Glass - 02 (13 page)

I go downstairs, where

the whole crew has once

again gathered. Suddenly

everyone starts to sing,

Happy birthday to you…

Even Hunter seems to coo

along. It’s enough to almost

make me feel guilty. Almost.

Leigh gives me a huge hug.

You made it. Happy birthday.

She hands me a big package,

all done up in chartreuse.

[Heather must have chosen

the wrapping paper. It sucks.]

Go on. Open it,
urges Leigh.

It’s a leather trench coat,

and not an inexpensive one.

“Way cool! Thanks a ton!”

I slide into it, cinch it up.

You look great,
says Scott.

Mom comes over, puts one

hand on each shoulder,

looks me straight in the eyes.

[Dilated—will she notice?]

I want you to know I’m proud of you.

Okay, that has to be a lie.

But it makes me tear up

anyway. “Thanks, Mom.”

[Even if I don’t believe you.]

Promise not to stay out too late.

“I’ll do my best.” Okay, so

I traded a lie for a lie. No

doubt everyone knows it.

“Oh, there’s Dad now.”

Don’t tell him I said hi,
jokes Leigh.

At least she found her sense

of humor. I kiss Hunter on

the forehead. “Be a good boy.

Tomorrow’s
your
big day.”

He gurgles and smiles. He loves me.

But I have to admit I don’t think

about him more than a couple

of times as Dad, Linda Sue, and I

dive into the half-ass crank.

Dad’s got a big glass tray, which

he sets on the cracked Formica table

in their dog-eared motel room.

Let’s see what you’ve got there,
he says.

“It’s…” I think about apologizing,

but decide to wait until he comments.

He opens the bindle, says nothing

about the powder inside.
It’s what?

“A little shy, I think. The guy

I got it from took his cut up front.”

Ah, well, a dealer is a dealer,

I guess.
Dad draws huge lines.

He hands me the straw.
The birthday

girl always goes first, right?

One long, deep inhale up the right

nostril, followed by another up the left.

Oh, it’s been a very long time. Probably

a good thing the purity is only maybe

60 percent. My nose complains,

anyway. [I’m complaining. I want ice.]

Oh, yeah,
says Dad.
That’s what I’m

talking about. Hey, L., how about you?

The fairy shakes her head.
I don’t

know. I don’t like being high in public.

You’ll be fine. Everyone’s high in Reno

on Saturday night, right, little girl?

“I haven’t been out on Saturday night

in a long time, but I doubt it’s changed

much since the last time. It’s definitely

an up-all-night kind of town.”

See?
He slides the tray under her

face.
Anyway, tonight’s a special night.

A girl only turns eighteen once, you

know. Let’s give her a night on the town.

I’ll never forget the first night Dad

gave me a “night on the town.”

Only it was really Adam that gave

it to me. Dad just tagged along.

And we didn’t go anywhere except

the back room of a bowling alley.

Too many ghosts in that memory.

Oh, well. A few more lines [even

half-ass lines], I probably won’t care.

In fact, I’m almost there already.

There are three kinds

of nights on the town:

good clean fun,

like skating or movies

or [God forbid] bowling,

boring and safe

and definitely not

what Dad’s got in mind;

totally nasty,

like swap clubs or strip

clubs or titty shows,

places that check ID,

and eighteen won’t get

you inside one of those;

and games of chance,

sports betting or black-

jack or slot machines,

guaranteed to suck you dry.

Eighteen isn’t old enough

for casino betting either,

but all it takes is

a game plan, and dear

old Dad has already figured

a strategy.

The Silver Legacy, Eldorado,

and Circus Circus casinos

are all connected by skyways.

We can play at one for a while,

then move to another. That way

we won’t draw much attention

to ourselves. Sound good?

Table games are riskier,

so we’ll hang out in the big banks

of slots, nickels unless we get lucky.

I have to admit it’s kind of exciting,

and not the unlikely idea of winning

but of maybe getting away with playing.

If you win really big, they won’t

let you keep the money, but anything

that drops in the tray is yours,
Dad says.

Let’s take a snort, then go give it a try.

He pulls out his little amber bottle,

the one with the tiny silver spoon

attached to the lid by a little chain.

The crank is definitely mediocre,

but it does the job if you do enough,

keep going back—and back—for more.

I’ll go get some rolls of nickels.

You two scout out a quiet corner.

If a cocktail waitress comes by, I’ll

take a Coors. Can’t fuck that up!

What he means is, they bring players free

drinks—notoriously awful free drinks,

mostly mixers, to keep on the cheap.

We find a nickel slot island, well

back in one corner, away from bars,

restaurants, and the main traffic pattern.

Found you guys. Can’t hide from

me,
jokes Dad, handing Linda Sue

and me each two rolls of nickels.
Go

ahead. Spend it all in one place.

We spend a good deal of time

doing exactly that. My machine

is a greedy prick, but oh, well.

I mean, I hit a few times.
Tink
-

tink-tink
comes the meager payoff.

But Dad, now, is one lucky sucker.

Guess it’s my night,
he says, as

the nickels keep plunking into his

tray.
I’m thinking it’s time we move

on, with a quick pit stop, you know?

A pit stop, amber bottle in hand,

he means. And that’s just fine by

me. This is getting boring, you know?

Linda Sue and I follow him

from casino to casino, machines

to tables, just watching him win.

He even hits big on the Wheel

of Fortune, which has the worst

odds of anything. Oh, well, I’m

extremely buzzed and it’s fun

watching
somebody
win.

No one hassles us, no one

mentions ID or that I look too

young to be standing around

watching my dad walk off with

a fair amount of casino money.

Of course, it’s Saturday night—

actually Sunday morning now—

and the casinos are raking it in,

so losing a little to Dad doesn’t

mean much. Besides, if
no one

won,
no one
would ever play.

Anyway, beyond watching

Dad, I’m watching people.

It’s amazing to see how eager

they are to exit Reno totally

broke. So many ATM machines,

so little time to drain them dry!

Dealers in black slacks and white

shirts. Cocktail waitresses

in tight, tiny skirts and super-

deep necklines. Janitors, in jump-

suits and spit-shined shoes.

Scowling pit bosses in perfect

tuxedoes. They’re all fun to watch—

covertly, of course—as they go

about their nightly business.

People-watching in casinos

is completely consuming.

And it’s only by accident

that it doesn’t consume a very

important moment in Hunter’s

little baby lifetime.

If it’s nighttime or day

when you’re inside

a casino. The windows

are tinted almost black,

and the neon inside defies

the notion that it might be

getting light outside.

But one thing I do

finally notice is how

the restaurant lines

are growing longer.

People want breakfast.

Which means it must

be later than I thought.

“What time is it?”

I ask a passerby, and

his answer blows me

away. Six after nine.

Twenty-four minutes

until church starts.

We’re going to be late!

Just let me finish this

hand,
Dad says, watching

the blackjack dealer flip

a card and bust.
Oh, yeah!

Guess I’m cashing out.

Why am I cashing out?

I’m on a regular roll.

“Cash out, Dad. We’ve

got to go. Hunter’s getting

baptized in less than half

an hour. I probably ought

to be there, don’t you think?”

The church isn’t far as

the crow flies, but it’s all

surface streets to get there.

Dad finds a cashier and

we hurry to his car, parked

in the garage at the far

casino. Round and round,

down to the exit. Straight

down Sierra Street to

McCarran, Reno’s major

loop road. Speed limit

or under all the way

(a good idea, all things

considered), we limp

into the parking lot, looking

exactly like we’ve stayed

up all night, at nine forty-

seven. Everyone’s inside.

Everyone, that is, except

Mom.

I’ve
ever
seen her so pissed,

and believe me, I’ve seen

her pissed before. But nothing

like this. She lights into us

before we reach the door.

Nice of you to show up

for your own baby’s baptism,

Kristina Georgia. I can believe

something like this from
him….

spittle foams at the corners

of her mouth.
But not from you.

Where the hell have you
been?

Dad jumps in with a monster-

fueled lie about car trouble,

dead cell phone batteries, and

more. He looks like crap

and I know I can’t look much

better, but no time to worry

about that now. “Can we talk

about this later? I imagine

everyone’s waiting for us.”

And, of course, they totally

are. Baptisms usually happen

before the sermon, but Pastor

Keith wisely forged ahead,

assuming [praying] Hunter’s

wayward mother would

appear sooner or later.

All eyes turn as we come

through the door, and I know

every single pair must ascertain

exactly what the problem is.

Better not to think about that.

Leigh has saved Mom and me

seats up front. Dad and Linda Sue

sit at the back of the sanctuary.

Somehow, we maintain

when they call the baptismal

party up to the font, repeat

a flurry of meaningless

words. Resplendent in

his white tuxedo, Hunter

smiles up at me as Pastor

Keith pours water over

his head, makes him a child

of God. I was baptized once

too, and I silently ask, “So,

Big Guy, am I still Your child?”