When I was young, I read and enjoyed literary fiction. When I began writing, I dreamed of creating the Next Great American Novel. I pictured a tome about people and their lives and what it all means. The problem is, most of these stories come to either a bad or at best, a neutral end.
I need all's well to end well.
I've written one tale that did not contain my humor. Even now when I read it, I'm not even certain I recognize my own voice. Yet I know I wrote it. I won an online contest with it. It's called Quarter Life.
* * * * *
Whoever said deserts
were hot had never been to Vegas in February. Reuben shrank into his borrowed
jacket, away from the morning chill. As he did, something shiny caught his
attention.
He reached down to the
curb, his cold, stiff fingers trying to grasp the object. Stuck to the
pavement, it seemed to be glued by the flotsam and jetsam of Las Vegas, layers
of dirt and grease and human bondage. His fingernails dug at the hard edge
until he pried the silvery coin loose from the concrete.
A quarter, one of the
new ones. Reuben flipped it over and saw horses, running from the sunrise.
Nevada, the Silver State, it said.
Staccato music from the
casino beckoned him frantically, urgently, atonally. He had just left Buffalo
Bill's, having kissed his last dollar good-bye. From experience he knew
he couldn't wander, penniless, through the slot machines. The employees knew
him too well; they had asked him to leave.
He had spotted Carl, the
night manager, walking through the poker slots. Reuben knew Carl, knew the way
he'd start a friendly conversation that would end with, "Want me to call
the shelter, Buddy?" As he headed toward the door, Reuben saw a
windbreaker draped on a chair.
"This place owes
me," he had mumbled to himself, and casually picked up the jacket as he
exited.
A car horn blasted his
eardrums as tires kicked up gutter water onto his stained chinos. The taxi woke
Reuben from his trance, a dark-skinned driver herding him away from the
well-dressed, well-drunk customers with a yell. Reuben waved his hand angrily
and yelled something in return, unintelligible even to him.
He stared back down at
the quarter. Three years ago, he'd come here with ten thousand dollars and a
plan to turn it into more. With Vegas' help, he was going to buy back his
house, buy back his family, buy back his life. Vegas was supposed to save him.
It only took a week to
break him.
"How you doing
tonight?" Carl asked, laying his hand on Reuben's shoulder. "You need
a ride to the shelter, buddy?"
Reuben turned and stared
through him. He used to be able to talk to people, but he just couldn't see
anyone's face anymore.
"How about I give
you a voucher for breakfast?" Carl reached into his pocket. "You look
like you could use a hot meal."
Reuben continued to
stare. "I got a quarter." His words drifted at the manager.
"That's great,
buddy. You put that in your pocket, and I'll get you some breakfast."
"I got a
quarter." The sentence became a prayer.
Carl sighed. "Okay,
buddy. Let's go pick a machine for you."
"I got a
quarter," Reuben repeated, following the manager back into the casino. A
Nevada quarter, he thought. It was karma. It was fate.
This time it would be different.
* * * * *
Sad, yes? And yet I find some weird hope in it, in that Reuben believes this might be the magic coin sent to save him.
If I wrote fantasy, I might make this coin truly magic and take Reuben on a journey to redeem himself.
This is why I'll never write that great novel.
