Worth a Gamble

Five-hundred-thousand dollars. 

Five-thousand Benjamins stacked on top of each other, cramped into one black, leather suitcase. 

The bartender doesn’t look that impressed. 

I know walking around with that amount of cash with me is asking for trouble, but this is a classy establishment. No matter where I look there are at least two security officers within view, and everyone knows there are cameras everywhere. I would like to see someone try and snatch this suitcase away. 

I think the bartender didn’t hear me. Why else didn’t he react? If someone told me they had half-a-mill in a briefcase I’d at least, give out a, “Wow!”

“Did you hear me?” I ask him.

“I heard you,” the bartender mumbles.

“That’s right,” I say to myself. “Five-hundred-thousand dollars.”  

I down a shot of whisky and I tap the glass to get the bartender’s attention. 

He takes the big bottle off the rack and starts pouring it into my glass. He looks pretty bored, but then it’s a slow night. Besides me there's only two other people at this bar, both of whom are on their phones. I don’t know why I want to keep the conversation going. Maybe it’s because I haven’t talked to anyone in such a long time. Ever since my wife died I’ve been sitting in my house all day with no one to talk to. I have no relatives, no children, no friends, nobody. I don’t remember the last time I had a proper conversation. I guess the need to talk grew over time, and now I need to let it all out. 

“Aren’t you going to ask where I got the money?” I ask him. He raises an eyebrow, and I fear he might not want to talk to me after all. I tilt my head from side to side, hoping he takes the hint.

“Okay, where did you get all that cash, mister?” he says pushing it all out in one breath. “Did you rob a bank?” 

I give out a laugh and slap the counter, something of a habit I picked up from a long time ago.  

“You’re a funny, man,” I tell him. I take a moment to catch my breath. “No, sir my wife and I earned this money.”

I slap the edge of the suitcase, and I grab onto it with a tight grip. “Our whole life’s work in this one little suitcase.”

I release my grip and sit back crossing my arms. 

“You must be really brave to bring that thing to a place like this,” I hear him mumble. 

I give another laugh. If only he had seen me growing up. I was a shy kid who didn’t take any risks or step out of line. I regret that now, but the past is in the past. Now, I’m making up for all the years I wasted living in the shadows. After sixty years, it was about time I started living on the edge. 

I watch him take a rag and spin it around inside a shot glass.

I can’t believe this guy.

I try to have a conversation with him and he keeps ignoring me. 

“You’re a terrible, bartender,” I say. 

“How so?” he asks, as if he doesn’t know. Now I feel like he’s patronizing me. He knows perfectly well that he’s a terrible bartender. He thinks he’s going to ruin my night on the town, well he’s wrong. I won’t let one lousy bartender bring me down. 

“Ah, whatever,” I say slapping the counter with both hands. To show how unbothered I am I do a little drum tapping on the rim. “I don’t really care. You know what? I’ll give you a hundred-dollar tip anyway. No, wait, two-hundred, no wait a four-hundred-dollar tip!”

The man finally smiles and says, “No, sir, I can’t.” 

But I stop him before he can finish. Whoever heard of a bartender refusing a tip? 

“You should be thankful I’m feeling so generous,” I tell him. I take a sip from the shot glass. I spin my fingers around the rim of the glass, deep in thought. I look back at my suitcase and I feel the weight of all that money on my heart. After sixty years, I thought we would have earned a whole lot more. I feel like maybe I should have done more with my life. I could have earned more if I had just applied myself, but I didn’t. Oh, well, too late now. I can’t afford to look at the past when I need to look at the present. 

“Doesn’t matter,” I say, “You’re getting a four-hundred-dollar tip whether you want it or not!”

I give out a laugh. The bartender smile grows so big that his cheeks shoot up. 

My laughter dies down and I take another sip. I demand another shot and the bartender complies. 

“So, out of all the places to take five hundred thousand dollars, why here?” he asks me. “No friends, children, grandchildren, long-distant relatives?”  

I shake my head no to everything he says. And for extra emphasis, I add, “I got none of those. My wife and I weren’t that sociable.” 

“That’s sad,” the bartender says without a moment of hesitation. 

I sit up straight and ask, “What do you mean? I don’t think that’s sad. I’m quite happy with my life.”

“If you say so, man,” he told me, making me even more agitated.

Who was he to judge me? He was supposed to give me drinks and have pleasant conversations.

“Have I told you you’re a terrible bartender?” I ask. 

“Yes, you already did,” he says not missing a beat.

“Well, you're still getting your four-hundred-dollar tip,” I mumble as I take another sip.

Suddenly, a loud ringing noise goes off. I turn around to see what was going on. 

It came from one of the slot machines. Some old lady just hit it big. Gold tokens spill and the woman scoops as much as her hands can carry. She looks like a grandma with fluffy white hair. She’s wearing black-rimmed glasses, and red beads decorate her neck. I feel happy and sad for her at the same time. I’m glad she got her jackpot, but I know what’s going to happen next. She won’t be content with her wins and she’ll try to get the jackpot again, an event that’s not going to happen for the rest of her life. It’s like watching a shooting star, you’re happy you saw it, but sad that it didn’t last. That’s life in a nutshell right there. If I had known it was so short, maybe I would have done more with it. 

“You still didn’t answer my question,” the bartender says, snapping my attention back to him. “Out of all the places you can take five- hundred-grand, you chose this dump.” 

“Well, my friend,” I say. “I want to live life on the edge. Spent too long living on the sidelines you know? Once my wife died, I thought why not? So, I took all our savings, all our retirement, all our everything, shoved it inside this suitcase, so I can have one big extravaganza before I hit the great beyond, or whatever is waiting for us out there.” 

The bartender shakes his head, before filling my glass with some more whisky. The brown liquid fills up the glass within an instant. 

“Sounds pretty sad to me,” he mumbles. 

“What was that?” I ask him. He gives me a look as if I don’t know what I’m talking about, but I know better. “Say it again, but this time a little louder.” 

The man sighs and he rest his hands on the counter. 

“I said that sounds pretty sad,” he told me. “Out of all the things you could spend five-hundred-thousand dollars on, you decide to waste it away.”

“Hey, I don’t tell you how you spend your money, you don’t tell me how to spend mine,” I say to him. The tone of my voice sounded argumentative, but he was really pushing my buttons. 

The man raises his hands as if I was pointing a gun at him. 

“I’m just saying it sounds like a waste of money,” he says.  

I cannot believe this guy. Weren’t bartenders supposed to keep your spirits up, not to be a pain in the ass? I have half a mind to leave right now and spend my money elsewhere. But I am determined to not let this man ruin my night. My parents taught me that sometimes you have to make the best with what you got, and I guess I have to do the same thing here. 

“Well, it’s my money and it’s my life,” I argue. 

“I agree,” the bartender nods. “But if it were my life, I would put my money where it can do some good instead of throwing it away.”

“Okay,” I sigh pushing my drink away. “Here’s the thing buddy, this is what I believe. We have one chance to live our best life. There’s no reincarnation, no heaven, no hell, just this. That’s all there is. So, giving money to a charity or whatever will just be the same as throwing it into this casino. In the end, none of it will matter!” 

I can see the bartender shaking his head. He takes a deep sigh as his shoulders sink down. 

“What if you’re wrong?” he asks me. “What if reincarnation, hell, heaven, whatever, what if they’re real?”  

“Well, then,” I say placing both hands behind my neck. “It was fun while it lasted. Life is like a gamble after all. Everything is random and some people hit it big, others lose it all. Sure, you can better your odds, but life is nothing more than those slot machines.”

The bartender frowns and crosses his arms. He leans his back against the drinks behind him, but not enough to cause the glasses to shake.

“So, it really doesn’t matter if there's five-hundred-thousand dollars in that suitcase?” he asks pointing at it. 

My hand wraps on to my glass. I surprise myself with how tight I hold it. I’m waiting for it to crack under the pressure, but it’s doing alright so far. I don’t know why I feel uncomfortable when he brings up the suitcase. Maybe it’s because my whole life is in that thing. My wife and I earned every bill in that suitcase. Him using it against me was like him using my life against me. 

“What do you plan on doing once this whole thing is over?” the bartender asks unmoved by my silence.

In some way, I was glad he moved the conversation away from the suitcase, but the thought of what I had planned for afterward is just as bad. This whole time I’ve tried not to think about it, but all my fears return with a vengeance. I circle my finger around the rim of the glass as a way to distract myself. It’s not working. 

The bartender raises an eyebrow as if to say, “Well? I’m waiting,” without saying it.

I clench my teeth. 

“Before you say it, yes I know it sounds extreme, so prepare yourself,” I say looking him in the eyes. The man squinted, his lips bounce up, his nose scrunches and his head bobs back.

“You’re not planning to do something illegal are you?” he asks it in a horse whisper.

I give out a chuckle and say, “Depends on who you ask.”

I’m pretty sure my joke was pretty good, but the bartender is not laughing. My laughter weakens and I don’t see the point in it anymore. I feel my smile going away and I lean across the bar. 

“You got to promise me you won’t tell anyone,” I whisper to him. 

He rolls his eyes, but he leans forward to where my lip is barely touching his ear. 

“I’m going to go to my hotel room, sit in my chair and die.”

The words hang in the air for a few seconds. I can’t believe I was able to get them out. I have been keeping these thoughts deep inside for too long, it felt great to get it out in the open. 

I sit back down while the bartender is still frozen. I don’t know if he was shocked by what I said or if he was deep in contemplation. 

“How are you so certain you’re going to die?” he asks, placing one finger under his lip. 

“Let me just say I have it all planned out,” I tell him. 

“I see,” he says. Seconds pass, but he’s not saying anything. Maybe he's finally understanding what I said. 

He closes his eyes and rubs the temple with one finger. 

“Let me get this straight,” he sighs. “You believe everything is random, but when it comes to your own death you leave nothing to chance?” 

I laugh, finding it quite hilarious how he put it so matter-of-factly.  

“Come on man, don’t do me like that,” I moan unable to disguise my laughter.

The man lifts up his hands and says, “I’m just saying. I have been alive long enough to know whenever you have plans the universe stabs you in the back.”  

I lean back in my seat and rub my eyes. I'm done with this guy. He’s been determined to ruin my night, and I can’t stand it anymore. I slap the counter for the last time and say, “Well, it’s been fun, but I have a whole night to celebrate.”

But before I leave, I snap my fingers and tell him, “Don’t think I forgot about your tip.” 

I head for my briefcase and click it open.

I glance behind me and see that the bartender is smiling, sort of like a Mona Lisa smile, like he knew something I didn’t. I don’t pay much attention to him. After all, he’s just a bartender who I’m never going to see again. 

I open the suitcase and… 

I don’t believe it. 

The five-hundred-thousand dollars.

It’s all gone.