The Problem with Betting Odds by Josh Price
I swear, with the girl, the gun goes off accidentally. I snatch up the cash and bolt for the door, shoot at the dude outside the gas station when I think he has a taser in his hand. He’s got a deck of cards. Too late, but I’m not worried I killed him or nothin.’ I brought the .22 with me because I’m scaring people, not killing them.
All I want is money and now I have some. Life is simple when you think like that. You do everything you can to survive and sometimes people get caught in the middle. It’s no different than anything else.
I hop in my buddy Kevin’s car. He’s in the driver’s seat, already slamming it in gear. He thinks he’s a smart guy. Now we’re back on the road, and things are easy. I’m counting my money, when he asks what his cut is. I laugh, and chuck my half-empty pack of smokes at him.
I tell him to stop by my house. I hand him twenty bucks as I’m getting out of the car, and he looks at me like I’m crazy.
I’m up the walk, pounding on the door until she answers; her phone got shut off again. I can hear her bratty kid screaming inside the house somewhere. She looks like shit when she opens the door, so I toss a hundred bucks at her and watch ten years come off her face.
I’m already low on cash by the time I’m back in the car, and that’s always the problem with money, isn’t it? I tell Kevin I want to go somewhere else real quick, and then I can give him the rest of what I owe him. I tell him chill out, because he’s one of those antsy fuckers even without drugs in his system. He says fuck off Rick.
He thinks I’m gonna cheat him outta some coin and I am, but he doesn’t know I get the discount rates, so Kevin’s gonna wind up happy later—he just doesn’t know it yet. I treat friends the ways they deserve.
We get to my dealers house and I’m already to the door when I hear sirens at the end of the block. I’m back down the stairs, walking the other direction; and not glancing back as the cops roll up.
Kevin drives away and I’m waving later bro like it’s no big deal, but now I’m pissed because unless these cops are going to Mike’s house, I might be in big trouble.
I get a block away and I’m feeling like I’m in the clear when a giant in sunglasses tackles me from behind, yelling my rights in my ear; he’s amped up and winded, cuffing me while I’m yelling at him—pretending I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t think I have a shot of getting out of this, but it never stops me from trying.
I’m not even thinking about the empty baggie in my pocket until he’s copping a feel, putting his hands in my pants. I tell him that’s illegal search and seizure, but he’s got my wallet out, and he drops the baggie next to my face where I can see it. He’s addressing me by my full name, and we both know I’m screwed.
I’m trying to think. Who the hell am I gonna call.
2
The creepy manager keeps staring at me and calling me Meredith, but my name is Rain. It’s my first day, I’ve been here two hours, my boyfriend has messaged me fifty times and I just can’t even right now.
The man with the gun pointed at my face has crystal blue eyes with tears in them, but he’s grinning. I know I should be afraid but I’m just angry; I’ve lived my whole life in fear of getting shot: I’m American.
I stare at the man, not believing he’ll do it but he does. He looks surprised, and I feel hot pain sprint across the top of my head.
There are people gathered around me, people in the lobby filming me with their phones. All I smell is that nasty-ass taco meat they use here, and fryer grease. I hear the manager yell for someone to call 911.
The top of my head hurts and I don’t want to talk when the E.M.T.’s are asking me questions. I’m lifted onto a stretcher and rolled outside into an ambulance. I see bright lights above me, then clear-blue sky, then more bright lights. They stick a needle in my arm.
I center myself, like I learned in my Wicca books, asking the Universe for acceptance. I barely know what that means, but I don’t want to be as terrified as I am.
I start to cry, hear an EMT tell me I’ll be okay; she’s saying the bullet just grazed the top of my head. I see more blue sky when they take me out of the ambulance, more bright lights as they wheel me through the emergency room.
I wait for what feels like hours. I’m focusing on opening my chakras, practicing emptying my mind of all thought; especially thoughts that make me feel scared. I don’t want to die.
I hope I don’t have any missing hair when the scar heals. I would hate having to wear hats all the time.
I get my head stitched. They keep me for most of the day. I get discharged, go outside, and see the guy from work sitting on a metal bench smoking. His face is bandaged, and his left eye’s covered.
I ask if he’s okay. He says sure. He has a deck of cards in his hands, wants to show me a magic trick. I tell him smoking is bad for him and he rolls his eyes.
“So is getting shot.” He shuffles his cards.
My parents show up and offer to take him home, I don’t want them to but they always do what I don’t want them to do—it’s like they know. We drop the magician off and go home.
I’m mad at my parents for making me work, and I can tell they feel bad. I will definitely use it against them later when they try to make me get another job. I don’t appreciate them not taking me seriously.
I get why the guy took that money. The stuff they make us do for money is horrible. Nobody wants to work at a gas station they just have to.
One day I’ll travel the world until I meet the woman of my dreams, and we’ll work together healing people, focusing their energy towards the divine.
3
My name is Matthew, but I never go by that. I like my middle name better. I like magic tricks, too, especially with playing cards. It’s a hobby.
I’m going to deal you out some cards, face down, and I want you to pick one.
Got it? Okay. Don’t show me your card; just mix it back in with the deck while I tell you about what happened.
I work early mornings at a delivery company, unloading 40-foot trailers quickly as I can (which isn’t very), tossing packages onto a floating conveyer belt that follows me into the long tunnel of stacked packages—like an annoying sibling—whenever I pull the lever on the side.
I’m mostly crippled from a car accident. My right knee isn’t right at all, probably never will be unless I can afford a replacement. I couldn’t even afford to replace the gas in my car this morning.
I finish unloading, and on my way out my foot goes in between the dock and the trailer. My right knee buckles and I scream, folding up like some rubbery human suit that didn’t work that great to begin with.
The guy in the trailer next to me runs over and helps. The paramedics come, throw me on a stretcher, and when no one is looking, I climb off, hobble out to my car, and leave.
At home, I don’t have anything except Tylenol and Ibuprofen. I have to go work the second job—at the gas station. I’d be standing for eight more hours later. There is no way out from under toil unless you want to kill yourself and I don’t, I just want a raise.
I take the pills and walk the four miles to my next job. I always bring a pack of cards with me, practice cutting my red deck with one hand while I walk to keep my mind off my body. I have to stop twice because the pain is so bad.
Do you remember your card? Okay. Don’t tell me. I’m going to shuffle, and then I want you to cut the deck.
So I get to work, watching through the window while a man in a black ski-mask is holding the new cashier up at gun point. I’m clutching my blue deck of cards in one hand. I realize I’d forgotten my phone at home as the gun goes off; I’m frozen in time, people screaming inside as the man snatches the bills, stuffing them in his pocket and running out the door.
I think I hear the gun go off again, and when I wake up in the hospital they tell me I’m right. The triage nurse tells me I had a bullet lodged in me, but they got it out. I can’t see out of my right eye anymore, because some nerve got severed.
The girl from work is at the hospital too. They said she’d be okay when I asked about her. Pain is all I feel, even with the morphine. They keep me for most of the day, and all I can think is: how much is this going to cost? I have school loans I can’t afford, and two jobs I can’t afford either. There is always a reckoning, no matter what you do.
I get discharged. The girl from work comes out the two doors, and I ask to show her a card trick. She says she’s a spiritual healer, whatever the hell that means. She gives me shade about smoking and I roll my eyes.
At least her parents are nice enough to drop me off at my apartment. I go inside, staring at an old poster on the wall (with my newly changed depth perception), and I realize what I want is a way out from under the weight of struggle. You, I, and the guy that shot me aren’t any different. Then again, you and I didn’t shoot anyone… so that’s something. I know you think there should be more to it, but there isn’t.
Oh. Cut the deck again. I’m going to pull out a card.
My other decks of cards are scattered on the floor. I look down; pick up a King of Hearts, then a Queen of Spades. I don’t want to go back to the gas station job. I hope I don’t lose my other job just because I can’t keep up with those other guys unloading their trailers so fast.
The problem with structure is that it’s always waiting to come down on your head. Maybe someday I could grab a Jack of all trades apartment job, show everyone my new tricks.
Did I ever tell you my middle name? The one I go by? Ah, well, it doesn’t really matter. Hey, is this your card?
Neat trick right? Want to see another one?