Wildcard

I’ve been checking my watch for an eternity now and not a single minute has passed.

He’s late and he’s with another girl. I’ve never seen Johnathan Franks with the same date twice, this exclusively makes me his bitch. I’m just thankful the rich prick showed up.

I greet the couple at the entrance before they follow me to their table. I help the lady with her coat and then collect Mr Franks’ jacket. I leave them to look through the menus while I feel around their pockets.

Fuck. There’s nothing here.

Waiting tables and saving tips was never the game plan. It was only supposed to be a pit-stop job until a better paying opportunity presented itself. But such fortune has never been in the cards for me.

I am forever in debt to my dreams of becoming a millionaire.

It used to be gambling and lottery tickets, but my odds never evened out. My luck had only ever paid off once when I played Russian roulette with a gun I bought as defence against debt collectors. But the click of an empty round taught me two things; that bullets are sold separately, and life offers more beginnings than ends.

From then on, I promised myself no more shortcuts, and I gave up on gambling. Instead, I began to invest my money in the stock market, entrepreneur seminars and how-to-get-rich-quick books. But no matter what I did my jackpot was always one more investment away.

I just needed a wildcard.

I ask them what they’ll be drinking this evening. They take my time before the lady finally asks for a wine and Mr Franks orders his usual iced tea, which a recovering alcoholic calls a “whisky on the rocks” in the presence of a fine lady.

I’m then dismissed in a fit of fake laughter when Mr Franks cracks the same “thanks for waiting” pun he reuses every fuckin’ time. I must admit, though, he surprised me last month when he said, “Success isn’t about having a winning hand, but how you play the hand you’re dealt.”

It was the smartest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever heard the bastard say. And it couldn’t have been more on point for either of us.

Several months ago, Johnathan wasn’t so wealthy. Back then at the casinos he used to be renowned as Jo-nothin’ for being a deadbeat con artist, a gambler, and a pathetic loser.

We had a lot in common.

Franks was perpetually bruised and in debt to Markus Costello, our so called ‘mutual friend.’ If he wasn’t betting, he was drinking with whatever change strangers could spare him. This was how we first met. Or rather how I met Johnathan. He might’ve been too drunk to remember.

We’ve been playing strangers ever since he showed up sober.

I bring the couple their drinks and the starved supermodel complements my swift service. A quality I pride my hospitality on.

Customers have regarded me as their friend in a high place ever since I began to make an assertive effort serving visitors and committing our regular’s names to memory. I vied for the customer, and I was loathed by the chef, and in return I was tipped generously.

I finally became good at something I hated.

With the tips I won I managed to pay off my gambling debts to Mr Costello and save the tens of thousands I would’ve otherwise lost on bets. It was certainly no instant jackpot, but it’s the closest I’ve ever had to a win.

I inched myself closer to my goals by any means necessary. When tips weren’t paid, I took a buck from the customer’s bill as stingy tax. Sometimes it’s the only way to compete when you’re up against tight-arse players like the early Johnathan Franks. He never used to pay me a single tip and his bill was always a buck short.

He was too interested in eating by himself and scribbling in his goddamn black notebook. Mr Franks always carries that book with him. Although, it’s not in his jacket this evening, I know he has it somewhere close by. If I can’t take it, then I will have to make him an offer he can’t refuse.

Ready to order, Franks finger-fucks the air as a beckoning gesture, and I’m the first to come. The lady requests a mixed leaf salad without the tomatoes. Good on her for giving eating a go.

After thoughtfully flicking through the menu, Franks eventually tells me he’ll try the chicken dinner. He’s never tried anything else.

To think this habitual prick and I used to be kindred spirits is irreconcilable. We were once the gamblers who blew on dice and dabbled in superstition. Hell, when luck isn’t on your side, any atheist would desperately bribe the dealer by praying for a win.

But it seems God favours the sinners over the saints. How else did Franks and the church get so fuckin’ rich?

In only a matter of months I no longer saw myself in Johnathan. He looked like a million bucks. He was impossible to ignore, especially when he started to pay me tips in front of the women who replaced his notebook. Every night the ladies were more attractive than the last, just like his tips.

He used to be ‘Jo-nothin’. Now I look up to him for everything. I can’t help it. He’s living my dream and I hate him for the way I admire it.

Mr Franks’ meal was cooked upon his arrival and the lady's was just a packet of air and leaves in a bowl, topped with a salad dressing. Never-the-less, his date was impressed when I served them their order under five minutes from taking it. Her enthusiasm bought me time at their table to look out for that notebook. But I found nothing.

Just last month I confided with Mr Franks about his success and learnt that life had dealt him a wildcard.

At first, he listed the habits-of-a-millionaire I had already learnt at conventions and in books, which, apart from my persona, improved fuck all in my life. But then Franks showed me his notebook he still carried with him. He pulled it out of the inner pocket of his jacket while admitting owing his success to it.

I was sceptical, of course, upon hearing what sounded like a planner that made everything go according to plan. However, Franks reiterated, explaining that the simple task of writing everything down gave him a kind of gods-eye view on his life for him to clearly plot out his success.

Like counting cards, it made little sense to me, but it was the only thing I hadn’t tried. I was desperate. No way was I going to allow my scepticism to prevent me from covering all bases.

Needless-to-say, I’m already filling in my second book. I’ve been writing every day now, like I watched Johnathan do before his life flourished in riches. It happened so quickly for him, but I still haven’t seen results. I’m starting to wonder if there's something more to it, he purposely left out.

The only thing the rich can’t afford is for the poor to retire.

What is his big secret?

Maybe his gambling addiction paid off and he didn’t want to admit it. Did I fold too soon and left Johnathan in my place for the big win? Fuck, this is driving me insane. It’s been eight years since I paid off my debt and I haven’t thought about gambling until now.

The thought of a wildcard in play is the only madness I can manage.

Luck has never been a strong suit of mine, but if I had a wildcard to complete my hand, perhaps then my fortune will improve.

I don’t know how Franks manifested his dreams into reality. But I’m sure, somehow, his notebook has something to do with it. There’s nothing else he holds more dearly.

I must get my hands on it.

I know Mr Franks came with his wildcard tonight. I too have packed one of my own.

The couple finish up and stand to leave. My hands are trembling as I fetch my satchel along with their garments. I haven’t felt this nervous since I last went all in. I pass Franks his jacket and assist the lady with hers.

My heart is racing.

Franks takes out his wallet to pay for the bill, but I decline and tell him tonight is on the house. The lady marvels at Franks’ perceived status and latches onto his arm. Then the couple continued out the door.

I watched my only chance get further and further into the night while my heart began to shrivel in my chest. It’s now or never. All or nothing.

With suicidal ideations, every decision can seem like a matter of life or death.

I knew I had to say something. But my thoughts only spoke in fluent nonsense. When my mouth wouldn’t work, my legs took initiative.

A moment later my sudden appearance startles them both in the parking lot. I finally ask Mr Franks how much he wants for the book, starting my bid at a grand. Surely, he would’ve accepted my offer if it was just an ordinary book?

I doubled my offer, but it wasn't enough. I double that offer to four grand and Franks still won’t budge.

This pattern goes on.

At sixteen grand I thought I had him, but I was wrong.

Before I knew it, money was no object. Not when that book can reimburse me. Suddenly, I’m going all in, throwing my open satchel between us with stacks of hundred-dollar bills sliding onto the tarmac.

Franks’ eyes widen.

I tell him that thirty-five grand is everything I have. It was my decade’s worth of savings from grinding away as a waiter.

But he is still not satisfied.

I’m left with no other option, but to draw my wildcard.

I cock my gun, this time with bullets, and watch him shit himself as I urge him to accept my offer. He quickly stutters the whereabouts of the notebook. I keep the gun on him while I approach the rusted bombshell of a car. The terrified lady shuffles around the vehicle and I open the passenger door. I clicked the glove compartment open and there it was, that black tattered notebook. I snatch it. Slowly backing away from the car, leaving the couple with my bag of savings.

It’s only a droplet of the ocean I’ll soon be swimming in.

I fled the scene and hid beneath the nearby underpass to catch my breath. With the book in my hands, my dreams were just a page turn away. I open it to a logbook of Franks’ recent expenses, most of which were spent at the restaurant and retail stores. I riffle backwards through the book until I arrive at a note in the pages. It was the secret to Franks' success, written in somebody else’s handwriting.

“Johnathan, if you follow these simple rules as faithfully as you gamble, money will fall from the fucking sky.

1. Invest half of the $15,000 cash I lent you on a wealthy façade. This is your poker face.

2. Flaunt your façade and be generous, yet frugal, with the other $7,500. Money helps the bullshit go down.

3. Sell your bluff and don’t fold until you oversell your debt.

4. Anything more will be your jackpot. Anything less, it’ll be your head.

And remember, success isn’t about having a winning hand, but how you play the hand you’re dealt. Make every cent count.

Good fucking luck,

Markus Costello.”

Shit! It was just one big fuckin’ game.

I lost to a losing hand. A bluff. I guess now I know how to play, perhaps I’ll win the next round. After all, the future’s uncertain.

Life’s a gamble.