The Siren's Call

The machines trill on and on with their beckons and blinking lights to a victimless room like a Christmas parade in a ghost town. As the time draws nearer to 7 am I continue to polish and store away the last of the lowball glasses, keeping an eye on the clock for the second I can finally end my shift.

This particular shift seemed to have two ton boulders tied to its ankles as it dragged itself ever so slowly over the course of the 10 hours I have been here. With 32 minutes to go, all that consumed my thoughts was the warm embrace of my vile yet cozy bed. I have needed to wash the sheets for months now, but between working and my intense lack of motivation I keep putting it off.

My calves strained and my head fussed and hummed with a sleepy headache, the kind I only get after working in the casino for these shifts. I felt like a computer that had been used for too long, the fans in my hard drive working overtime to cool my brain down, my whole body searing with exhaustion. Another glance at the clock, 24 minutes to go.

Mario’s seemingly bottomless snores only coaxed out more of my fatigue. I so envy his ability to sleep while standing up although I imagine the myriad of drinks made it much more feasible. His head was sinking deeply into the top of his arms which were folded loosely on the bar. He had one foot placed atop the other like an inebriated flamingo.

This perfectly soupy mood of dim exhaustion was almost immediately dissolved by the surge of sunlight that streamed into my occupational dungeon. I couldn’t stop the groan from erupting out of my chest. The clock mocked me with its digital display, 19 endless minutes to go. I wanted to melt into the cigarette smoke stained carpet as I watched the casino’s newest victim stroll over to the bar.

This captive was an older gentleman, which was not surprising. However unlike his similarly aged peers that frequented the casino, he looked far more put together and presentable as compared to the flock of “my granddaughter loves me” and “i survived the everglades” costumed groups that usually occupy the slot machine chairs. He wore a sapphire button up shirt with denim slacks, black boots and a crisp creme cowboy hat. As he settled himself down at the barstool across from me I was able to smell a rich tobacco smell and an unmistakable tinge of cinnamon.

“What can I get for you?” slurred out of my mouth, the exhaustion exposing itself to my new customer.

“What’s your top shelf whiskey?” quizzed the cowboy as he tipped his hat back to get a better look at his zombie bartender.

“Uh, I honestly don’t know. Usually people ask me the opposite of that question. Let me check.” I reply.

Turning towards the ensemble of liquor behind me I spy in the back a dust cloaked bottle of Macallan 18, unopened. I forgot we even had this back here, I remember seeing it on my first day and wondering if the day would ever come where I could afford to order and try it myself. I lift it loose of its orderly rank amongst the other liquor bottles and place it in front of the big-spender bronco.

“We’ve got a Macallan 18 sir.” I reveal to the cowboy.

“That will do Just one shot please.” he responds, standing up to retrieve a wallet and a small black book from his back pocket.

He places $80 cash on the table, to which I retort, “Oh for the one shot it’s only $40”.

“I know.” he retorts, “The other shot is for you, it looks like you need it.”

I can only imagine the ridiculous look of shock and amazement on my face at that moment. The cowboy chuckled lowly as I eagerly grabbed the freshly polished lowball glasses and poured twin amounts of the mahogany liquid into the cups.

He raises his glass to cheers it with mine and without another word we both go to drink the whisky. It tastes like a swimming pool in a desert, just pure luxury in a glass. My eyes drift closed as I try to enjoy as much as possible my first taste of this delicious beverage/.

When I open my eyes again I see the man now staring down at the black notebook he carried in his pocket before. He then rises from his chair and slowly begins to make his way over to the slot machines, their siren songs and dazzling lights finally drawing in a new victim. I sigh as I watch him shuffle to the jungle of levers and buttons, disappointed to see another person blow their money on a gamble.

My own father drove my family into poverty over gambling and I swore to myself I would never make the same mistake. I have never ever taken a bet, and I never will.

As the cowboy walks around the square of machines, I notice he has left his black book on top of the bar. The edges are worn and the book itself is really beat up with a hole burned into the cover, not at all matching the cowboy's polished appearance. I pick up the book and go to return it to my newly acquainted drinking buddy, it's the least I can do for the person that's bought me the best drink I have ever had.

As I round the corner through the stretch of machines my foot kicks a highball glass, sending it careening into the base of a metal stool, shattering all over the ground. Dark liquid is scattered across the carpet staining it an even deeper red color. Collapsed at the foot of a slot machine is the cowboy, clutching at his chest and gasping for air.

“Oh my god, what's going on?” I say as I drop to the ground next to the older gentleman.

He wheezes out “Where’s my book?” as his eyes darting frantically around his teeth clenched tightly as he continues to grab at his chest.

“It’s right here I was just coming over to bring it to you.” I stutter back, hectically putting the book back into his hands in a futile attempt to help this man, even though it's become very apparent to the both of us he was having a heart attack.

“I’m going to call 911.” I say going to get up and rise Mario, put the cowboy pulls me back down and strains again to speak.

“Keep. This. Safe.” he hisses, handing me back the book. "Follow it precisely."

“Just hang on, I’m going to get help.” I plead. Rising quickly, breaking from his grasp.

I dial 9-11 on the phone behind the bar as quickly as I can, my hands shaking as I tremble to dial the three numbers. I quickly inform them of the situation and our location and rush back to the cowboy, but by then it's too late.

The cowboy laid lifeless on the ground, his cool blue eyes void of the luster of a soul behind them.

He died at 6:54 am, six minutes before the end of my shift. My heart sank at the scene before me. This is the second person I have watched lose their life to a heart attack and it is just as shocking and devastating both times, regardless of who it is.

I crouched down beside the man and gently rolled him onto his back, placing his hat over his eyes.

I didn’t even know his name. I didn’t even get to say thank you for the drink. It’s funny in a not-funny-way how you can only know someone for a few minutes and still feel those same regrets one does when someone closer to you also passes away.

As I wait beside him for the paramedics, I flip open his book, hoping to discover some sort of clue as to who this guy is. Was. To help the paramedics figure out what to do next, who of his family to call.

Inside the book I find neatly scrawled hundreds of equations and lists and numbers all looking like the work of an absolute crazy mathematician or something. As I get to the final pages of the book there's a list of times and casino’s and a name, Siren. Next to the name of our casino is the time scrawled 6:59.

“You must always answer the Siren’s calls, begin your turn whenever your ready” sings the slot machine behind me.

I look to the machine gleaming behind me, my watch blinking a-minute-thirty until the end of my shift. The man's final plea rang in my ears and perhaps it was the delirious state of mind from the long night, or the adrenaline from the events that just took place, but I felt myself drawn to the machine ready to gamble for the first time, ready to answer the siren's call.

As instructed by the cowboy I waited for my watch to click to 6:59 before pressing the play button, playing the cowboys singular token. My eyes scrolled as I watched the graphics spin rapidly across the screen, my head and heart pounding. And then, it stopped.

One by one a picture of a mermaid tail flashed down the screen and I watched as the machine trilled with delight. I just won $20,000.

Before I could even begin to process what had just happened. The door to' the casino slammed open as a voice raged beyond the jungle of machines "I FOUDN YOU Z, NOW GIVE ME BACK THAT DAMN BOOK OR ELSE I WILL SEND YOU TO THE PITS OF HELL MYSELF."

My watch chirped out. 7:00. It's the end of my shift.