A Gambler’s Lament. Some never learn. (standard:Inspirational stories, 842 words)
Author: Oscar A Rat	Added: Jul 16 2020	Views/Reads: 1448/2	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A gray nondescript auto moves in spurts -- sometimes speeding up unexpectedly as I drive through Atlantic City. I never should have wagered my company’s finances.

A gray nondescript auto moves in spurts -- sometimes slowly, often
speeding up unexpectedly as I drive through Atlantic City.  Something 
is wrong with the choke but I need all my money for the casinos.  I 
never should have come here, never should have wagered my company's 
finances. 

As I pass Baltic Ave, the Reading Railroad off on my right, I think of
my income tax problems.  It gives me thoughts of escaping, but to 
where?   Oriental and Kentucky Avenues pass by while I think over my 
actions.  I took a chance, one that didn't work out.  Indiana Avenue 
reminds me that my wife came from Indiana.  Illinois Avenue, coming up 
now,  makes me think of the state, our home for many years. 

I don't really notice the B.O. railroad depot as my engine kicks in and
speeds, almost by itself, down Atlantic Avenue, chancing a yellow 
traffic light.  No cop.  I made it.  Vermont and Connecticut Avenues 
speed past.  Then, of course, the engine gags and it crawls across a 
square containing the old jail. 

On a whim, I make a turn down St. Charles Place and past the Electric
Company.  How long will I have electricity if I can't pay the bills?  
And my small buggy whip company can't produce without it. 

States and Virginia Avenues go by slowly, the old car struggling on
cheap gasoline.  I drift past the Pennsylvania Railroad Station.  Maybe 
I should take what money I have left and grab the next train to ... to 
... to anywhere at all?  I have enough training, skills and experience 
to make buggy whips for any manufacturer. 

I'm on St. James place by now, passing the Community Chest offices. 
Maybe they could help me?  Na, all they do is loan tourists money to 
get home.  Tennessee and New York Avenues go past my windows, reminding 
me to pull over in that Free Parking lot.  I have to take a leak, if no 
cops are around. 

Pondering my problems, I pull out the other side onto Ventnor Avenue,
across from the Water Works and heading for Marvin Gardens.  Seeing an 
all night gas station, I think about getting a .38 revolver out of the 
glove compartment and robbing it.  I might get at least get enough 
money for a good three-day drunk. 

Na.  If I did I might go to jail.  I've been there only once and it was
a horrible experience.  I was only fifteen -- a young naive fifteen.  
Several of the other boys there took a liking to me, I mean a real 
liking.  I was only in for three days but my ass was sore for a week.  
I shudder at the idea of ever going back.  The gun stays in its 
longtime home. 

Pacific and North Carolina Avenues bring me back to the rear of the
Community Chest office.  Hell, I could try them in the morning, but 
with no money for another place to stay I have to sleep in my car 
tonight.  Pennsylvania Avenue brings me to another railroad, there are 
so many in this town.  This one is the Short Line. 

I'm coming to Park Place next to the Board Walk, a store that sells
expensive goods – some of which I was planning on buying for my kids, 
despite the luxury taxes.  I notice lights shining in one of the nearby 
liquor stores. 

“Screw it.  I'm desperate,”  I tell myself out loud.  I pull into the
small parking lot.  Time to GO for broke.  I get my .38 out and enter 
the store, holding it down by my side. 

“May I help you, sir?”  an old woman behind the counter asks.  “We have
a special on Shmeeers Vodka tonight?”  She smiles.  The smile drops 
when I level the pistol at her. 

“I'll take three bottles then, and all the money in your register,”  I
order in as gruff a voice as I can muster. 

“I don't want any trouble mister,” she tells me calmly while placing the
bottles into a plastic bag. “You make the third holdup this week.  It's 
not my money, so don't be angry at me.” 

She opens the register with a "ding."  I can see her putting cash into
the bag with the vodka.  “Only two-hundred dollars.  I sent the rest to 
the bank already.  You should have come in an hour earlier.”  She tries 
to smile, forming only a grimace. 

“Thanks, ma'am.  I like your attitude,”  I tell her with a smile as I
take the bag from her hand. 

“It's just part of the business.  We get held up often but the boss
still insists on staying open.”  She shakes her head.  “After all, he 
thinks he has a good reason.” 

“And what would that be?”  I was curious.  I found out -- as I heard a
loud double click then "Crack, crack" and felt a sledge-hammer hit my 
back. 

“He loves the target practice.” 

I can vaguely hear her giggle as I fall.  I didn't pass GO or collect my
two-hundred dollars. 

The End.


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