traffic, their constant companion.

His blood boiled as he wrestled with the unjust nature of life’s unpredictable path, the humiliation, and loss of the man he believed himself to be.

Mark could not control things outside, but within these walls, gambling filled his life with boundless possibilities. He had control. A surge of electricity hummed beneath his skin.

I’m gonna get lucky. I can feel it. 

That liberating rush when he cheated the odds, second only to when he cradled his newborn child, was near.

The dials spun by in a blur, never settling as he kept an index finger on the button. He fixed his eyes on the screen, oblivious to his dwindling credit balance. The jackpot was due to go off. Amongst the twirling lights, his heartbeat synced to the bells and chimes reverberating off the walls, swept him along in a festive haze. 

A whoosh of adrenaline flooded his system as the counter rose; his thumb whacked the double it button and the numbers increased. The numbers were still rising; it was now or never. Perched on his stool, Mark took a deep breath, then he doubled again. A digital display of golden coins and electronic images flew over the surface as the counter kept rising. Triple it! He buzzed as every nerve in his hand throbbed and he slammed down on the keypad again. 

A sensation of a carriage click-clanging to the top of a roller coaster flooded over him. A shadow of a voice screamed to stop, but he went on as if his fingers were fused with the mechanism. Everything he wanted was already there in front of him, but even though he willed his hand to press the cash-out feature, he did not. Instead, the amount wagered grew tenfold. 

Then it happened. The counter on his screen blinked, and credits vanished like water down a drainpipe after the pulling a plug.

Stop! I can still come out on top… just need to press the button.

Yet his fingers refused to do his bidding and, in a blur, the last of his balance disappeared. Mark sat there, eyes fixated on the screen as his stomach churned. 

It was about a minute or ten before he rose, and with his head bowed low, slinked past the security guard and into the afternoon sun.

As if to mock him, the light hurt his eyes and the blazing heat of the Australian sun swept over him. His loss made the forty-three-degree heat worse as he trudged over the asphalt to his vehicle, a trail of footprints etched in the softened surface behind him like fossils trapped in stone. The taxicab remained where he had left it, but the gum tree’s shade had shifted. Now bathed in direct sunshine, the cab’s handle scorched his palm as he opened the door. 

He cranked the air-conditioner to full force and sat there, while he waited for the interior to become habitable. 

His back grew sticky with perspiration and his gut twisted, yet the magnetic pull of the venue held him spellbound. The dull ache in his head reminded him he had no money to gamble, unless… 

Mark glanced down at his money tin filled with receipts for hundreds of dollars in cash, coin, and electronic payments. Half of it belonged to an owner who expected their share of the daily takings, but he couldn’t shake the voice that echoed in his head.

Once I win, I can give back what I took.

The speakers flared to life with a familiar tune that snapped him out of his trance. In a reflexive motion, Mark’s hand tapped the button on his steering column, and the melodic voice of his wife enveloped the cabin.

“Any chance of knocking off early?”

“Why, planning to blindside me again?” 

Her voice crackled through the phone line, “I’m sorry, it’s just—”

“—you don’t trust me,” he blurted.

With a sharp inhale, Mark closed his eyes and leaned back into the headrest before his infant daughter’s wail pierced the blanket of anger covering him. 

“Sorry love, I’m just tired,” he sighed, opened his eyes and locked onto the entrance he had exited from. “It’s been a long day.”

He squirmed as the weight of an uncomfortable silence, broken only by the static that filled the air, bore down on him. The urge to tell the truth overwhelmed him, but it dissipated as her soft words flowed through the speakers.

“I shouldn’t have accused you of gambling again. It wasn’t fair.”

On the other end of the call, amidst the shuffling of feet and whispered words, the sweet cooing and gurgling of his baby girl replaced the crying.

“We can talk later,” he said. “Right now, I’m going to grab a quick bite, then get back out there.” 

“Fine, if you think it’s necessary, but be careful. We love you and we’ll be waiting for you at home,” she said. 

“Love you too.” 

He ended the call, and his mind stilled.

I can’t go home empty-handed. Not now.

Through his windscreen, in bright lights, Mega jackpot every three hours, danced across the scrolling sign. His grip on the wheel tightened, causing his knuckles to turn white. 

It’s due to go off. 

His vehicle had cooled enough that he could drive off, but he didn’t as the sparkle of coins and colourful notes that lay nearby called to him. They begged him to be his conduit and regain what he had lost. His palms itched and perspiration dripped from his forehead, despite the coolness of the cab’s interior. Mark took one deep inhale of air, then reached for the metal container. Neither the clamminess nor the shaking of his hands would cease. He knew the only remedy was to put them to work. 

If he could win once, it could happen again. 

If a tingle of alarm sounded, he did not hear it, as all attention narrowed on the large glass doors leading to the dim yet intoxicating gaming room. Removing the cash from the tin, he counted it—four hundred dollars was not much, but it was a start. Before he could change his mind, he stuffed the cash into his pocket, turned off his engine, locked his door and strode across the softened asphalt to the entrance. 

His body pulsated with electricity as he passed through the doors and spared a quick glance at the security officer before striding to the nearest machine available. The one he had been playing on was no longer free, a gush of energy crashed into him as he realised it was a power machine. One with its own extra jackpot.

Every muscle in his body roared to life as he approached it. Crumpled notes clenched in his fisted hand, Mark fought back against the image of his wife’s face, her features twisted into a frown and her cheeks stained with tears. He shook his head to clear his mind of the haunting memories, as if dislodging a twig from his thinning hair.

I can stop anytime I want.

With each note he loaded into the till, any warning that lingered faded away as he thumped his palm down on the maximum bet. All his inhibitions washed away in the outpouring of excitement as the credits rose, then in half an hour, everything was gone.

He’d been here before. It was like strapping himself into a bungee cable with adrenaline surging before taking the plunge and plummeting downwards, only to snap back as the rope recoiled. An unbroken motion of falling and retreating continued until he dangled, spent and headfirst, above a swollen river. He couldn’t resist the allure of doing it all over again though, always believing the outcome would be different and disappointed when it wasn’t. 

Mark, his mind a blur, rose and retraced his steps out the doors to where he had parked his car. Clammy fingers fumbled with the keys as he opened the door and collapsed into the driver’s seat. With the door still ajar, he buried his face in his hands, holding back the tears that threatened to fall. 

Get a grip, man!

He raised his head and forcefully shut his door. Mark squinted against the sun’s blinding glare, which reflected off the bonnet like light bouncing off a mirror. Once shaded, his gaze locked onto the small photo secured by a rubber band, its edges creased from frequent handling. The radiant faces of his wife and daughter peered back at him.

She’ll never understand. There’s gotta be a way to fix this.

With the turn of the key, the engine sputtered to life as he reversed out of the parking bay and inched towards the exit. Thoughts swirled in his mind like a cyclone—one of his own making—as he searched for an answer.

A revelation struck—if he changed venues, he’d gain access to any remaining funds in his bank account. Mark turned onto the highway, with his choice made, he looked towards the horizon and his next destination.

I still have a shot at winning, and she’ll never need to know.

Louisa Prince is a self-proclaimed late bloomer, living in Melbourne. Her stories have appeared in CafeLit Magazine, New Plains Review and longlisted for SWWV’s Margaret Hazard Short Story Award while her poetry appeared in Flora Fiction Online.