Bethany Is Not A Gambler

Bethany is not a gambler. And she never drinks alone. But here she is, doing both at once. Today was a bad day. Or maybe it was a good day. Who even knows anymore?

She sits at the bar—the dimly-lit dive she passes every day on her way home from her neighborhood errands (the manicurist, the health food store, Pilates class)—telling the bartender her divorce was finalized today, as she scratches the silvery patches off a stack of instant scratch-it cards. Cheating. He was cheating with an actress half her age. He's that movie director. She looks up at the bartender—at Bruce—and says,

"And I was the actress half his age he left his first wife for. God, this is such a cliché….a whole bunch of clichés."

Bruce deadpans, "Cycle of life," and pours her another shot of tequila, "On the house."

She gasps, "Oh my God, I won."

"What? Let me see that." Bruce picks up the winning ticket and confirms: three cherries in a row. That's a $20,000 prize. "Well, shit. Congrats."

He sets it on the bar between them and she leaves it there, sipping her shot. Who the hell nurses shots? No one that dainty drinks here, ever. Some college students burst through the door, laughing, take a corner booth.

Bruce nods toward the scratch-it ticket. "Maybe you oughtta just…" His eyes dart around the room, the students, old Jake at the other end of the bar, a couple of suits slumming it by the jukebox…"Just, put that in your purse."

"Nah, you keep it."

"What? No."

"I don't want it. I don't need it. I've got a pre-nup."

"Sure you want it. Why buy it if you don't want it?"

"I guess I just…" She takes another contemplative swig from her tiny, seemingly bottomless liquor glass. "I guess I just wanted to feel lucky. To feel like I could be lucky. Like…just anyone." Her eyes narrow and she stares straight ahead, at the dartboard. Right at the bulls-eye. "But I don't need it."

Bruce leans in, his bulky frame casting a shadow all the way to her lap, and says, under his breath, "Well, I don't need it, either."

"What? I'm sure you could--"

"Two words: trust fund."

"You what?"

"I like to work."

"Hmmm." Bethany was walking around Alphabet City with a camcorder when she met Frank, her husband. She and her friend Allie—another acting student—decided to DIY a short film, cast themselves. Allie was the writer, constantly jotting things down in a little moleskin notebook she kept tucked in her pocket. And Bethany was the director. Frank was sitting at an outdoor café, and called them over. He cast Bethany on the spot, in an absolute dog of an erotic thriller that would tank her career before it even began. Allie, he would explain, did not have 'it'; Allie was holding her back. She now knows 'it' is a subjective determination of 'fuckability'. Allie, those days, the endless hustle, the constant dreaming: they just wanted to get somewhere. And then she—Bethany—was somewhere. There was no longer any reason to strive, or struggle, or dream. She ran into Allie a couple years ago waiting tables at that vegan place overlooking Tompkins Square Park. Allie had put on weight: about twenty pounds. It was awkward. She spotted the hard rectangular outline of the moleskin notebook in her breast pocket. It wasn't her order book, because that was in her hand, a ballpoint pen in the other, clicking. Bethany thought, how sad. And now, out of nowhere, the words shoot through her head: I miss her. I fucked over my friend. A sob lodges in her throat. She lifts her teeny glass and drains the last of her drink, washing the sob down into her stomach on a magical tequila waterfall. And slams the glass down. "I like to work. I…I think remember what that feels like."

Bethany walks fast, swinging her arms, stumbling and righting herself. Jeez, it was only three drinks. She walks through the park, past people exercising their dogs in the big fenced pen, and arrives at the vegan joint. There's a young guy bussing tables out front, long black hair in a ponytail. He tells her they're closing. Bethany walks straight by him, opens the door, scans the room. There's no one there. She walks back out, asks the kid where the waitress is: fortyish, blonde, Allie. Is she still there?

He says, "Oh, you want the manager."

"No. The waitress."

He smiles and shakes his head, walks inside with a full tray.

And then the door swings open: a screen door that snaps back on its hinges with a tinny clap. Allie is there, all five-feet-ten of her, hair pulled back in a bun, hand on hip, crisp white shirt, the outline of a moleskin still there, showing through. There's a jolt of recognition, a quick raise of her eyebrows, but she adopts a tone of generic professionalism:

"Can I help you with something?"

Bethany: she's a little drunk, and a little…She smiles, and nods toward the small rectangular bulge above her friend's left breast. "Still writing?"

"Still sucking Frank Dulcio's cock?"

Bethany blinks, looks at the sky for a second—the moon behind a thin cloud. "No. We're divorced. We got divorced today."

"Oh. OK."

"You know…Younger woman. I guess it was in the cards.."

"Yep."

They stand looking at each other. Locking eyes like the old acting exercise. Where you just stare. Into someone's eyes. Into their skull. Their brain. Their everything. Because that's where the truth is. Allie's face is tough, resolute. Been there, done that. But Bethany: her lip quivers, a tear slides down her cheek, falls from her chin, hits the filthy pavement.

"I miss you."

Allie sighs, looks at her feet: her shiny leather flats. "You left me. That's the…I guess that's just the leaving tax, right?" She raises her eyes and it's the staring contest, the truth exercise, all over again.

"Yeah. I guess so." Bethany reaches in her purse, pulls out the scratch-it ticket, thrusts it at Allie. "This is for you."

Allie scans it and frowns. "Won't you be needing this?"

"I have a pre-nup."

"Of course you do. Well, I don't need—just forget it."

The busboy walks out with a backpack slung over his shoulder, says, "Goodnight."

"Hey Pedro, hold up." Allie tucks the scratchy into his hand.

He shakes his head, "What? Woah. No…"

"Yes. I insist. Congratulations again. To you and Holly."

"Oh. Thank you." He tears up, clutches the ticket to his chest with both hands.

Allie says to Bethany, "They had a baby."

"Oh. Congratulations."

"Thank you." He beams, and starts walking backwards. "My train…"

"Yes," says Allie, "Go home. See you tomorrow."

"Yes, tomorrow. Good night. And thank you."

"You're welcome. Good night, Pedro." Allie's smile fades when she addresses Bethany. "You can't just…Twenty years. Just go home, Bethany. Go home to your…fucking mansion." She turns and walks back through the screen door.

Bethany says, "OK then," to no one and stands there, studying the mesh of the screen door, wondering how many times her friend has walked through it. How many years she's been working there. If she always wanted to be the manager, or if it just happened, the way time and circumstance just do. The notebook. Tucked into her work shirt, just above her heart. She's still writing—what is she writing? Is she writing out of habit, or because that's still her: the writer.

She marches through the screen door. Allie is standing in the kitchen doorway talking to an enormous chef. They spin in alarm at the 'pop' of the screen door closing. Allie crosses the room, squares off. "Bethany."

"I was a kid. I was fucking nineteen. OK? Then I was a depressed trophy wife. And then I was just…fucking numb. Look, I'm sorry. I'm sorry to you. I'm sorry to me. I haven't had a friend in…fucking ever." Bethany starts to cry. Big, lurching gasps.

The chef gives Allie a questioning look and she says "It's fine," takes Bethany by the arm, eases her onto a barstool, gets a whiff of her breath. "Are you…is that tequila?"

"Yes. I'm not a drunk, though. I am not a drunk. That's one thing…"

"OK….Let me call you a cab."

"OK."

Allie walks to the other side of the bar, pours Bethany a glass of water, and picks up the phone.

Bethany points at her, in that wavering Ghost of Christmas Future way of earnest drunks the world over. "Why don't we just…"

Allie holds the phone halfway to her ear. "What?"

"Why don't we just make the movie?"

Allie snorts out a laugh. But hangs up the phone. "I can think of a ton of reasons why not. Are we even still those people?"

"Are we even…not those people? Make a movie. This movie. Now…Whatever. You know."

"Look. Why don't you go home and sleep it off?" She's not mad anymore. She's leaning across the bar, like Bruce did, but not like Bruce; she's looking at her like she knows her.

"I'm not drunk. OK, I'm a little drunk. But I'm not drunk drunk. I just had three little shots. I'm a lightweight having a very emotional day. I have all my….most of my faculties."

Allie smirks. "Have you eaten?"

"Huh? No. Not since lunch."

Allie grabs a red bomber jacket from a hook next the phone and swings it over her shoulder. "Well, I guess you're buying me dinner." She calls to the chef. "Raul, are you good to lock up?"

His booming voice almost echoes. "Yeah, I'm good here. You go ahead."

Bethany sits on her bar stool, gulping down water, digesting the turn of events.

Allie claps her on the shoulder. "If you want me to consider to your offer, buy me dinner, bitch."

Bethany coughs. It's been a long time since anyone called her 'bitch' ironically.

"At least I didn't call you 'Ma'am'."

Bethany gets to her feet, laughing. "Oh my God: Ma'am!"

They used to complain about being young. Now they can complain about being…not young.