Chapter Five:
Stale Donuts
True to my word, Ifound a Gambler’s Anonymous meeting not far from my hotel. The problem was that the building was two blocks away from a casino – a casino I was seeing billboards for everywhere. The signs on the highway told me that fun and adventure awaited me at the next exit, the lights from the obnoxiously tall resort attached to it could be seen from miles away, and I was weak.
I wanted fun and adventure.
I didn’t want to go sit in a stuffy room with bad coffee and tell my story to people who would assume the worst about me – that I was just another rich boy with too much money to spend. They wouldn’t be wrong, but that didn’t mean my addiction was any less harmful to myself or those around me than someone who didn’t have money to gamble; and I was tired of the meetings back in Brisley where they all looked at me like I didn’t belong there.
Nothing about Domingo suggested it would be different here, but without a sponsor or anyone at all with me to smack the shit out of me and keep me grounded, the GA meetings would have to do, whether or not I felt welcome.
But that casino ...
My Tesla idled at a red light as I contemplated which way to turn. I could go right and head to the meeting or take a quick left and head toward the casino – and who would know? Sterling wasn’t here. Zeppelin wasn’t here. My dad wasn’t here. I had no children to look after or wife to miss me. I wasn’t even in the same state as my family, so what harm would it have done? I could’ve capped myself at a few grand and probably left richer, or at least not that much poorer. The risk would’ve been low and I could’ve indulged just a little to distract myself from everything happening around me.
It would’ve been easy.
Two years, Ollie. Fuck, I’ve been good for damn near two years. Am I really gonna fuck this up right now?
My knee bounced as I incessantly tapped my fingers on the steering wheel and chewed my bottom lip. The light was going to turn soon and I’d have to make a choice, but the longer I sat there suspended, unable to make a knee-jerk decision ... the more I started leaning the wrong way.
I don’t even have to gamble. I can just go watch. Get a hit of the sights and sounds and live vicariously through –
The light turned green and I jerked the wheel to the right as panic exploded through me.
It was exactly that kind of hoop-jumping and rationalization that told me I needed GA more than I thought I did, so I drove way too fast and ignored way too many traffic laws on my way to the meeting. I barely put my car in park before jumping out and sprinting for the door.
Run, don’t walk.
My board shorts crawled up my ass as I navigated the repurposed office building in search of the right room. I tried my best to fix it, shaking my right leg every few steps like an idiot, but I was a hundred percent positive I had a wedgie when I walked in and twenty-odd people turned to stare at me.
“Uh ... hi. Sorry I’m late, I got ... caught in traffic.” I winced internally from the lie – this was one place I was supposed to be completely honest, and I’d already broken that. Fuckin’ nice, Ol. Just grab a coffee and sit down.
I waved a little as some of them greeted me, then snatched a stale donut from the table by the door and poured myself some cream with a dash of sugar and coffee. The back of my neck felt hot, like a shining red beacon telling everyone in that room what an asshole I was, so I chose a seat at the very back and tried to be less ... me.
Knees together, back straight, powdered sugar falling all over my black polo.
That last one was still pretty me, but my awkward, proper posture kept me in check as I listened to the first couple members tell their stories.
There was Abe, long-time compulsive gambler who had gotten on and fallen off the wagon so many times he could’ve taught a class on it. His wife left him somewhere around crash number four, and he’s been three steps deep into the program ever since. I felt bad for the guy but also a little impressed – I might’ve been sitting in the chair eating yesterday’s breakfast, but I still wasn’t sure I was ready for step one.
My life wasn’t unmanageable, so I couldn’t exactly admit that it was. I’d just proven to myself that I wasn’t powerless over gambling either – I’d made the right call without Sterling, or a sponsor, or a God I wasn’t sure was even there. I could do it on my own; I had done it on my own.
As it turned out, imposter syndrome wasn’t just something that applied to success, it applied to failures, too.
I listened as Cori told us about her credit card debt and the nights her kids went without food because she’d lost their grocery money playing penny slots. I could see it in her eyes that she understood me – she understood the pull, the adrenaline rush and dopamine high that came with playing the slots. It was fucking cruel how enticing most of them were with the flashing lights and pretty colors, and more than once I’d considered that casino owners loved compulsive gamblers most of all despite their vocal stances that suggested otherwise.
No, they loved us, loved how easily attracted and distracted we were. A couple hours on the slots, then the Wheel of Fortune would catch our eyes, then we’d spend whatever we won playing poker, blackjack, or pool. She got it. She got me, which should’ve tipped me off to the fact that she was going to volunteer me to share next.
It didn’t stop my jaw from going slack or my pretentious posture to slip when she did.
“Oh, I’m new here,” I said quickly. “Just observing.”
Cori smiled slyly. “Suit yourself. We can’t make you share, but it seems to me like you could use it. You have very sad eyes, New Guy.”
Sad eyes? What the fuck does that mean?
“Come on, ese,” someone else said with an almost believable air of support. “The rest of us are pros around here. Give us something new to listen to.”