A True Story about gambling away gas money

The Grand Rubicon Bridge  By Peter11/10-13/11 Word Count: 1,030  Dolly knew the circuit as well as any neighborhood school bus driver knew hers. Had driven it countless times before this morning. Knew the distance down to the 1/10 of a mile: 20.4 from her back door to the casino’s front. What? A gallon of gas? Two for the round trip? Plus $2 bucks toll on the bridge – one one way; one the other. About $9 bucks capital investment. Ask any financial guru on the block … takes money to make money …  But, when investment money is scarce? One needs to be creative; take risks to get ahead. Calculated risks to be certain – but risks none the less. Driving. Thinking: Is that what this is – a calculated risk? Then: I wonder what Suze Orman would say …  The thought tickled her funny bone like fingernails on the bottom of her feet. Had to swallow quick and hard to keep from spitting her coffee all over the dashboard. Alone. Still dark outside. Nearly desolate highway at this early time in the morning – laughing hysterically; the kind of hurts-so-good painful laughing when something is really really funny. Only half awake. In her warm car, comfy as a cigarette nestled in its package. Eyes blurry – barely cognizant of the fact she was even driving: weaving; slowing down to around 35 in a 65. Freekin’ Suze Orman - Oh My God – get a hold of yourself, woman! It’s not that funny … which started the process all over again.  Out of the corner of her eye: a fuzzy amber colored blinking of sorts – reminding her of her childhood; crossing her eyes, looking at the Christmas tree lights; making them all soft and blurry. Knew immediately what it was. The fucking gas light. Shit. And the first bridge wasn’t even in sight. Not good. Its given name was the Grand Island Bridge, but Dolly’s secret name for it was The Grand Rubicon Bridge. If she crossed it with the gas light off: she’d be able to make it back home. On? Screw it. I’ll wing it; win a few bucks … get a little gas.  Handed 2 quarters, 3 dimes and 20 pennies to the toll taker – scrounged from under her seat; the glove box; the bottom of her purse. About 8 miles to go. The first little sputter stutter as she pulled away from the toll booth. Running on fumes now. Put it in neutral on the downslope – didn’t know if this saved gas or not; but seemed to make sense. A shot glass of fuel saved is a shot glass of fuel earned …  Inside the big top now. Plugged her card in. The little light on the machine blinking. Blinking. Blinking. Like an IV drip, each blink a tiny tick of euphoria: “$30 free play activated.” Great. Let’s make a little money – don’t need to cough up a grand – just let me get home …  First machine. Played eight dollars of the 30. Cashed out with $22; stuck the ticket in her purse. Moved 3 machines over {a tip from Slot Machines for Dummies; hot machines are never right next to each other}. Played with $7: cashed out another ticket: $12. Fine. $34 bucks – gas; bridge; smokes. Thank you Lord for thinking about me – I’m alive and doin’ fine …  $15 capital left. Basics covered. Now let’s try to win something worthwhile. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. Now, that’s completely unacceptable. Reached in her purse. Pulled out the $12 ticket. Fuck it – what’s $12? The $22 will cover my gas and smokes. We’re good.  Sweeeet! Within her first 3 spins: bonus round. Now we’re talkin’ … Replaced the $12 ticket with this new & improved $75 one. Gas; Smokes ; a grocery or two …  Smoked 3 cigarettes. By the time the last one was gone so was the $75. Then – a solitary rose bloomed: a lone rational thought amidst the landfill of insanity … Think - Gas. Smokes. A buck – a stinking buck – for the bridge. Think – Leave - Now. Please.  A shrill staccato beeping in her head … Ticket out of her purse… Hearing the next garbage truck backing up… Sticking the ticket in – tapping ‘max bet.’ The driver lifting the bed of his truck… Mustn’t have seen the rose. Insult to injury as he buried it under a ton of putrid thoughts.  Not even $1 to cross the bridge. Had to take the long way home. Even more gas that she didn’t have. Less than ½ way back: sputter stutter. Scrounged around some more. 48 cents. A half-mile walk to the gas station. An empty pop bottle dug out of the trash can. Battery dead from too many vain attempts. Flagged someone down. Jump? Thanks. Whirrr-whirrr. ‘I think you have bigger problems than your battery.’ I do – broke. Can you lend me $2? Thank you. Another walk. Another flag down. Over to a client’s house – got a deposit. A check. Damn! Driving to bank. Another sputter stutter. Out. Called a friend - A friend in need is a friend indeed. ‘Thanks buddy.’ Check cashed. Whew: $200.00. A grand total of less than 1 gallon of gas in the tank. Enough to get to the local casino – screw the bridge. Passed 3 or 4 stations on the way. Didn’t stop. On a mission. Played every cent of it. Every cent. No smokes. No gas. Another sputter stutter just before turning onto Main Street. Pulled over. Flashers on. No reason to even bother scrounging – there was nothing left to scrounge. Gas station. About one mile back. Walking.. ‘Here – hold my license. I just need $2. Just enough to get home. I’ll come back tomorrow.’ Nice guy. Didn’t need my license. Knew me – I’d been there plenty times before.  Out of gas. Three times in one day. Even had money the last time. Plenty. Could have filled it. Poor capital management.  Taking the sharp turn into her driveway. Gas light flickers. Disgusted. Maybe I should have called Suze after all …  Only the tears this time. No laughing.  End