By Margot Comstock
Pearl sat listlessly at the fourth slot in a row of five, in a sea of rows and columns. Three quarters of the slot machines were occupied, more by women than men, more older than younger. Pearl was somewhere in the middle agewise, she told herself, evading the reality of a sixtieth birthday three days away. Her chin pushed up causing her mouth to form a down-turned crescent. Her wandering, vacant eyes happened on those of a man and made contact, unwanted contact. Pearl relaxed her chin, tilted her head sassily, and turned with a small smile to the slot. She pulled the arm. Two cherries but a banana before them; no win. She glanced toward the man to find he had turned away. She sighed deeply, with no idea why.
It was cool in the casino. It was the only cool place in Reno to which Pearl had access. She had drunk too much in just about every restaurant and was either unwanted or too embarrassed to frequent them. No longer. She had quit liquor two years ago, cold turkey, and had stuck to it. She'd told no one. Just as alcohol had kept her going for all those years, knowing she had beaten it, by herself, no help, kept her going now.
She'd also given up blackjack; well, actually, blackjack had given her up. Pearl had a knack for numbers. Before, she'd gotten real good at counting cards, even in multiple packs. She'd begun to win regularly. She'd started to save. And the bigger her balance grew, the more she wanted. She bet higher and won. Despite her heavy drinking and smoking, her bank account flourished. She became confident, she preened, she celebrated. The floormen noticed. Suddenly, she was banned from the blackjack tables in her favorite casino. Within a month, there wasn't a casino in Reno that would allow her to play.
She was sick. She began to drink more. She stayed home in her new, fancy apartment and drank. She decided to try the high ticket games, see if they would let her in those. They did. And, quickly, they took back all her money. She got behind on her rent, she wasn't eating, she wasn't going out. She was evicted. She had no car. She found places to sleep, hating it. Food was an expense she couldn't endure; the liquor she bought instead was cheap and deadening.
One predawn she'd wakened to a kick in her ribs. She barely moved in her stupor. The kick came again, and a harsh voice. "Move on, slut. You can't sleep here. Get up and get out." This was a kind person—he gave her time to pull herself together, grab her knapsack. She slunk off, hating him, hating everybody, craving, craving. The morning was relatively cool and she hardly noticed. She trudged on, wondering where the hell to go. As she walked, dawn brought the first rays of sun, not yet sweltering. The sun was warm, the breeze cool, the sparse trees bright and fresh looking in the early light.
Pearl's stomach tautened. She felt fear, but not the fear of people or of not having a place to sleep or a drink. Scared of this unwanted, yet vaguely familiar feeling, Pearl found a spot of grass by a tree and sat, looking around in fear. No, in need. Need? Of course she had needs--nothing new there. She saw the sunshine spreading, the long morning shadows, the leaves gently moving in the slight breeze. She felt like crying. Crying! No way, there was no room for pity. But she knew the feeling on her cheek was a tear. I don't like this, she thought. I don't need this. She scrabbled in her sack for the bottle, groping, near panic. She found it. It was empty.
It's been empty before, no big deal, she told herself. Her self wasn't listening. Her self was watching the sunlight on the casino's nacre facing. It was beautiful.
Pearl felt the innards clutch, full of butterflies. Butterflies! Good god. She watched herself raise her bottle to smash it on the pavement—and she watched her arm stop, lower it; and she went along when her self took the bottle to a trash can and dropped it in.
Okay, she said to her self. What do we do now. What are we doing?
I need to bathe, she thought, and her entire self focused on where she could go to get away with bathing.
She remembered a mission. She made her way there. She was hungry and torn. But she didn't ask for food. She found a man with a priest's collar, already there.
“Excuse me,” she said, mumbling.
The man looked at her skeptically and then gently. “Yes?”
Pearl pulled her body up to stand straight. She raised her head, and then, with enormous effort, she raised her eyes to his.
“I've quit,” she said. “I so need a bath. I wonder if you can tell me where I might be able to bathe.”
He looked at her for a long moment, and then, slowly, he smiled and his smile was the second sunrise of this day for Pearl.
“Yes,” he said, “there is a bath here, and you are welcome to use it. Yes, you will feel much better.”
He led her through hallways then opened a door on a bathroom that had a shower-bath.
"Shower first," he said—no, Pearl thought, he's not ordering, he's suggesting—"then let the water go and fill the tub fresh for a bath." He showed her towels and soap. "Take your time, please. I will be nearby when you're finished; if you don't see me, just call Aldo."
“Aldo,” Pearl said, wondering where the hell she'd got a conscience, “I am not religious; I do not believe.”
“No matter,” he said, smiling again. “No matter at all. I won't try to convert you if you won't try to convert me.”
Pearl had a goddam tear in her eye again.
When she had showered and bathed, just the way he suggested, she looked for her clothes. Instead she found clean jeans and underwear, a tank top and a light sweat jacket. She cracked the door. She could see Aldo in the next room down the hall, busy with something.
“Aldo,” she called quietly, and again a little louder. He turned.
“Yes,” he said. “Those clothes are for you. Are they alright?”
“Yes,” she said, full of wonder.
“When you're dressed come and get me,” Aldo said. “The mission will be serving breakfast in about an hour. But, if I understood you correctly, I believe you'll need something before then. We'll scrounge something up.”
Pearl just stood there, peeking around the door.
“Go on, then,” Aldo said. “Get dressed!”
That's how it had happened, two years ago.
She had begun to help at the mission, helping in the kitchen, serving meals, doing odd jobs as they were needed. In exchange, or maybe just out of kindness, besides a small amount of spending money for her work, Aldo allowed her to sleep in the mission when she needed to and to take meals there. He talked to her sometimes, trying to help her find a direction. She hadn't found it yet.
This morning when she'd arrived at the mission door, she'd found it locked. It frightened her. She'd waited awhile. No one showed up. Eventually she heard sounds inside. She gathered her courage and knocked on the door.
"Sorry, the mission has closed. There is no mission here now," someone said through the door.
Pearl's heart sank, fear filled her stomach. She banged again.
"Wait!" she said. "Please, where is Aldo? I need to talk to Aldo."
After a pause and voices inside that she couldn't distinguish, someone said, "Aldo is gone. Aldo will not be here again."
And then, "Go away!"
Pearl'd sat on the stoop. The world was unreal, her world had turned to shit. She sat and sat, and the day got hot and hotter.
Finally she stood up, bent, fearful, hot, miserable. Well, she could deal with the heat. And she had gone to a casino, sat anonymously at a slot machine.
And now she was here in a casino again, not daring the tables, not wanting to. Just wanting the coolth.
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Reno Renaissance appeared in the Summer 2009 edition of the twice yearly 'zine Riverbabble, www.iceflow.com/riverbabble/archives. It was the winning story for that issue. Another yippee! It's copyright©2009 by Margot M. Comstock, as are all the stories on this blog, unless otherwise noted.
