Why I Shot My Beloved Son
I had never hit rock bottom before.
I had gambled, I had blown millions, but none of that mattered. I had always found a way to win it back. This time, in my mind, I still believed that I would win it back. I mean, in the last two months, I had blown through 25 million. Fuck. 25 million. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
One night, I leaned against the machines and cried--I mean I just cried. I was banging it at $1,000 a pop. I banged it for like three hours--3 million dollars--and my biggest hit was like 20 dollars. I swear to god the machine was like sucking the money down, which meant that it eventually would hit something, right, which meant that I would keep banging it until it did, right? So 3 million dollars later I have my head against the screen and I am weeping. I know exactly how much money I got left in the world--one million dollars. Oh my god, oh my god, I blew it all.
So I go up to my room and I sleep for like three days. Then I get this vision about this lucky machine. I go downstairs and I see the machine from my vision. It is a farmyard machine with cows and sheep and pigs. I do not play the farmyard. This is not my game at all, but the bet is only $500 per push and the jackpot is set at 10 million. I could sure use that ten million right now. I call the floor guy over to buy me into the machine at three hundred grand. I give him my account number and he swipes me into the machine, all the while giving me this funny look, which makes me wonder again if the floor guys have access to my account information. Does that look on his face mean "All you've got left is a million and you're risking a third of it?"
Whatever.
So I start banging this machine, and it starts paying--two hours later, I am up about a hundred grand. Then it starts to go sour real fast, which is okay, because that sometimes means a machine is going to hit big--or kill you. A few minutes later, I have lost my hundred grand profit and the machine is eating into my original three hundred grand. Soon I am down to just fifty grand, my eyes are closed, the machine is sucking my money like a lollipop, but I keep pushing. When I open my eyes to take a peek, I got like ten grand left. I peek again minutes later--three grand. I peek again when the machine starts bleeting for cash. Zero dollars left. But I am in a zone. I have to get my money back. I have to.
I call the floor guy over again and order him to swip another three hundred thousand. He's got that same look on his face as he swipes me in, and this time as he is walking away he touches me on the shoulder and leans into me and whispers, "Go easy, P. Go easy."
Fuck you, floor guy, it's my money--is what I want to tell him, but instead I turn back to my farmyard machine and promptly give all of my three hundred grand to it.
Zero dollars again. I look around for another floor guy because I don't want somebody swiping me in who's going to make me feel guilty. Guilty feelings are bad luck.
The new floor guy is actually a floor woman, and she tells me she has to make a call before she swipes me in. So she starts talking into her phone to somebody and I am nervously wringing my hands and I don't give a crap that this is the first time in like six years that I am NOT a millionaire--I need to play so that I can get my money back! Come on floor woman, hurry up! Hurry up!
She says to me in this practiced, robotic tone: "Your account only has $280,000 available for withdrawal. In accordance with the rules of gaming and housing, a copy of which you signed when you opened your convenience account with the hotel/casino, a nominal deposit of $120,000 must remain in the account at all times to ensure that . . ."
Yeah, yeah, yeah, blah, blah, blah--they're holding that money as a security deposit on my Presidential Suite and other expenses. Who gives a crap? I say to her, "Fine. Swipe me in for the 280,000."
Her practiced, robotic voice says, "You understand that after this withdrawal your account balance will be at zero, pending an investigation of other charges you have made to the hotel/casino, after which the hotel/casino will issue you a refund of all funds due to you or a bill for all funds due to the hotel/casino that are not covered by the nominal deposit?"
Whatever.
I say to her, "I understand."
"Sign here," she says, handing me some legal-looking document that I don't waste time reading.
I sign it. With a flourish. Now I am waiting for her to swipe me in.
She says, not robotically at all, "P . . . the hotel/casino . . . wishes you luck . . . please gamble responsibly . . . you have lived with us for over three years, and the hotel/casino wishes to extend to you free of charge . . . if you desire it . . . the best counseling services in the state of Nevada."
I am trying not to be rude when I say, "Just swipe me in. It's cool. It's okay. I'm fine. I know what I'm doing."
She swipes me in, and I start banging that barnyard slot machine at $500 a pop. In two hours I am looking at a screen that reads zero.
So much for visions.
______________________
So I sold my lucky hat. The gamblers lined up to bid on it: U, J.F., L, and L.L.
L.L. offered ten grand. J.F. and L (they are a couple) bumped it up to twenty. There was some mumbling about 25 and 30, when U shut everybody up with: "I'll give him a hundred grand for it."
So I took the hundred grand from U, and when everybody else was gone, U gave back the hat. He said, "I don't believe in luck, old buddy."
"Thanks," I told him.
He shook my hand on his way out and said, "Good luck."
I could't figue out whether that was a joke or not. U is not one for telling a joke. U is a stoneface. U is a hell of a poker player with that stoneface. A hell of a nice guy. I thought about him all night as I wandered from slot machine to slot machine losing back all of that hundred grand that he had given me.
That was the end of me in Vegas, or was it?
I had one last shot. My god, how had I let that slip my mind? I still had one last shot!
____________________
Soon as I got back to Miami, I called my son, my lucky boy. I was in my suite at the Indian Casino in the swamp.
He came over as soon as I called him. He was a beautiful boy. As tall as my father had been, and with a much better build. He was a star running back at the university. Years ago, in a saner frame of mind, I had given him half a million dollars and told him to put it in a secret account, safe from me, for in case I hit rock bottom and lost it all at least he and his brothers and their mother would have a little money to live on.
It's hard for me to explain why I did what I did. I love that boy, you understand? Everything was just so confusing, and I was under so much stress, and those damned machines were not hitting. I was not trying to kill him, but I needed that money and he would not give it. Why didn't he just give it?
I keep playing that horrible scene over and over in my head:
"I need that money."
"What money?" he said.
"You know what money I'm talking about. Don't be a fresh mouth with me. I just need it for a little while. I'll win something big with it and then give it back to you."
"I'm not giving it to you."
"Give me my damned money, boy."
He got up to leave. "I'm not giving it to you. You made me promise to keep it from you. I'm keeping my promise to you. You've gone crazy."
Fresh mouth brat. He was at the door. I was angry. I had my gun out. He thought I was bluffing with the gun. He laughed at it and started to open the door. I shot him . . . my own son. And then I shot him again. If he had just given me the damned money . . . fuck. Fuck.
And now my favorite son was bleeding and so scared of me that he was reciting bank account numbers and then jibberish as he was blacking out in my arms.
I called some guys from hotel security that I was tight with (meaning I had tipped them real big over the years)--to take care of him and call an ambulance for him and to cover for me for a few minutes so that I could make my escape.
So this was rock bottom.
Welcome to rock bottom.
Fuck.
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He gambled big, won big, lost even bigger, and lived to tell the tale.