Authors: Beth Raymer
Dink, on speakerphone.
“Beth. I know you’ll feel like a deserter if you leave, but it’s time. ASAP’s done. You need to leave the business and get on with your life.”
The great care with which these words were said twisted my heart. “I wouldn’t leave you if you were in this position,” I said.
“I’d never be in that position. And I’d certainly never put my employees in that position,” Dink said. “Come home. Just for football then you’re fired for good. Six hundred a week and you can live in the condo. Do the math. You don’t save money anyway.”
“Come home, Bethy!” Grant shouted in the background. “We miss you.”
“Sports, Bernard, who’s this?… I’m in surrendering mode. Could I meet you at the Miami airport? I need a buck. I know I already owe you a buck but the thing is, my credibility is shot. I’m beat up. I need a buck total. If it doesn’t work out with you, there are no other options. It’s not like I have nothing to sell. On paper I have a hell of a business, but in real life …”
In real life, Bernard’s wife asked for a divorce. Did she find out about his affair? Did she see the American Express bill? Was she tired of being alone? Bernard couldn’t bring himself to ask her.
Whatever the reason, he knew it was his fault. He wondered how he’d be able to pay alimony and child support. He lost his libido. Feeling unworthy, he sent Maritza back to the DR and cut her weekly allowance 10,000 percent. None of Bernard’s friends called to see how he was doing. They were all too afraid he’d ask them for a loan.
In real life, it was me, Wladi, Bernard, and a bunch of empty workstations. I doodled and wished we had something to blow up for insurance. Bernard clipped his nose hair, pressed the opposite nostril, and blew out the trimmings before he inhaled them. Wladi spoke of heaven and redemption. He prayed for God to help us prepare for the hard times ahead.
In the end, God offered us something so much better than guidance. He got us a bailout. A sports book in Costa Rica agreed to pay our customers. In return, the customers would be theirs and Bernard would work for the outfit, helping them tweak their mathematics. Though I was relieved for Bernard, I didn’t want to go to Costa Rica. I was burned out and I missed Jeremy and wanted to go home, wherever home was. But seeing Bernard in such an altered state and overhearing his phone calls with his psychologist, I couldn’t bring myself to leave him.
San José was just as much a dump as it was when I visited with Dink, three years earlier. Like fugitives, Bernard and I moved into an anonymous two-bedroom efficiency and Wladi moved in next door. The neighborhood was loud and the wet air-conditioning made everything damp and moldy. We woke up and counted the mosquito bites. For dinner, the three of us sat on the outside curb and ate soggy empanadas.
Men with machine guns guarded the building we worked in. The new boss questioned everything Bernard did. He didn’t appreciate Bernard’s genius. He didn’t let Bernard bet millions. It made me feel embarrassed; it was like watching your father work a job that’s beneath him.
The sun set at four p.m. It rained for days on end. At night, I cleared bugs from the tub so I could take a bath. Centipedes and roaches I smashed with my flip-flop. But the beetles were too colorful to kill. They lay on their backs, kicking, and I admired the designs on their bellies. Picking them up, one by one, I wondered how something with wings—something that knew how to fly—could find itself, night after night, upside down, flailing, fluttering, and stuck. And I didn’t know for whom the image spoke better, Bernard or me.
I arrived in New York to find a newly groomed Otis napping at the foot of Jeremy’s bed, right where I’d left him ten months before. Delighted by my early retirement, Jeremy prepared healthy dinners and gave me access to his laptop, complete with my own log-in. He’d fixed the tub’s drain and grouted the tile for my evening baths. I found fresh-cut flowers on the bedside table. I loved the pampering. But despite how brightly the days started out, before bed, as we lay close together, I could not keep remorse at bay.
“I totally abandoned Bernard,” I said, sobbing into Jeremy’s chest hair. “He’s unhappy so he’s eating and getting fat again. He’s going to die.”
Jeremy smoothed my ponytail. “Bernard’ll be fine. He’ll get his shit together.”
“But I haven’t even told you the worst part. Remember how we left the island in such a rush? We accidentally forgot someone.”
“Who?”
“Lionel.”
“You hate Lionel!”
“So! Just because you hate somebody doesn’t mean you abandon
them. Wladi heard he’s addicted to crack and lives in the McDonald’s parking lot. He has no one! We left him behind!”
“Babe, relax. It wasn’t Vietnam. You didn’t leave anyone behind.”
Jeremy’s reassurances helped loosen the tiny knots in my heart. Eventually, having him and Otis back in my life convinced me that I’d made the right choice by leaving Costa Rica. In his tenth-floor apartment, Jeremy and I got to know each other by simply spending time together. It felt strange after months of expressing ourselves through high-emotion love letters. The routine of daily life together marked a drastic shift in our relationship. I looked forward to packing Jeremy’s lunches, doing his laundry, and helping him think of story ideas. I loved soaking in the bathtub and watching him shave at the sink. The only problem with this new, exquisite little world was that I needed a job. I was getting restless, and, of course, I needed the money.
“No dealerships are hiring,” I said, searching the classifieds. “Do you think cleaning people’s teeth would be gross?”
As usual, Jeremy approached the morning paper fretfully, as though it were an outstanding bill he hadn’t the money to pay. Living in constant fear of getting scooped, he winced with each turn of the page. Only when he realized he was in the clear did he allow himself coffee and small talk.
“I thought you were going to apply to journalism school,” he said.
“Applying to school doesn’t pay the bills,” I said, considering the colorful adult entertainment ads. But it was the tiny “Miscellaneous” job that caught my attention: boxing trainer needed to help start a program for overweight kids. Fun and physical, I thought, but kind of square. Still, the boxing enticed me, and I thought it would make for a nice transition over to the clean-nosed side of the law.
At a sports bar in midtown, I interviewed with the program director. Dave Greenberg was tall and goofy in his oversized leather jacket, Jets ball cap, and Jets wristwatch. He asked for a copy of my résumé and I hesitated. Earlier, I’d decided I would be honest about my jobs. I had plenty to offer any boss and if gambling put a
bad taste in their mouth, screw ’em. But face-to-face, my confidence wilted. Professional gambling, bookmaking, and offshore betting businesses might give pause to anyone, especially job interviewers in the straight world. More often than not, it’s easier to make something up on the spot. In hindsight, I probably should have.
“Actually,” I said, pulling my hair across my upper lip like a moustache, “I don’t really have a résumé.”
He asked if I had any experience.
Did I ever.
I highlighted my qualifications: a 7-and-3 boxing record, a quick jab, and a soft spot for chubsters. Looking bored, Dave got lazy and no longer tried to hide the glances at my breasts. I knew that I was losing him so I took a chance and mentioned sports betting. The words jerked his gaze back to eye level. He looked starstruck, as if it weren’t me sitting across from him, but Vinnie Testaverde.
“Oh my God. I love sports betting!” he said. Adding, rather sweetly, “It’s my passion.”
And I realized all those MASH fortune-telling games I’d played as a little girl were wrong. I wasn’t going to marry a banker, drive a Rolls-Royce, and live in a shack. I was going to spend the rest of my days with a middle-aged Jewish gambling addict from Long Island.
Dave was so excited I could feel his knees bouncing beneath the table. I asked what he bet on.
“Anything that moves,” he said.
After more gambling talk, Dave asked if I would put him into an office. By doing so, I’d become his agent, which meant I’d give him ASAP’s phone number in Costa Rica, a password and credit line, and he’d be able to bet. This is common practice in the Internet age, since most bettors are wary of sending thousands of dollars to faceless bookies in third world countries.
If I became his agent, I’d be responsible for making sure ASAP paid him when he won and he paid ASAP when he lost. In the event that Greenberg couldn’t pay, it was still my responsibility to make sure Bernard got paid. This was the risky part. There was always
a chance I’d get stiffed and have to foot the bill. And I couldn’t complain to the cops about it since the whole thing was illegal. In return for taking the risk, though, I’d receive a twenty-five-percent kickback on his losses—not a bad way to supplement one’s income. Looking across the table at Greenberg’s big, stupid smile and his big, wiggling ears, I felt the allure of easy money.
“I can get you an account,” I said and wrote the office number on the back of an ASAP business card. Bernard had passed them out the day we opened and I was happy to finally use one. It made me feel professional.
“But what about the boxing program?” I said. “Did I get the job?”
He took my card. “Eh, that thing’ll never get off the ground. I’ll never get enough money for advertising. I’d rather do this.” He kissed two of his fingers—the ones you use to touch a mezuzah—and turned them to me. His way of waving good-bye.
That evening, after I’d set up Dave’s account and he’d made his first bet, Bernard called to congratulate me. “Where’d you find this guy?” he said. “He’s trying to win fifty bucks on the Jets and he’s willing to risk nine hundred to do it! He has the makings of a Very. Good. Customer.”
Something was different, I noticed. The undertone of wrist-slitting depression in Bernard’s voice had vanished and that alone made me happy. It occurred to me that to hit rock bottom, adapt to it, and then crawl out of it was probably the most familiar situation Bernard knew. Setting him up with a sucker would be profitable for both of us and made me feel better about leaving him. Days later Greenberg called and referred three more customers. I happily took them on.
Wind and sleet rattled the bedroom windows. Steam hissed and curled from the radiator. The sound of Jeremy’s electric toothbrush buzzed through the walls. I didn’t realize that when I vowed to leave the gambling world forever, forever meant two weeks.
I was seeing life like a gambler again and domestic life had no thrill to it, no stakes. The
bzzzzzzz
of the toothbrush sounded like the drone of daily drudgery, of monogamy, madness, and death. By the time Jeremy settled into bed with his guitar and book of Jewish camp songs, I’d made up my mind.
“I’m moving to Vegas,” I said. “Tomorrow.” I drew up the covers.
I glanced at him for a reaction. Instead of showing anger or disapproval, he strummed. I’d always been grateful that Jeremy gave me the independence I required. But at that moment, a little domination would’ve gone a long way with me. I took his passivity for rejection.
“If I go,” I said, “I won’t lose interest in you as quickly.”
He looked at me as he though he saw only imperfection.
“Jesus, Beth!
You’re not a girlfriend, you’re a fucking flight risk! You come on so strong …”
“Use I statements! And stop looking at me like I’m ugly.”
“ … All you did in Curaçao and Costa Rica was tell me how much you missed me. And no sooner do we get into some kind of relationship than you run away. You’ve been here two weeks! I feel like a single father raising a little kid who has never been loved!”
“Jeremy. I am not a little kid. I have a strong sense of self. I know when I’m bored.”
But I wasn’t bored. Or maybe I was. I wasn’t sure. But I did know I was getting cold feet. Even if I knew how to make a living in New York—which I certainly didn’t, not without gambling—I wasn’t ready to live with Jeremy. I needed my own space, preferably in a hot climate with a swimming pool. I needed Vegas.
Truth be told, Jeremy wasn’t ready to live with me, either. What we both wanted was simply to date, but my bouncing around made things chaotic. “Quit your job and come with me,” I said. “We can rent rooms a few blocks from each other.”
“Do you not understand I’m trying to be a reporter here? I’m done hopping from experience to experience. I’ll visit, but I’m not moving to Las Vegas.”
“Then will you be my pay and collector?” I asked. It was the part
of my job Jeremy thought the most interesting. When we first met, he sometimes accompanied me on my drop-offs. I needed someone I could trust.
“Will it hurt my chances, if I go into politics?” he said.
“No. It’ll help. I like when politicians have diverse backgrounds.”
He gave it more thought and then smiled.
“I’m your boss now!” I straddled him.
“You are not my boss.”
“Yes I am. You’re my employee. You get a hundred bucks for every appointment. Save it for something special.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Like my own bail.”
“We’re home!” I shouted as Otis and I ran up the steps of Dink’s house and into his den. Dink now conducted his gambling business from home, claiming he could no longer afford Dink Inc.’s overhead, though I think his decision to work from home had to do with the fact that he had grown frightened of going out into the world. Huddled in the cramped darkness of his corner desk, he held his jaw as though it were displaced and tugged at his wild, overgrown hair. “I had a good, long run,” he said regretfully. “But it’s over. My life is over.” He fidgeted his way through his symptoms: memory loss, bouts of vertigo, burps that tasted like rotten eggs, sticky urine, slimy teeth, an inability to digest anything but double cheeseburgers. Allergic to air and paper (though not money, he made that clear), he handed me a brochure of a bubble community for people who could no longer tolerate society. It showed porcelain trailers at the end of an isolated cul-de-sac. Dink was on the waiting list. It felt great to be back.