“Look Up,” Conclusion: A Short Story by Brent J. Walker

Part Three left our narrator heading back to his hotel with a backpack that contains something he’s bought for $600 from a guy named Sergio.

Look Up

Conclusion

By Brent J. Walker

Whoops! That was one of my what I like to call “knee-jerk reaction” thoughts. Depression is a bitch that way. I know all women aren’t bitches. I hate when those kind of thoughts spring into my head. I don’t want to feel that way about women, but when literally every single woman I have ever been involved with has screwed me over, and by very little fault of my own, it makes me bitter. Well, losing my first girlfriend was partially my fault, I guess. Looking back at it now, I could have been a better boyfriend, but come on. It was my first love. I didn’t have enough life experience to be a good boyfriend.

I’ve made quite a bit of progress walking, and my casino isn’t far off now. There is another casino nearby that is doing its own private show, much like the private fireworks show, only this one is different. Every so often, its giant water fountains will shoot up waves of water about 50 feet into the sky. A crowd of bystanders is watching as the wave reflects into the casino’s giant windows, making it appear as if two simultaneous water shows are going on at the same time. I look up at it for a while but keep walking until the show runs its course. I am now at the door of my casino. I enter. There are dozens of people posted up on various slot machines, but the bulk of the populace is at the card table games. All but one or two tables are completely full as people nervously clink their chips while they play Blackjack, Poker, Roulette and Craps tables. For whatever reason, the late-night gamblers seem to prefer the tables. I guess because it’s much more interactive. A great way to socialize and stay awake for those people that aren’t quite ready to call it a night yet.

I walk through the crowd, peeking at tables. Some people have approximately the equivalent of my yearly income in chips in front of them. Must be nice to have so much money you don’t even bat an eye once all those chips disappear, and eventually, more often than not, they will. Around the corner are the elevators that will lead me to my room. I head over to them and stop. There is something I have always wanted to do but never quite had the guts to. I pull out a hundred-dollar bill and laugh to myself. Why the hell not? I walk over to the closest roulette table. About three other people are placing their bets, which means I can still place my bet. I give my hundred to the guy in charge of spinning the wheel.

“One hundred dollars coming in,” he yells out loud to the camera or pit boss currently watching him.

He has to make sure all big bills he gets are accounted for so he can keep his job. Or maybe it’s so he won’t get an arm broken. This city was created by the mafia, after all. I have to believe there are still mafia type rules in place even in this day and age, and God forbid what will happen if the owner of the casino gets shorted! I mean, how is he supposed to feed his family with only billions? The dealer, or maybe in this game he’s called the spinner, gives me ten chips worth $10 each. Most of the tables at this casino require a minimum of $10 to play. This roulette table is no exception. I grab all ten of my chips. For some reason, people seem to think you should always bet on black at these tables. Apparently black is lucky, I guess. That’s the stereotype, right? Anytime you tell someone you are coming to this city, they say, “Put some money on black for me while you’re there.” Have you ever heard anyone ever say, “Put some money on red for me?” I sure haven’t. Wonder why that is? But screw everyone and their advice! I grab all my chips and put them on red. If the ball lands on red, I double my money; if it lands on black, I lose it all. It’s a 50-50 shot, but in a casino, that’s about the best odds you can hope for . . . which is ironic, considering my chances at a normal life are the same.

“No more bets, please!” the spinner yells. Once everyone takes their hands off the table, he spins the giant wheel.

“Damn, high roller over here huh? I’m down to my last ten bucks,” the gentleman on my right says.

“Not exactly. Just always wanted to do that. It’s super intense watching right now, though; that’s for sure.”

“I’m sure it is. Can’t imagine ever having the guts to do that myself,” he says while chuckling.

Bouncing all over the wheel is a little white ball. It lands in number slot after number slot, but because it’s still at top speed, it doesn’t stay in any number for more than a split second. After what seems like forever, the wheel starts to slow down, and the white ball stays in a number slot for almost a full second now before jumping to the next number. It seems to have completely stopped in a red square at first, but the wheel has just the tiniest bit of centrifugal force remaining. Just enough to push the ball into black 14 before coming to a complete stop.

“Yes, yes! Hell, yeah, I can’t believe that just happened!” the man who called me a high roller earlier screams joyfully.

Turns out he put his last ten bucks on black 14. Because there are 36 numbers on the board, this will pay him 36-1. He just won $360. No wonder he’s excited.

“Congratulations, man! Big win!” I say.

“Thanks. I’ve never won this much in my entire life. My bad, dude, sorry for celebrating in front of you like that when you lost all your money on red.”

“Not a problem; I’m glad at least one of us won. Besides, I actually went through with that. I have bragging rights now.”

“True. I like your optimism, man. Better luck next time,” he says.

I start to walk to the elevators, smirking. He thinks I’m an optimist. How ironic.

I reach the elevators and hit the up button. I wonder which of the eight doors will open first. It’s kind of a fun game to play because you never quite know for sure. I’m surprised they don’t have a way to gamble on it. Maybe someday they will. A middle-aged man comes around the corner, stumbling a bit. No surprise he is wasted out of his mind. His eyes have that glazed look of someone who has had far too much to drink and is possibly blacked out. He isn’t so much looking at me but looking through me. I doubt he will remember anything tomorrow.

One of the elevator doors opens, and we both enter. He moves to the corner, using it as a crutch so he doesn’t fall on his face. I have only been that drunk a few times in my life, It was a scary feeling, but somehow I always managed to make it either home or to the safety of a friend’s house. Funny how that works. I’ve heard that being blacked out is the equivalent of being comatose, yet somehow my body always seems to still work just well enough to get me to a safe spot to pass out.

I hear the beep of the elevator as it stops on floor 12. My room is 1205, which means it is right around the hall. I prefer having a room near the elevators. After a long night of partying, it’s hard enough to make it to the elevator, let alone walk to a room way far away from it. I reach into my wallet, pull out my little key card and stick it in the slot which turns into a green light. I can’t help but wonder when it was that damn near every hotel in America switched from keys to cards. Fricking technology! If somehow our entire computer systems went down like people thought they would in the “Y2K” scare of 2000, I’m pretty sure the world as we know it would collapse into a quick apocalypse, and good riddance when it does.

My room is freshly cleaned. The maids serviced it while I was gone all day. I throw my backpack from Sergio onto the bed. I have a bottle of whiskey in the fridge, so I pull it out. I take a good long chug of it. On a table next to my bed is a piece of paper and a hotel pen. I light up a cigarette, not caring that it is a non-smoking room. It’s the last one in in my pack, which is perfect. I grab the piece of paper and the pen; the cig stays perched in the corner of my mouth, and I begin to write.
Dear Friends and Family,

Please do not feel responsible for what I am about to do. It is not your fault. This world is shit, filled with nothing but pain and sorrow. I’m done with it.  There is no justice, no morals. It’s a world run by evil, greed and money. Nobody cares about their fellow humans anymore and will step over and crush each other to get ahead in life. I am convinced that only bad things happen to good people while evil people thrive. My whole life I have treated others the way I want to be treated, with trust, compassion, kindness, and empathy. It has gotten me nowhere. I am 35 years old, working the same dead end job I did in high school, at risk for a disease that has been called the worst disease known to man, and I have no wife or lover to help me through it. This is not where I was supposed to be at this point in my life.

When I was a young, optimistic man in my 20s, I had certain expectations for my future self, none of which have come to fruition. While I do not know whether or not I have Huntington’s, at this point I do believe I am symptomatic. After seeing Dad slowly decline and die over the last decade, I have decided that I will not go out like that. Even if I don’t have it, I will still have to watch my sister die of it, and I cannot bear to watch her suffer the same fate Dad did. The only thing I have ever wanted in this life was a good woman to share my life with, however short or long that may be. Sadly, at this point, I have completely given up on that ever happening, which makes this life pointless. I am truly sorry. I love you all.

Love,

Mickey Davis

 

A little long, but I think that will do. I snub my smoke on the desk. Who cares at this point? Add it to the credit card I used to pay for the room. I unzip Sergio’s backpack and pull out the pistol. I have no idea what model it is. It doesn’t matter; it will get the job done. I pull out the bullets and put them in the chamber. I learned how to do it by watching a YouTube video.  I stare at it while I sit on my bed, take another giant chug of whiskey, and then I grab it. I put the muzzle in my mouth. Fuck this shitty world. I put my finger on the trigger as the steel clanks against my teeth. It’s a weird sensation. In the back of my mind, a thought comes out. I remember hearing a story of the failed suicide attempt of a man who tried this same method. How he survived, I do not know. I think he somehow missed his brain. I’m not taking any chances. I move the muzzle of the gun to my temple, where it is a direct shot to the brain. Can’t miss from there. I am crying and shaking. Most people like to say a prayer before their impending death. I will not. If God does exist, He sure hates me; He has done nothing but torment and tease me my whole life with this disease. I press my finger down on the trigger and pull it….

 

No!!

 

I look up and see myself in a mirror before I can complete the act. Didn’t even know I had a mirror on the ceiling. How could I have missed it? When I see myself in it, I think, “Who is the poor maid that is going to service this room tomorrow and see my brains splattered all over mirror?”

Some things can’t be unseen. Something like this will traumatize her forever. Some poor maid, one who probably makes minimum wage and works 70-hour weeks to support her family, will have to see the mess. I can’t do that to her. My empathetic nature strikes again, but for once, it has helped me.

Jesus. Fucking. Christ! I can’t believe I almost did that. I open my hand, and the gun falls on the bed harmlessly. Oh, my God, OH, MY GOD! I almost went through with it. I almost fucking went through with it. I put my hands over my face and cry. I don’t know how long I cried, but eventually I come to my senses. First thing I do is grab my suicide note, crumple it up, and throw it in the trash. Then, despite shaking badly, I grab the pistol from my bed. It feels like it weighs 50 pounds. I don’t want to touch it. It’s poison. But I must. I unchamber the bullet and put it back in the backpack. I’m shaking so badly it takes both hands, but I stick the gun back into the backpack and zip it up. I strap the backpack on again. I have to get rid of this thing. I see my suicide note on top of the trash. Not good enough. I grab it, run into the bathroom and flush it down the toilet. Much better.

I practically run to my door and open it. Back in the hall again. I speed walk towards the elevators and hit the down button. After what seems like hours, an elevator opens, and I enter it. There is no one else on it, and I am glad. I hit the lobby button, and away I go. I look up. There is a mirror on the ceiling here as well, but that is pretty common for elevators. I see myself. I look scared and frantic, which I am. But I must calm down. I look too suspicious. I take a few deep breaths, and I feel a little more relaxed. Eventually the doors open. I quickly scurry out. I am speed walking past the roulette table I just played not ten minutes ago. It feels like days. Very few people see me. They are too engaged in their tables, and the few people that do notice me probably just assume I am running late for a flight and trying to catch a cab as quickly as possible. I don’t slow down until I reach the door.

I exit into the cool, crisp air. I know where I am going. Not far from the door is an alleyway with a giant trash bin. No one is around now. I take off running towards it. I open its giant blue door, rip off my backpack, and toss it in hard. It sinks towards the bottom, but that’s not good enough, so I start grabbing empty bags of trash and toss them on top of Sergio’s backpack, burying it completely. Then I shut the lid. I’m breathing heavily, so I bend down and touch my knees to catch my breath. It’s an old trick from my younger days when I was still competing in sports. Don’t know why it works, but it does. I do that for a couple of minutes. Tears are streaming from my eyes the whole time.

Eventually, I catch my breath. How long it took I will never know. I stand up and wipe my eyes with the back of my hands. I feel composed enough to head back into the casino. I begin to walk. There doesn’t appear to be anyone in my vicinity, and I am grateful for that. I think I look normal again, but without a mirror, I can’t say for sure. I look up as I walk. The sky is clear and beautiful. It really is a nice night in this fantastic city. Back to the casino door I go. I enter, and nothing seems to have changed. People are still gambling, drinking, hitting on cocktail waitresses, just having a grand old time. Nobody has any idea that not long ago I was going to be a dead man. My life has changed forever in the last 20 minutes, and for these guys, it’s like no time has passed at all.

I take a seat by a slot machine and put in a $100 bill. Why not? I already pissed away $600 for a product I never even used. What’s another hundred? As soon as I put in my money, before I even spin once, a cocktail waitress comes around, and I order a beer. Maybe my luck is finally changing after all. About time. I have always considered myself one of the unluckiest men on the planet, but after tonight, my perspective has changed. It has to. Tonight I am one of the luckiest men on the planet. How many people take their lives every day because they don’t stop at the last second like I just did? How many friends and family members are grieving the deaths of someone right now for that same reason? This act is often viewed as selfish. I can see why. People who take their own lives are freeing themselves from ever experiencing pain again, while their loved ones will suffer eternally. But the people who make that criticism have clearly never experienced severe depression like I have, and they most certainly have not seen Huntington’s disease at work.

Lucky for me tonight, I have chosen life, even if it was at the last possible second. No one ever said happiness comes easy. It seems like the majority of my life I’ve been dealing with one trauma after another, but as the lyrics to one of my favorite songs so poetically say, “It’s better to feel pain, than nothing at all.”

The time is now. I must gain my strength and go through with testing. When you have a 50-50 chance of inheriting Huntington’s disease, it feels like you have a gun pointed at your head with three bullets and three blanks. You just spin the damn chamber and hope you get lucky. It’s a terrible decision that no one should have to make, but 50 percent odds are a hell of a lot better than the near 0 percent I would have given myself had I pulled the trigger just minutes ago. My road to recovery will be long, and it will be tough, but damn it! I’m going to fight with every fiber of my being, and I won’t fail. I can’t. I owe it to myself, my family, my friends, and the countless thousands of other people affected by this dreadful disease to keep fighting. I have to believe that a cure is coming and that I will be alive to see it. Perhaps that is my purpose in life. It’s been a 20-year battle with that bitch HD. I am sick of fighting it, and no doubt I will lose many fights along the way. I already have. But rest assured, I will win the battle.  If I ever consider giving up again, I will think about this night, and most importantly, I will look up.

Your perspective changes immediately when you just look up.

For an interview with author Brent J. Walker, listen to the archived episode of “Help 4 HD Live!” at http://www.blogtalkradio.com/help4hd/2017/01/18/an-interview-with-brent-walker-author-of-look-up.

If you or a loved one are considering suicide, please call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline. The number is 1-800-273-8255. Someone is available to talk to 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. Help is confidential and free. You can also chat with someone online and find resources on their website, http://suicidepreventionlifeline.org/.

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“Look Up,” Part Three: A Short Story by Brent J. Walker

Part Two left the narrator playing the slot machines, thinking about the fate of his father and contemplating his own risk for Huntington’s disease.

Look Up

Part Three

By Brent J. Walker

Would you look at that? This machine I’ve been playing has one of them old school levers on the side. You know, the ones that are the reason some people nicknamed slots “one armed bandits”? Wonder if it still works? Let’s give it a go…. I’ll be damned, it does still work. Pulling the lever is loads more fun than pushing a stupid button on a screen. From here on out, I am going to use it. Can’t believe it took me this long to notice it. I give it another yank, and out of the corner of my eye, I catch that petite blonde again. She appears to be looking at me, considering approaching perhaps? I must be mistaken, women don’t l approach men . . . ever. I never quite understood that. It doesn’t seem very progressive. This isn’t the 1950s anymore; men and women are supposed to be equals. So why in the hell does the man always have to approach the woman in situations like this? It’s much easier to be an attractive, shy woman than an attractive, shy man such as myself; that’s for sure. Women just have to hang out and look pretty, and eventually, a man will almost always approach them. I’m sure after time it would get annoying to get constantly approached by strangers mainly just trying to get in your pants, but at least they get multiple options of potential mates and can choose to reject or pursue them at will. That must be nice.

Now that I think of it, maybe this is why so many women end up dating terrible dudes. Think about it. What kind of dudes have the courage to approach strange women? Dudes that are aggressive enough to approach them in the first place. Emotionally detached enough that they are unfazed by any sort of rejection they may face by the girls they approach, and supremely confident to the point of narcissism. Three incredibly unattractive qualities that don’t translate well in real relationships.

Ah, shit. She is coming, and she is definitely smiling at me. Unless her boyfriend is behind me or something. She sits at the machine next to mine.

“Hi, there; how’s it going?”  My palms immediately start sweating profusely. My brain locks up briefly. But eventually I respond.

“I’m okay.”

“I don’t suppose I could buy a cigarette from you,” she asks as she starts to pull out a dollar.

“You can just have one for free.”

“Thanks,” she replies. I pull out my pack of smokes and push one up out of the pack a little bit so it’s easier for her to get. She grabs it and sticks it into the corner of her mouth. She reaches in her right pocket and pulls out an empty hand. Then she reaches in her left pocket, still nothing. She begins to pat at every pocket on her body. I know this game. I pull out my lighter and set the tip of her cigarette aflame.

“Thank you. I had a lighter earlier, but I don’t know where it went.”

“No worries. I lose about a lighter a day myself. Casinos must eat them or something.” What a dumb thing to say. Who says crap like that? Never mind, she appears to be giggling, so I guess I’m okay.

“I think you are right about that. So how’s your night going?”

“Well, I’ve been playing this slot for about an hour now on twenty bucks, so I guess I’m doing pretty well.”

“That’s actually really good. It takes me about 30 seconds to lose twenty bucks. These machines are rigged,” she tells me.

“I’d have to agree with you there. Imagine how awesome it would be to own a casino. Those guys must just make money hand over fist.”

“Sure would like to see one of their weekly paychecks. I bet the amount is eye popping.”

“Just imagine being able to buy anything you want, whenever you want. Talk about the American dream,” I respond.

“Yeah, I hate worrying about my finances. I’m Tiffany, by the way. What’s your name?”  She extends her hand; I shake it.

“Mickey! Nice to meet you, Tiffany. So are you on vacation, too?”

“No, I actually live here.”

“You must really like the heat then. I don’t think I could handle it for very long here. I live in Seattle. We rarely hit 90 degrees. Can barely imagine seeing upper 90s to 100s at all, let alone every day.”

“You get used to it after a while, just like anything. Seattle, huh? I hear it rains a lot over there.”

It’s a classic response. I’ve only heard it five hundred times in my life. But this chick is smoking hot. She’s thin, which I prefer, has beautiful blue eyes, which is by far my favorite color, and my God! Those breasts are perfect. I think they’re all natural as well. Never been a fan of plastic surgery; I prefer self-acceptance. Best of all, she’s actually talking to me, which never happens. So I better play it cool.

“It sure does, but it’s the months of gray skies in the winter that are worse. Rain I can handle, but the sun sets at like 4 p.m., which sucks.  I’ll tell you, though, there are few places in the world more beautiful than Seattle in the summer. Steady 70-80s, with a cool breeze and amazing view of the mountains and oceans,” I explain. I am shocked at how well this conversation is going right now. Maybe, just maybe, my luck with the ladies will change for once.

“That sounds amazing. So are you vacationing alone or with a friend?” she asks.

“Alone. I like to come here to clear my head. Been doing it once a year for a decade.”

“Makes sense. So you staying at this casino then?”

“I am. You can’t really go wrong with hotels in this city. They’re almost always roomy and super inexpensive, compared to other cities.”

“Are they? Are you sure you’re okay? You seem tense,” she asks. Damn! What happened? I thought I was doing really well here. No awkward silences or anything up to this point, which is unheard of for me when I am talking to any stranger, let alone a gorgeous, busty blonde with a super tight body. I thought I was hiding it well, but I guess not. She’s right; I am tense.

“I’m just a little tired is all.” It’s my favorite bluff. I use it all the time as an excuse to cover up my inadequate social skills.

“You look like it. You want a massage? Perhaps one with a happy ending? My rates are very reasonable.”

My jaw drops. Of course she’s a prostitute. Why else would she talk to me? Like everyone else in this city, she wants my money. How stupid are you, Mickey? My God, you are dense. Did you really think a chick like that just wanted to talk to you for fun? I am completely devastated and extremely embarrassed.

“Thanks, but no thanks. I’ve been in here far too long. I need some fresh air. I think I’m going to take a walk.”

She looks pissed. Time is money in her profession, and she wasted some of it by talking to me. I guess I looked like an easy mark.

“I see. Well, Mickey, if you change your mind, here’s my card.” She hands me a picture of herself with stars over the nipples and a phone number and walks away. “$400 an hour,” it says. Good Lord! No sex is worth a price tag like that. Even if her price wasn’t so large, I would still decline her offer. I’m old fashioned like that. Sex without emotional attachment or some form of love is a complete waste of time, in my opinion. I’ve never had a one night stand and don’t plan on it. I feel like a woman that sells her body for money must have had some kind of sexual or emotional trauma in her life, and I would only be taking advantage of that. It is, after all, a very dangerous profession. I know this is a biased and judgmental thing to say. Not all women that sell their bodies for money have had trauma. Some are free spirits that just like sex because it feel great, and it’s easy to do, so why not get paid, too? Especially in a city like this, where money flows like water, and you can make a pretty good living.  Not to mention experience, while desired by some Johns, isn’t necessarily a requirement. For the most part, the body knows what to do when it comes to sex. It is instinct; the desire to procreate is engrained into our DNA.

I think on many levels the secret to life is to find immortality somehow. I think in general, most humans want to be remembered for something long after their deaths. People often produce art, music, literature, and movies for this reason. Athletes want to win as many championships as possible and make their respected halls of fame so that they will be remembered forever in their sports’ lore. So what better way to live eternally than to have a child who will carry your genes on after your soul departs from Earth?

How exactly am I taking advantage of a hooker anyway? They provide the service of sex, which most people desire and need, and in return, they get money for it. Is that not mutually beneficial for both parties? Don’t we both win? Seems like we do, but for some reason it just seems morally wrong to me.

What the hell are correct morals anyways? The concept of morality is subjective at best. Everyone is raised differently and develops different forms of morality, depending on what kind of culture they grew up in.  So who I am to think my morals are somehow superior to anyone else’s? I try not to think they are; I try not to judge how other people live their lives, but sex, to me, isn’t just about pure physical pleasure. To me, it’s more about spirituality. It’s about two souls combining together as one on the highest astral plane possible in the only way humans know how to. This is my morality. It’s not necessarily better than anyone else’s or even correct, but it’s nonetheless how I live my life.

A walk actually sounds great right now. I am meeting someone soon anyways. Where am I at on this machine now? Down to just over $6 now. Didn’t realize how many times I pulled that handle while I was being distracted by that tramp, Tiffany. That’s good, though. Three more max bets, and I am finally done with this machine. Stoked I played as long as I did, but that $20 was bound to disappear eventually. Pull one, and I’m down to about $4; pull two, and I’m down to $2. Pull number three should do it. Wait! Back up to $4; two more spins now. I rip down that handle again. Well, up to about $6 now. Why is it that when you want to lose on purpose on these machines you keep winning, but when you want to win you keep losing? Are the slots designed to do that, or is it just Murphy’s Law? Screw it; this could take a while. What If I start winning again? I will never leave. I’m just going to cash out. “Congratulations, collect your money,” the machine reads. It always does that. Even if you’re only cashing out a penny. Super lame. I should sue them for false advertising. I collect my $6.32, chug the rest of my beer, and head outside.

That same bum I saw earlier is still there; he’s asleep or possibly in a liquor coma. Either way, I’m dropping my winnings in his little plastic cup. I hope he uses it for food instead of drugs or alcohol. But I guess I will never know for sure. Not that it matters. Money is the root of evil, as the saying goes, and boy, is it true. To hell with these rich prick CEOs of giant corporations. All they care about is money. They want more and more every year and will do anything they want to get it, including screw over their thousands of hard working blue collar workers such as myself by cutting our benefits, wages, and hours. They don’t care if I live or die as long as profits are up, so they can keep buying ridiculously expensive items like mansions and fancy cars. How much damn money do these people need anyways? People all over the world are struggling to keep a roof over their heads, food in their mouths, and keep up with their medical bills while these greedy bastards live the high life. How can they lack empathy like that?

I read somewhere that most rich people are natural sociopaths. When I think about it, I can see why.  Most people know what it’s like to live paycheck to paycheck, or to be a poor college student living off cheap soup, and they can naturally relate to the emotions and struggles of say someone living on the street. But how can someone who was born rich and stays rich their entire life possibly relate to that same person when they have never experienced what that person is going through?

I read on the internet that someone did some advanced math. They took in account average wages, inflation rates, housing rates, food rates, etc. of the current generation and compared it to the generation of their parents and determined that this is the first time in history that the current generation makes less than their parents, and by a significant margin.  I can see it. When I was a child, almost all my friends’ parents owned their own homes. But now, I don’t think I know anyone that does. Rich people keep getting richer, and poor or middle class people keep getting poorer. The discrepancy of the social classes in this country is off the charts. There has to be something we can do to fix that, or we are in big trouble.

I like to compare the billionaire CEOs of the modern day to those of Pharaohs centuries ago, and the average working class Americans to those of peasants centuries ago.  A peasant breaking his back to make his Pharaoh more wealth than he could possibly use in a lifetime. There is just one difference. Back then, when it got this bad, the peasants would revolt. They’d take up arms and either kill that pharaoh or run him out of town. So what do we do in this day and age since we are too “civilized” for such behavior?

People say you should vote. You pick the representative of your town, state, and country and let them make the laws for you. I disagree, because we have a flawed two-party system. Your president is either going to be a Republican or a Democrat. And why are those the only two choices? Because they have the most money, of course. I don’t give a damn if it’s a Republican or Democrat in office because both are corrupted by money. Before they are in office, candidates will say and do ANYTHING to get elected, but how often do they actually follow through with what they say they would do, if they get elected? Not to mention if they do make it to office, they are indebted to the corporate money that got them there in the first place. So they create laws that will benefit those corporations that supported their campaigns instead of creating laws for the good of all mankind. As far as I’m concerned, they can all rot in hell. I think there is somewhere in the realm of three dozen political parties that made ballots this year in the United States. We need free air time for all of them so we can eliminate our horrendous two-party system. Unfortunately, it will never happen because there is way too much money invested in the Democratic and Republican parties.

My brain is going on another tangent again. I need to slow it down and look up. A casino across the street is blasting off a mini fireworks show. Must be the top of the hour. Every hour, on the hour, on weekends, that casino does that. I wonder how much money it costs? People in this town definitely have more money than they know what to do with, for sure. At the same time, it is absolutely beautiful to look at. There is just something so majestic and awe inspiring about watching fire bursting into a dark, moonlit sky and exploding into showers of bright colors; it makes you feel free somehow.  I’m sure this little show draws in several dozen customers every time it starts. People walk by, see it, and think, “Well, that place seems cool. Let’s go there.”

I light up a fresh smoke and stop to watch the entirety of its five-minute or so show, then look at my watch. Currently it is 3:06 a.m. Sergio told me to meet him at his restaurant anytime between 3 and 5. Might as well head over there now; it’s not far. It’s a little hole-in-the-wall 24-hour breakfast joint called Pigs and Hens. Best breakfast joint in the city, or so Sergio says. Not that I know whether I believe it. I just met the guy last night, and he’s not exactly a standup citizen.

Pigs and Hens is about a block away from my current location, but the blocks are deceptively large in this city. The street is still bustling as usual, despite how late it is, almost 4 a.m. Not quite as much as it was an hour ago, but still a good turnout. Casino lights keep the crowded street bright, and it seems at every corner there’s someone dressed up in a costume. An Elvis impersonator is over there, and Marilyn Monroe close by. No surprise there. Those are two of the staples. I keep walking and pass by a group of people standing around looking at something. I come up closer and see that it is a gray-haired man with a deck of cards in his hands. He’s doing a mini magic show for a crowd that stares at him like a monkey in a zoo: mouths gaping, eyes attentive. I’ve seen it all before, so I keep walking.

Ah, here we go. This is more my style. There’s a man painted head to toe in silver paint. He is not moving, not even an inch. Damned if he doesn’t look just like a statue. I’ve seen this before, too, but I find it highly entertaining. People walk by him, oblivious to the fact that he is not a statue, and every so often, he jumps out and scares the crap out of them. Most people know this game; this isn’t their first rodeo, so to speak, but every so often, someone walks by that has no idea what’s about to happen. Their reactions are priceless.

I watch for a while, smiling and laughing, then I continue my walk. I see it now. Pigs and Hens, just around the corner, right smack in a dark alleyway. Classy joint! I see a group of four women in their mid-twenties or so walking out. One is a blonde wearing a hat in the shape of a dildo and a Bachelorette satchel; the other three are physically dragging her. Part of her satchel appears to be covered in something, but I can’t quite tell what yet. I get closer, and the smell hits me like a slap across the face. It’s vomit, of course. I cover my nose and mouth with the top of my shirt.

“Looks like someone had a little too much fun tonight,” I say, giggling like a maniac.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Piss off,” two of them say in almost perfect unison. I am unfazed by their remarks as I continue laughing. Either that girl had too much to drink, or this place doesn’t have the best bacon and eggs in the city like Sergio claims. I open the door, and immediately, the strong smell of bacon hits my nose. Inside, the lights are dim, and the walls are a very plain, uninspiring white. There is a pinball machine in the corner, and a young man with a mop is currently wiping the floor around it. There are only five tables in the whole joint, and only one is currently occupied. Sitting at it are Sergio and a few other men playing poker. Each has a pile of chips of various sizes in front of him. Sergio is bald on top but has a long, thick beard, with flecks of gray in it and probably weighs at least 300 pounds.

“We’re temporarily closed, partner. Some little bitch couldn’t handle her liquor and blew her cookies all over the floor. Luckily, most of it got on that pretty little dress of hers instead,” an older man with glasses says, laughing devilishly.

“I got it, Grizz. This man is here to see me,” Sergio says.

He shakes my hand. “Don’t pay any attention to Grizz. Old bastard is just pissed off he can’t win a hand tonight. Ain’t that right, Grizz?”

“Yeah, yeah, I may be losing my ass now, but that means my luck is going to change soon. Law of averages, buddy.”

“Well hope in one hand and shit in the other, see which one fills up faster, as me old mum used to say. I got some quick business to take care of, fellas. Mind my cards and my money while I‘m gone. I got cameras all over this place, so if anything looks out of place, I’ll check them. You cheat while I’m gone, and I’ll kill you,” Sergio says. He’s not kidding. This is not someone you mess with.

“Step into my office, Davey.”

“Actually, it’s….”

“Stop right there. I don’t need to know your real name, Bucko.”

We head through double doors that lead to the kitchen. There’s a couple grills, a couple fryers and one lone fry cook. More than enough for five tables, I suppose.

“Take a break, Chino,” Sergio hollers.

Chino leaves, no questions asked. Sergio reaches under a counter, pulls out a backpack, and hands it to me. My palms start to clam up as I unzip the bag and look at the contents inside. Everything seems to be in order.

“You got everything you need in there, son?”

“Yes, sir. It looks like it,” I say.

“Excellent. Now, there is the question of my payment,” he says.

I pull out my wallet and withdraw five crisp $100s.

“Here’s five hundred for you,” I say.

“Yeah, about that. Turns out finding this product so quickly was a little more difficult than I previously anticipated. So I am going to have to tag on a 20 percent tax. That’s not gonna be problem, is it?”

I am a little caught off guard.  I try to calculate what 20 percent of $500 is, and it takes a little longer than it probably should, but eventually my brain starts working again, and I figure it out.

“No problem, I can handle that.”

I reach into my wallet again, pull out another $100, and hand it to him. I know I am getting gouged here, but what the hell am I supposed to do about it? He claps me on the back.

“That’s a good kid. Now take that backpack with you and get out of my sight. I don’t know what you are doing with that, and I don’t want to, so I strongly urge that you lose my name and this location. If you fuck up, and this somehow comes back to me, I will find you, and I will tear you apart with my bare hands.”

I don’t doubt it. He has arms as big as my thighs and hands so big he could probably strangle me with one tied behind his back.

“Not a problem. I already forgot where I am.”

“That a boy. I knew you had a trustworthy face.”

I strap the backpack onto my shoulders and exit the kitchen. Sergio’s three poker buddies are still sitting down around the poker table. I have no doubt that they didn’t touch Sergio’s stack of chips or his cards. In fact, I doubt they even looked in that direction. I open the door and enter the alley while once again lighting up a fresh smoke. The drunken bachelorette and her friends haven’t gotten far. They are on the side of the street trying to flag down a cab. Good luck with that, I think to myself. Not only is it illegal to catch a cab from the side of the street, but even if it wasn’t, what cab is going to pick up a girl with fresh puke on her dress? I could tell them that, but after my previous interaction with them, I know they don’t want to hear anything I have to say. Besides, they’re probably all a bunch of bitches anyways.

To be continued next Wednesday, February 8

You can hear Help 4 HD Live!’s interview with Brent on BlogTalkRadio: http://www.blogtalkradio.com/help4hd/2017/01/18/an-interview-with-brent-walker-author-of-look-up

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