Nothing Gold Can Stay (5 page)

Cherokee

W
ith a green rabbit’s foot clipped on his belt loop, a silver four-leaf clover dangling from his neck, Danny has brought all the good luck he could find. As they drive past a billboard advertising Harrah’s Casino, his free hand caresses the green fur, maybe hoping luck really can rub off on you. Lisa remembers a story about a magic lamp that, once rubbed, grants three wishes. Danny would settle for just one—make the one hundred and fifty-seven dollars in her handbag turn into a thousand.

“By what time Monday morning?”

“Ten,” Danny answers.

“Does the bank come and get it or do we take it to them?”

Danny shifts his eyes from the road and looks at her.

“We could win,” he says. “People do all the time. That woman from Franklin won twenty thousand on a quarter slot machine.”

Lisa watches the end of the odometer slip from nine to zero.
56240
miles. That’s nine thousand more than when they’d bought the truck. Yet the Ranger looks every bit as clean as when they’d driven it off the lot eleven months ago. Every Sunday, Danny vacuums the interior with a Dustbuster, then washes the exterior. The tires glisten with Armor All. We really can’t afford it, she’d told Danny that day at the Ford dealership, but she hadn’t stopped the smooth-talking salesman from taking out his calculator and showing them that with the right financing they could. Lisa remembers how proud Danny had been when the last document was signed and the salesman handed him the key.

Even before Danny’s hours got cut at the concrete plant, Lisa knew all it would take was a bit of bad luck—sickness or accident or layoff—to lose the truck. Lisa almost expected it, because she’d seen it happen to their neighbors at the apartment complex, to her friends, and to her own parents. She had kept those fears to herself though. Danny was a good husband. He’d been rowdy in high school, but once he and Lisa married he quit running with his buddies, quit smoking too. On Saturday nights when they went to The Firefly to dance and hear the band, Danny stopped at two beers. She’s got you living straight, some of his buddies said when he turned down a drink. Unlike a lot of her girlfriends’ husbands, Danny didn’t spend money on expensive rifles or fishing rods, fancy boots or belts. He took a lunch to work.

Lisa drove the truck nearly as often as Danny did, and it was nice to finally have a vehicle whose radio and heater worked, that didn’t risk stalling at every stop sign. In their three years of marriage, they’d both worked hard, Danny pouring concrete and Lisa clerking at the Bi-Lo, but had little to show for it. The apartment they rented had old cigarette burns on the carpet and cracks in the ceiling, windows with views of more brick walls. Except for Saturday nights, she and Danny rarely went out. It was good to have something to show for the hard work. Danny acted proud as a child with a new toy, but that boyishness was what had attracted Lisa to him in high school. Even when Danny got into trouble, it was for something like skipping class or setting a frog loose in the cafeteria. Boyish also in that he always believed that the next time, unlike the last, he’d somehow get away with it.

As they near Exit 81, more billboards appear on the roadside. On them, winners cup hands to gather spills of silver coins. Others spread bills in front of their faces like church fans and even the empty-handed laugh and smile. Danny releases the rabbit foot and clicks on the turn signal. He follows a line of cars onto the off-ramp and turns right like the others. More billboards appear, advertising everything from Santa Land to a gold and ruby mine.

“I should have listened to you,” Danny says. “We wouldn’t be in this mess if I had.”

“We needed something that wouldn’t break down every week,” Lisa answers. “If I’d been late another time, I’d likely be out of a job.”

“But it didn’t need to be this new a truck. That was my wanting, not yours.”

“I’ve enjoyed this truck as much as you have.”

Lisa settles her hand on his upper arm, feels the bicep. Danny had been on the skinny side until he’d started spreading concrete, but now his arms, like his shoulders and chest, have thickened. When they dance on Saturday nights, those arms guide her so effortlessly that the weight of everything the week has laid on her, complaining customers, a crabby shift boss, is swept away.

“I’ve learned from this, I swear I have,” Danny says, “even if we do win.”

“Maybe we will,” Lisa says, wanting also to believe it could happen. She touches the rabbit’s foot. “It’s not for lack of trying.”

They pass the wooden sign that says Cherokee Indian Reservation and the traffic quickly becomes more stop than go. Tourists fill the sidewalks, most carrying shopping bags, some lapping ice-cream cones or sipping soft drinks. A child in a coonskin cap tugs at his mother’s skirt. An old couple peer at a restaurant menu.
There is something for everyone
, one of the billboards claims, and Lisa sees that is so.

“Damn,” Danny says. “It wasn’t near this big when I came last time.”

Ahead, the hotel and casino loom, blocking out even the mountains. It’s the largest building Lisa has ever seen, and the brick exterior makes it appear impenetrable as a fortress. How could anyone hope to win against such a place, she wonders, yet as they enter the underground parking garage the first deck is completely full. They find a space on the second level and make their way across the shadowy deck to where bold red letters announce
ENTRANCE TO CASINO
like a final warning.

In the lobby a guard stands by the escalator. He checks their IDs and nods them past. The escalator descends into a loud brightness, the smell of cigarettes. Acres of gambling machines spread out left and right. Men and women of every sort sit before them on stools, coaxing colors and sounds from the machines as speakers pulse a backbeat of old rock songs. Danny nods toward a bar. He gets a beer but Lisa says she’ll wait. Danny takes her hand and leads her into the nonsmoking section.

“We ain’t got a player’s card,” Danny tells her, “so we have to use the slots.”

“How many times did you come here?” Lisa asks.

“Twice,” Danny says.

“And you lost both times?”

“Yeah,” Danny says as he sits down between two other players, “but third time’s the charm, right?”

There is hope but also enough doubt in his voice to make it a real question.

“We can bet one dollar or a hundred,” he says. “You okay with ten?”

Lisa nods and takes the roll of bills from her pocketbook, gives him a ten.

“Watch how I do this,” Danny says. “That way you can try too.”

The machine sucks the ten-dollar bill out of sight. A bright-red cherry dominates the screen, beneath it the row of tumblers. Numbers that show winning combinations and their payoff are in the upper corner. The tumblers turn and resettle. Danny touches a button and only two tumblers spin the next time.

“Nothing,” Danny mutters, and slides the next ten into the machine, then another, and another.

Because of the racket around her, Lisa can’t concentrate enough to understand how the game is played, what should be saved or not saved, what combinations other than three in a row win. When she hands Danny the next ten, he asks if she’d like to try.

“No,” she says. “I wouldn’t know what I was doing.”

“Like I do,” Danny snorts, and turns back to the machine.

Lisa takes two more tens from the roll to have them ready, then looks around. A gray-bearded man is seated to their left, using only his right hand because his other shirtsleeve is empty.
Vietnam Vet
is printed on his camo ball cap. Opposite him is a guy wearing a black Metallica T-shirt. A long leather wallet protrudes from his pocket, its chain attached to a belt loop. He looks no older than Lisa. She waits for Danny to free another bill from her hand. When he doesn’t, Lisa looks back at the machine.

The credit line has a 40 on it.

“So we’re ahead?” she asks.

As quickly as Danny nods, the 40 becomes a 30 and she can’t help but think just saying they were ahead had jinxed the spin.

Danny pushes the button again. Two cherries appear and he saves them. The middle tumblers spin and a third cherry drops in between the other two. The machine whoops and chimes as 530 appears on the credit line.

“You spun them right that time, son,” the one-armed vet says.

The Metallica fan looks at Danny’s screen as well but says nothing.

“Halfway there,” Danny says, and the slots roll again.

The young guy loses and curses. He glares at the machine, then reaches for his billfold. Lisa glances at the vet’s credit line. It’s only two dollars but he seems more amused than angry when it slips to one. He wears a gold watch and Lisa is surprised to see over an hour has passed. There are no clocks in the casino, Lisa suddenly notices, windows either. A person could be down here and not know if it was morning or afternoon or night or even what day it was.

Danny’s credit line goes down to 420 but after a half hour it’s back up to 640. He stands and places his hands on his hips, stretches backward.

“I’m going to get another beer.”

“I can fetch it for you,” Lisa offers.

“No, I need to move around a bit,” Danny says. “Just stay on the stool until I get back.”

Lisa does what he says, watching the machine.

“They used to call these things one-armed bandits,” the vet says, smiling at Lisa as he speaks. “You reckon that’s the why of me not winning?”

Lisa, unsure how to answer, just smiles back. The vet swivels on the stool to face her.

“Where you all from?”

“Sylva,” Lisa says.

“I’m from over that way too,” the vet says. “Glenville.”

“That’s not far from us,” Lisa says, her eyes still on the credit line.

“Up to 640,” he says. “You about to cash out?”

“Not yet,” Lisa answers.

“You’d be crazy to,” the Metallica fan says, entering the conversation. “You get these damn machines in a mood to give it up you best stay on them.”

Danny comes back and Lisa gets up. When Danny settles on the stool, the vet holds out his hand.

“Lucas Perkins, but I go by Perk. I hear we’re near about neighbors.”

“He’s from Glenville,” Lisa says.

“Danny Hampton,” Danny says as they shake. “Good to meet you.”

“Good to meet you too,” Perk says, and pauses. “Can I ask a favor?”

“What sort of favor?” Danny asks.

“Let me put ten in on your next try.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Danny says.

“Just one time,” Perk says, and offers Danny the bill. “I just want a touch of luck, just so I can remember what it feels like.”

“What if I lose?” Danny asks.

“Then you ain’t done nothing but what I’d do my own self.”

Danny hands the ten to Lisa, changes the bet to 20 and presses the button. The numbers settle and he saves a cherry. The tumblers spin and a 7 and another cherry appear.

“There you go,” Perk says.

“Give him twenty,” Danny says.

As Lisa peels off two tens, the Metallica fan mutters something and turns back to his machine. Perk tucks the bills in his pants pocket, gestures at the beer can as he gets up.

“Let me buy you and your lady here a drink.”

“No thanks,” Danny says. “I’d as soon not risk a DUI.”

“I figured you two to be staying in the hotel.”

“No,” Danny answers.

“How about a drink for you,” Perk asks Lisa.

Lisa thinks how at least a Coke or bottled water would be nice, but she shakes her head.

“Mind if I rub that rabbit’s foot?” Perk asks. “I’m going to try poker with what I got left. Maybe I’ll have enough luck to at least lose slow.”

“Sure,” Danny says.

He rubs the green rabbit’s foot between his index finger and thumb.

“Maybe one day I can do you all a good turn too,” Perk says, and disappears into the maze of machines.

When the credit line hits 700, Danny pauses to take a long drink from the beer can. The casino is warm and cigarette smoke drifts into the nonsmoking section. Lisa’s thirsty but she’s not about to leave Danny’s side until they’ve won or lost. Perk’s stool remains unoccupied. The younger guy watches Danny’s credit line instead of playing his machine.

For the next hour, the line rises and falls. It reminds Lisa of a kite in a gusting wind, rising but never quite able to hold on to the sky. When the credit line falls to 480, the Metallica fan catches Lisa’s eye, smiles smugly. So that’s what you’re waiting around for, Lisa thinks. His smile vanishes as the numbers rise again.

Perk returns, a plastic room key in his hand.

“Still ahead, I see.”

Danny nods.

“I come out three hundred ahead,” he says, and offers Lisa the key. “It’s paid for, in cash, so the minibar is on your dime.”

“You ought not have done that,” Danny says. “You don’t owe us anything.”

“Figure it a bit more luck then,” Perk says, still holding the key out to Lisa. “If you don’t use it, it’ll just go to waste, including the free breakfast.”

Lisa takes the key, thinks how if she and Danny lose the 157 dollars they came with, they can figure the money went to a night in a swanky hotel.

“Thank you,” Lisa says.

“Glad to do it,” Perk says. “If you’re ever over in Glenville, look me up.”

Lisa watches him ascend on the escalator. At the top, Perk glances back and doffs the bill of his cap, though to her and Danny or all the players she cannot tell. Lisa checks the credit line and it’s at 480, 470, 460. Two wild cherries appear on the screen and Danny saves them, pushes the button, and a third drops into the middle slot as if fallen from a tree. The machine makes its noises and 960 appears on the credit line.

“We made it,” Danny says.

His voice is like a still pond, soft and calm, as if afraid he might startle the machine and cause the numbers to rearrange.

“It’s not a thousand,” Lisa says.

“It is with the money in your handbag,” Danny answers.

“You’re not thinking about cashing in,” the young guy says. “You got to ride this kind of luck out.”

“I don’t
got
to do anything,” Danny says.