Louie paced in circles around the poker table, muttering curses under his breath.

“Why do things always have to turn out this way?” He said bitterly.

At a certain point in the night, he seemed to have Lethe within his hold. They’d been friends for several weeks and an intimate bond was forming . . . but now all of a sudden Lethe was being antisocial and using Louie for his connections and his extra cash.

Lethe tried to pretend as if he were seriously engaged in playing “Let it Ride!”, a casino poker game. Every time Louie approached him, Lethe would say, “The game’s almost over. C’mon, Louie, let me finish.” He placed his final bet and waited for the Dealer to turn over the cards. He dreaded going back to the Inn. His eyes made a quick sweep of the floor—to see where he could run if it came down to that . . .

Louie crowded around the table like a peevish uncle, looking into his nephew’s cards with impatience. “I want to get out of here,” Louie demanded.

But Lethe ignored him and kept his gaze leveled on the sharp-eyed Dealer. The Dealer was adept at reading gamblers’ faces and it didn’t take him long to connect Lethe’s pained expression with that bilious, red-faced man who was indignantly planted beside the young gambler. The Dealer turned over one of his cards and the gamblers re-evaluated their hands with self-deprecating looks. Around them, the sweaty, overstuffed casino was teeming with members of the World Bodybuilders Association, a convention that had just ended. High-class hookers, besotted businessmen, and Miami-style twenty-somethings navigated their way around the bodybuilders with sediments of smoky haze blending all.

As the Dealer turned over the last card, a rigid, short-necked gambler slammed his fists against the table and shouted “Goddamnit!”

Lethe knew what would happen all along; he predicted it like you would predict the plot in a book, how events turn and the characters are sucked into the inevitable ending. Dropping the chips from his sweaty palms, he fled from the table. The Dealer pressed a button to call security. Crowds watched the agile youth weave his way through the flow of bodybuilders and tourists. Louie caught sight of his friend and began running after him but the crowds grew thick at a certain spot and he couldn’t move beyond it. Two jackpots exploded into jangling chimes and throngs of people were radiating backwards and forward through the congested aisles.

Lethe ran through the casino as if through an obstacle course; he skirted collisions and sped past outraged security. But security gave up eventually. Nothing had been taken from the table and the few chips that were knocked down had easily been recovered. That’s not to say that Lethe didn’t attract any attention sprinting through the casino at breakneck speed. But there was little need for anyone to tackle him to the ground; the casino posed its own uncanny obstacles. Lethe hoped to reach the end of the gaming floor. Wave after wave of gamblers kept coming at him like holiday shoppers on methamphetamines.

His instincts were correct. Running in a single direction led him to an offshoot of the casino where the lush, burgundy carpet became the hard, marble floors of the luxury hotel. Exotic flowers in oversized pots lined the halls. Promenade shops sprouted along the walkways, Gucci, Prada, Dior, Hermes, Louis Vuitton.

In the distance, the hotel suites emerged. High-beam lights fell on varicolored Dale Chihuly blown glass while elevators ran up and down what appeared to be a crystal tower.

Lethe galloped breathlessly through the marble hall. Past the Grand Theatre where Cirque du Soleil was expected to perform tonight. Past 5-star restaurants with Japanese gardens inside. Past a Lamborghini dealership. No matter how fast he ran, he couldn’t escape the fear that Louie or security or someone was behind him, following him, chasing after him, trying to get his money. What was he thinking? He didn’t have any money. What could they take from him? What could Louie take? Past gigantic flowerpots. Past glittering shops. He repeated, “I’m not there yet. I’m not free.”

So this was Lethe Bashar’s Novel of Life. This was the experience Lethe been hankering after when he left the halfway house in San Jose. He had plans to make his life interesting. He didn’t want to continue taking drug classes during the day and going to AA meetings at night. He dreamed of this story that was happening to him right now. And now that it was happening he felt a sharp regret for his living novel. You see he cultivated this disaster, this torment and danger. And all of a sudden the fun was taken out of it when the story became too big for him, and when he pissed people off. All that was left was fear and pain.

At last he reached the base of the glass tower and looked up at the beguiling crystalline architecture. Pressing buttons frantically, an elevator arrived.

(Table of Contents)