Rave Scripts #2: Aces

Mike Henderson, a shift manager in his thirties at the bustling Aces gambling casino, moved with urgency down a corridor lined with doors. He was searching for his friend, opening and closing each door along the way. When he finally swung open the door to the security room, he was met with an unexpected sight.

Inside, Tyrell Dockins lounged comfortably, his feet propped up on the desk, hands cradling his head in a pose of complete leisure. Tyrell, a young man in his twenties and the casino's security surveillance monitor, greeted Mike with a casual, “Hey, Mike.”

Mike’s frustration was palpable. “Hey, Mike? Where the hell have you been?”

“I’ve been here the whole time,” Tyrell replied, not moving from his relaxed position.

Mike frowned. “I was just here ten minutes ago.”

“Oh yeah, I wasn't here then,” Tyrell admitted.

Mike’s patience was wearing thin. “Tyrell, what part of security don't you understand? You have to keep an eye on the monitors.”

Tyrell shrugged. “I know, but I got bored.”

“Of course it’s boring. It’s a job,” Mike retorted.

Tyrell explained that he had left to find a technician because the television only showed a scrambled picture when he tried to change the channel. Mike, shaking his fist in mock anger, threatened, “I’m gonna scramble your picture if you don’t do your job.”

Tyrell, ever the joker, argued that a little entertainment during their breaks wouldn’t hurt, but Mike pointed out that Tyrell’s entire shift seemed like a break. Shaking his head, Mike declared, “I’m gonna have to write you up.”

Tyrell pleaded, “Don’t be such a stiff, Mike.”

Mike sighed, tired of covering for Tyrell’s antics. “This is the only way to get you to stop. Now tell me, where else did you go?”

“Nowhere,” Tyrell said, but just then, a stripper in a trench coat burst in, returning Tyrell’s watch with a sly, “You dropped this down my corset.” She left as quickly as she had entered. Mike raised an eyebrow at Tyrell.

“If you’re a true man of culture, I don’t need to answer that,” Tyrell quipped.

Mike reminded Tyrell that he had gone out of his way to help him get the job and asked him to take it more seriously. Tyrell, however, was distracted by what he described as one of the most heinous, grotesque displays known to man. When pressed, he revealed, “I saw... I saw... a woman feeding her baby.”

Mike, unfazed, asked, “What’s wrong with that?”

Tyrell gagged as he explained, “It was with her—”

“Breast?” Mike finished for him.

Tyrell gagged again, to which Mike replied, “It’s a natural act.”

Tyrell, ever irreverent, compared it to playing the skin flute, “but you don’t see that in public.” Mike reminded him of a certain misdemeanor Tyrell had committed, which Tyrell brushed off as a youthful mistake, despite being twenty-one at the time. “Studies say the human brain doesn’t fully develop until twenty-five,” Tyrell reasoned.

Mike, exasperated, told him, “They better add ten more years for you. Now get back to work and stop clowning around.”

As Mike turned to leave, Sam, the other security monitor, entered wearing a clown wig and munching on a corndog. Mike demanded, “Where were you?”

Sam replied nonchalantly, “I was at the carnival.”

Mike, incredulous, asked, “Doesn’t anybody work around here?” Sam offered him a bite of the corndog, but Mike refused, chastising him for not doing his job.

Tyrell sided with Sam, joking, “Just let him go and be one with his people.”

Mike snatched the wig off Sam’s head. “Guys, it’s called the workplace. Try and show some professionalism,” he said, exasperated.

As Mike left the security room, he ran into Mr. Hubbard, the casino’s manager, in the corridor. Mr. Hubbard, a man in his fifties, stopped Mike with a stern, “Henderson!” He explained that the security room was for watching the floor, not for being watched. Mike tried to explain, but Mr. Hubbard cut him off, instructing him to get back to work on the floor. As Mike started to leave, Mr. Hubbard called out, “Henderson? Lose the wig.” Mike tossed the clown wig in the trash as he headed out.

On the casino floor, Mike passed Jules Fetterman, a showgirl in her twenties, sitting at the bar. She sighed loudly to get his attention. Mike stopped, already anticipating her complaint.

“What happened now? Wait, let me guess. You auditioned to be a showgirl and, at the last minute, a one-legged woman who just got out of jail for stealing a traffic cone beat you out for the part.”

Jules glared. “That’s not funny, Mike. You promised never to bring that up again.”

Mike grinned. “I know, but it gets funnier each time I say it.”

Jules, serious now, confided, “This is the seventh time I’ve been rejected. I don’t know whether I should keep auditioning or go back to LA and try acting again. My parents keep nagging me to go back to school. I just don’t know what to do. I’m having a real existential crisis here.”

Mike reassured her, “Jules, you’re not having an existential crisis.” He pointed out a man begging for change who had just gambled away his family’s savings. “When he finally realizes the hell he’s going to put his family through, that’s when he’s gonna have a breakdown that would make an existential crisis look like breakfast at Tiffany’s.”

Jules asked if the man would be alright. Mike replied, “Eh, he’ll probably check himself into a psych ward. What’s important is that you take control of your life and make sure that final leap you take is one that’ll put you in a better place.”

Jules nodded, feeling a bit better. Mike patted her on the shoulder before moving on.

He passed Kurt Rawdowski, one of the casino’s best dealers, and asked about the commotion at the baccarat table. Kurt explained that a woman had just won her eighth game in a row and hadn’t lost a single game since yesterday. Mike grew concerned, suspecting cheating. Kurt, proud of his own skills, boasted about his “Titus touch,” though Mike corrected him, “I think you mean Midas touch.”

Mike asked Kurt to fill in at the baccarat table to see if anything suspicious was happening, but Kurt, hungry for lunch, only agreed after Mike bribed him with thirty-five dollars. Kurt approached the table and tried to remove the woman’s scorecard, but she quickly cited casino policy and produced a brochure to prove her point. Defeated, Kurt returned to Mike and admitted, “She’s good, Mike. Real good.”

Mike demanded his money back, but Kurt cited casino policy—once money was exchanged, it couldn’t be returned. After a brief back-and-forth, Kurt relented and returned the cash.

Mike then consulted Gessa Hopsin, one of the floormen, about the woman at the baccarat table. Gessa questioned Mike about specific cheating methods but, finding no evidence, accused him of being biased against women. Mike protested, but Gessa and Kurt teased him about his past losses to women in games. Gessa decided to use a psychological trick from her childhood—simply saying “aha!” to prompt a confession.

She approached the woman, Titi Williams, and asked for her ID under the guise of a routine check, then tried her “aha!” tactic, but Titi was unfazed. Gessa returned to Mike and Kurt, admitting, “She’s good, Mike. Real good.”