Lucky Seven

“How can I help you today?”

“I need a marker.” His mouth dry, he couldn’t believe he said those words again when just yesterday, he swore he was done.     

“That’s what I’m here for.” The woman was gorgeous. She could have been working in Vegas instead of this sterile, Indian run casino in the middle of nowhere. Long blonde hair and big country, sky blue eyes, she gave him a well-practiced, inviting smile and pointed to a seat on the other side of her desk. “Relax, I’ll make this painless,’ she said. “I’m Sheila. How much would you like?”

“Five thousand, I guess.” He felt foolish sitting there in his scrubs.

“Do we have your info on file, Doctor…?”

“It’s Mister. Ray Basilone. Yeah, I’m in there.”

“Wonderful; yes, here you are, Mr. Basilone.” She printed a form. Just sign right here. While he was signing for his marker, Sheila chatted with Ray. “I hope your luck is running good today.”

He grunted a response, raising his eyes just enough to have an excuse to look at her breasts for a few seconds. Then, irritated as her comment sunk in, he said, “If my luck was running good, would I be borrowing five grand?”  

She smiled, even more dazzling now, taking in this tall, muscular man, not yet forty. “A marker has a way of changing bad luck to good. I’ve seen it a thousand times,” she said. “And the bigger the marker, the luckier players seem to get.” It was a sly suggestion. Since he was requesting a marker, why not borrow more and really improve his luck?

But Ray was too nervous for that. His two credit cards were maxed out at $25,000 apiece. His checking account had just enough to buy food and pay the bills for the rest of the month. His wife, Carol thought he was out looking for a second job, one that would get them back on their feet. They’d had a terrible argument that morning over his gambling. The day before, she had gone to the bank to withdraw some cash, believing there was $5,000 in their savings account. She needed a hundred bucks to buy what she needed for their daughter’s thirteenth birthday party. That’s when she discovered the account had only thirty-two dollars in it. Ray promised Carol he would stop playing the slots and look for another job that afternoon, as soon as his shift ended.

Yet, here he was signing for a marker that he couldn’t pay for if he didn’t win, unless he got a second mortgage. His love for slot machines was recent. His favorite was the Lucky Seven three-wheel machine. About a year ago, he and Carol went to Las Vegas with friends for a long weekend. Until then, he had never even been in a casino. He didn’t care for roulette and he didn’t understand Baccarat, or craps, but the slots were exciting and play was quick. He left Vegas, a hundred or so ahead.

Back home, he did a little research. The Indian Reservation, only thirty miles from where they lived, had a casino operation. At first, he and Carol would go on Saturday nights for dinner and gambling. He kept it under control, never spending more than he had. But one night, his money ran out in just thirty minutes. Feeling empty, he told Carol he was going to the bathroom. Instead he went to a cash machine and withdrew five hundred dollars.

That was the beginning of his addiction. Things got worse rapidly. He couldn’t explain it, but slot machines had a hold on him. He was a bright man, an OR nurse. He researched gambling addiction and learned that slots were particularly dangerous. According to experts in the field, they were designed specifically to encourage customers to play more, even to the point of addiction. Now, he was sitting in front of a beautiful young woman, ready to put his house at risk if necessary. He knew better but that didn’t matter. He hated what he was doing, but he had to play.

Ray stood, picked up the voucher and walked over to the cage. He handed it to the woman and asked for slot machine tickets. She handed them over to Ray and said, smiling, “Good luck!”

“You people never quit,” he said. Yet, he was pleased to see his favorite machine was unoccupied. He took a couple of steps and stopped short. “Carol, what are you doing here?” His daughter was standing beside her mother, a forlorn look on her face and a brown suitcase in her hand.

“Please turn around and give those tickets back. We have an appointment,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” Ray asked. “And what’s with the suitcase?”

“It’s yours, Ray. You need help. I want you to go to Friendship House for a while and get this taken care of, please.”

Ray looked over at his preferred Lucky Seven machine and then at his tickets. The woman behind the cage, picked up her phone and made a call. Two burley men from security were suddenly standing nearby. She watched with interest while she smoked a cigarette. Scenes like this one were not unheard of. One never knew what an addicted gambler might do. Ray’s hands were shaking. “I can turn these in Carol, but that won’t stop me from playing. I’m sorry.”

“Do you want to stop?”

“I don’t know. I know I don’t want to lose you.”

“Sometimes you have to choose, Ray. This is one of those times.,” Carol said.

The artificial sound of coins dropping into a winner’s tray called to him. The men from security tensed, sensing the moment of truth had arrived.

Ray shuddered. He could feel tears filling his eyes. He handed Carol the tickets. “You do it please. It’s $5,000, sorry.” He turned to his daughter, who was also crying and took the suitcase from her. “I love you,” he said.