Lost Bet

We waited for the clock to change all night as if it wouldn’t change if we were waiting. We wanted to see it happen. How? Why? Who was commanding it to change? It wasn’t them. No, it wasn’t. We could hear the sounds of the sea miles away that night when it was quiet from humans and the wind could sing its song. Up from the sea came the echoes of the nation’s hills and little mountains whistling the tune. I heard it in my bed under my cover, and I knew my baby heard it too, lying in the bed next to ours, jumping up, looking out the window door, wondering what was out there, where we were, why? What was the song? my baby wondered, and I couldn’t tell him, because it wasn’t my business, and I didn’t want him to know that I was awake, on my screen, bankrolling his future at blackjack, not really paying attention to him, at least I hadn’t been, though I was now, then. I took a deep breath and imagined breathing in the air and the snores of his mom and wondered if my sigh was distinguishable, and I wondered if I had lost my hand or if I had made enough money that I could work that into another bet and then into another bet and then into another bet until we could just stay here, in the guest house miles from the ocean, in some hills that were almost mountains, not really doing anything with our days except what we wanted, no clock to tell us what to do or where to go. I wanted a friend, maybe, or maybe I wanted a fiend, or maybe I wanted both, I thought, readjusting myself in bed. Maybe I wanted a friend or a fiend so that I could have them help me hustle on my bet right now. We could work together, they could do okay, maybe even make a living for themselves, but I could make a fortune, but instead no one knew about my wagers. No one was more petty than me. I wanted nothing more than to make a little, because even though that almost definitely did not mean I would make a lot, it meant that maybe I would make a lot. Maybe get famous. Maybe save the planet. Maybe achieve real, pure happiness, which maybe, I realized as I lay there, didn’t have anything to do with experiencing feelings of pleasure on a totally regular basis, but instead, maybe, there was something that connected us to the world in all the crap we go through all day, and that something is what can make us happy, when we stop to listen to it, like my baby and I listening to the song of the sea, miles away, below us. The time changed. It was 2:59 and then it was 2:00 again. I prepared to wait for the next hour, to see it finally become 3:00 and then continue time. There was much to do, much that could be done with an extra hour. I lay on my back in the dark. The phone lit the sheets above it. My wife breathed, steady. My baby slept again, maybe, I hoped. The twenty-one table looked simple, flat, no mercy. A hundred dollars a hand. I won the first. Clean. Small. Next two: lost. Done. I stayed. Doubled on eleven. Card fell. Four. I imagined a real casino and people smoking and the dealer staring at me and someone making a comment about a basketball game and someone making a comment about wanting fast food dog food tacos for their drunk ass. The dealer drew his cards like it was nothing. Beat me again. I felt something move in my stomach, maybe the after-dinner black tea digesting. I played one more hand. I pushed what was left. Nope. I kept the sheet over my head, pulled it tight. I looked at my screen: 2:17. I turned the screen off and closed my eyes, getting rest for the next 43 minutes ahead. I breathed and thought of my breathing and breathed again. My baby seemed off in his dreams again. My wife too. I guess me too. When I woke up, it was the call to prayer singing from my screen. I looked at the time and it was 5:41. Both of them were sleeping, snoring still. Allahu Akbar, said my screen, and I agreed.