4.

Lucy’s Jackpot

Friday, March 8 - 1:47p.m.

The cab sped away in a cloud of dust, and Mike stared off into space, deep in thought. He couldn’t stop thinking about the meaning of the strange Hebrew words. He wondered what it all meant. Was there some hidden memory or hangup locked away in his subconscious? What did it have to do with Jesus? He tried to try to remember what he had learned about Jesus when he was young, and how it could have influenced him. The words were obviously embedded in his subconscious, but he wondered where he had heard them before.

He thought about Jesus and the stories that had built up around him. Millions of people believed Jesus was God, but Mike questioned that. To Mike, the deification of Jesus was a convenient way for millions of people to explain away what they didn’t understand. People didn’t understand how he walked on water or multiplied loaves and fishes, so it was easier to write it off: He’s God, he’s special. It was also a way to separate themselves from these special abilities: Sure, Jesus could walk on water because he was God; you can’t because you’re not. It was also a way for the church to separate people from God: Jesus was not a sinner because he is God, whereas you are an ordinary sinner. . . but of course we’ll help you with that problem. . . for a small donation.

Besides, why would God waste the time and energy to be born as a man when He could merely manifest anything He wanted for any purpose He had in mind? Wasn’t God all-powerful? Why not strike the Earth with bolts of lightning and crashes of thunder to speak His message? Why not just bring a couple more stone tablets into existence to clearly document his wishes? Why not just create a savior out of thin air rather than giving him human form and human weaknesses?

It was much easier for Mike to believe that Jesus was some kind of super-psychic who had psychic powers to heal, to read people’s minds, to foretell the future. Jesus even supposedly brought people back to life. He wondered if Jesus knew some special trick, like CPR. CPR might have been considered a miracle back in those days. He remembered one story where someone asked Jesus about raising one little girl from the dead. He said the girl was not dead, but just asleep. Why would Jesus deny his own miracle? Was the girl really asleep and therefore it wasn’t a miracle, or did Jesus lie about it, making him a sinner? It seemed absurd to think that Jesus would lie. Maybe the word “asleep” had some unique meaning to him; maybe he meant that the girl was in some kind of coma–he did often speak metaphorically–and maybe he left his body to rescue her lost soul from wherever it went. Maybe it wasn’t CPR at all. If Jesus had been some kind of super-psychic, maybe his hands worked like shock-paddles, and he could start people’s hearts with his electrical energy.

So, he wondered, what made Jesus different from other psychics? Was it just that he had stronger psychic powers? That thought led him to wonder what makes a true psychic different from the rest of us. Maybe God smiled upon them, he thought, or maybe we’re all psychic, and true “psychics” just have stronger powers than the average guy. He remembered seeing a book in a grocery store checkout called, “How to be Psychic,” and he wondered if being psychic was a learned skill, and if anyone could do it. Maybe average guys like him were just too well trained at ignoring their latent psychic abilities.

There was another explanation, of course. Maybe it’s in their genes, he thought. He always figured that people were either born psychic or not. Now that he thought about it, he had seen some strange things happen in his own life, things he couldn’t explain, things that most people would call supernatural. Although he didn’t like to think about it, his earliest brushes with psychic abilities came from his own mother. One time, his mother had been reading a bedtime story to him, when she had set the book down with a worried look. “What’s wrong, Mommy?” little Mikey had asked. “Uncle Joey just died, that’s all. Never you mind.” He had known from her tone of voice that he shouldn’t ask questions. A few minutes later, the phone had rung, confirming what she had said.

There were other supernatural events too. When he was young, his mother sometimes asked him to “get the phone” just seconds before it had rung and it had always scared him. Being psychic seemed unnatural or spooky to him, so he tried not to think about it. Then again, his mom wasn’t spooky at all; she never even talked about it.

He wondered how many people were natural born psychics, but never found out because they never tried. Then it occurred to him that if his mother was psychic, and it was something passed on in the genes, maybe he had a touch of it himself. He never intentionally tried to do anything psychic, and spoons certainly never bent by themselves while he was eating his Rice Crispies as a kid. On the other hand, watches did stop when he wore them. If he did have a touch of “the gift,” he thought, maybe Las Vegas is the perfect place to try it out. He checked his pocket watch and saw he had time before meeting the band at Caesar’s Palace.

The cab driver was happy to drive around all day, earning Mike’s money, but he didn’t like the silence in his cab. Las Vegas was a place of noise and distraction. The quiet in his cab right now was disturbing. You can’t be too sure in Las Vegas, or too careful. Too many drifters and desperate people. He glanced back at Mike, who was staring off into space, lost in his own little world. “Well?” the cab driver said, jarring Mike out of his trance. “Where are we going?”

Mike saw suspicion on the driver’s face , and said, “Oh. Uh. Sorry. The Trop.”

“Sure thing, Mac. Tropicana.”

Friday, March 8 - 2:05p.m.

Mike paid the taxi driver and hobbled inside the dark casino on his crutches. In front of him were rows of blackjack tables, craps tables and hundreds of people. To his right was a room filled with slot machines and a bar. Tucked off to the left was the hotel reception desk, and beyond that, another room filled with slot machines. A layer of cigarette smoke pervaded the dingy room.

The room was filled with the ding-ding-ding of slot machines, but the noise didn’t bother him as much as the cigarette smoke did. The smoke sent his mind on another tangent and he wondered why people smoked when they knew it was bad for their bodies. Why deliberately intoxicate your body with a harmful substance that you know is addictive? It was no better than taking drugs, and he wanted no part of the drug scene.

He looked around at the blackjack tables, craps pits and other gambling machines and wondered which game would be the best test of psychic powers. Slot machines had fixed payout rates, but could they be influenced? He decided that psychokinesis–influencing the machine–was too much to shoot for on his first try, but maybe he could try something simpler. He thought about trying to predict the outcome of a dice roll, but craps was too fast-moving and noisy, so it might be hard to focus. The roulette wheel was slower, but it had terrible odds. Maybe I can learn to psychically recognize which slot machine is going to pay off, he thought. He fished his wallet out of his pocket and pulled out his last twenty-dollar bill. Then he limped slowly through the casino looking at the machines, trying to psychically feel which would pay out.

Friday, March 8 - 3:30p.m.

After an hour and a half of gambling, Mike sat at a machine with a large basket filled with dollar coins. He lifted a coin up, then stopped. He remembered he was supposed to meet the guys from the band at Caesar’s Palace at 4:00p.m.. He pulled out his pocket watch and checked the time. He had just enough time to get to there.

It was challenging to carry the bucket of coins and hobble on his crutches at the same time, but somehow he managed to get the coins to the cashier. The cashier dumped the coins into a coin counting machine and kept filling out paperwork. When the machine finished counting, the cashier thumbed through some bills and handed him twelve hundred dollars cash. He was a little shaken by the amount, since he was just entertaining himself and had no idea how much he had won. He stuffed the money into his wallet, then hobbled out of the casino and into another taxi. He was getting tired of taxis.

Friday, March 8 - 4:07p.m.

Mike hobbled into Caesar’s Palace and went over to the bar where the band was sitting. They were drinking, laughing and joking.

“Oh my God, look what the cat dragged in.” Jimmy said, quoting and old song by Poison.

“What’s happenin’, man?” asked Karl, who looked unusually depressed for some reason.

Mike said, “Not much. I’m tired of being on crutches. What’s new here?”

“Not much,” Karl said, taking a drag on his cigarette, “We were just drowning our monetary sorrows.”

A grin lit up Mike’s face. “Monetary sorrows?” he mocked.

Karl rolled his eyes at the other men and said, “I was the luckiest of the lot; I only lost two hundred. Good thing you don’t gamble, Mike.”

Mike sat at the bar and clasped his hands together, eyeing the band with a grin. “Well, guys, looks like I’m buying dinner. Complements of the Tropicana.”

Jimmy said, “Seriously? You went gambling? Since when? Those crutches got you that depressed? How much did you win?”

“Oh. . . ” He acted coy. “Twelve hundred.”

Steve said, “You’re shittin me, right? Twelve hundred what? Yen?”

They all laughed. That is, until Mike pulled out his wallet and waved a wad of hundred-dollar bills at them. That shut them up. “Not bad for an hour and a half of work, eh? So where are we going for dinner? Anything but a buffet.”

Friday, March 8 - 6:10p.m.

At dinner, they talked about Mike’s collapse on stage. He assured them that they didn’t have to cancel any gigs. Mike didn’t bring up the subject of his meeting with the Rabbi or the meaning of the strange words. He felt uncomfortable talking about those kinds of things with the guys. He also didn’t want to be laughed at. If they didn’t laugh, they’d probably think he was a freak. Talking about his theory of Jesus and psychic powers would just spoil the mood of the evening. He had been lucky, and just wanted to enjoy it. Of course, deep down inside he knew it was more than just luck.

After dinner, the band went to The Mirage for a night at the casino to try to recoup their losses. Tapping his finger on Mike’s chest, Steve said, “All right, big spender, show us how you did it.” Steve was joking, but Mike didn’t read it that way. He had a hard time understanding people’s intents. “Well,” Mike stammered, “I’m not really sure how I did it. I just looked around at all the slot machines, and tried to pick out which machine would be the next to pay off. I got pretty good at it, too.”

Steve didn’t believe in any of that crap. He mocked: “Oh, you mean like psychic powers?”

Mike became defensive. His mom had the gift, so maybe he had it too. “Yeah, I guess so. Whatever you want to call it, it worked.”

Steve had a temper, and little things could set him off. He pressed his index finger into Mike’s chest. “There’s no such thing as psychic powers. You got that? It’s bullshit, nothing more.”

Mike didn’t back down. “It’s not bullshit, man. My mom had it. She just. . . knew things.” He wondered why Steve was getting upset.

Steve pulled a dollar slot token out of his pocket and pressed it toward Mike, “All right big guy. I’ll give you fifty bucks if you can tell me which slot is next to pay off, and I don’t mean a five-dollar payoff. But if you lose, you give me fifty bucks. Deal?” He was smirking, convinced that Mike was too timid to take his challenge.

Mike, however, glared back at Steve with those intense blue eyes. Steve was acting too much like that arrogant physics teacher, Mr. Cook. He wanted to put him in his place and show him he wasn’t lying. His afternoon winnings had given him a feeling of confidence he usually didn’t have around the band. He said, “You’re on.” The fact that he wasn’t his usual quiet self was like an additional challenge in Steve’s face. Steve wasn’t used to Mike standing up to him like this. It was aggravating.

Mike snatched the dollar token from Steve’s hand and turned away from him. Then he started hobbling down a long row of slot machines on his crutches. He paused in front of one, then kept going. Finally his attention was drawn to a particular slot machine where an old woman was sitting. He gestured his hand toward the machine. The men, who towered over the woman, looked at Mike.

The old lady was startled. She didn’t like being surrounded by studded leather thugs with long hair. The blue eyes of the one looked like they were almost glowing. She decided they were bikers or troublemakers. She stood up to leave, but her bones were stiff with arthritis so she moved slowly. They can have the machine, she thought. After all, it hadn’t been lucky for her. Mike put his hand on her shoulder, and whispered to her, “That’s okay, sister, don’t get up. We’re just trying an experiment.” Trying to ease her fears, he asked, “What’s your name?”

The lady felt the warmth of Mike’s hand on her shoulder. It seemed unusually hot. She sat down again. “Lucy,” she said, her voice wavering.

Mike held Steve’s coin up like a trophy and announced, “This machine is about to win a jackpot.” Suddenly, a cold sense of dread washed over him. What if I’m wrong? he wondered. Too late to back down now. Then he handed the coin to her and said, “Here. Plug it.” The lady paused nervously, eyeing the men to see if they were serious. She wondered if they were going to beat her up or rob her. Her lower lip trembled as she tried to remember how much cash was in her purse. She looked around for a security guard. Finally, she gave in and inserted the coin into the machine and turned back toward Mike. She said, “Only one coin?”

Mike turned and glared at Steve. The situation called for a max bet. “Put your money where your mouth is, Junior.” Steve was pissed, but he dug out another dollar coin and handed it to Mike.

Mike snatched the coin from Steve’s hand and gestured toward Lucy again. Once more, she took the coin, edged it up to the slot and dropped it in. Then she reached over to press the “Spin” button, when he shouted, “No!” and grabbed her hand. This time his hand was burning hot. The old woman cringed and turned back to look at him. Don’t hurt me, she thought. She was relieved when he simply said, “Not the button. Pull the lever. Pull the lever!”

Lucy never used the lever because the arthritis in her shoulder hurt too much. But now she was too frightened to complain about her shoulder. She lifted her right arm to the slot machine lever. Much to her surprise, her shoulder didn’t hurt. She grabbed the lever, pulled it down, and the drums spun. The first drum stopped with a click: a red “7.” The second drum stopped, also on “7,” but this one was white. The third drum was still spinning, then it clicked into place, a final blue “7.” At once, the machine started making noise, ringing bells and flashing lights.

The old woman’s eyes bulged, then a pained look swept across her face when she realized the jackpot would be claimed by the bikers.

The Original Artists stood there with their mouths open, staring at the slot machine. And at Mike. “I don’t believe it,” Steve said shaking his head. “I just don’t fucking believe it!” Steve, Karl, and Jimmy turned to stare at Mike as if he was some kind of freak.

Mike looked back at them. Suddenly he felt like a microbe under a magnifying glass, naked and exposed with the whole world staring at him. “What the hell are you all looking at? Isn’t this what you wanted? Didn’t I tell you?” I’m not different, he insisted to himself. I’m not. He reached into the bin full of coins and took two out. He handed one to Steve and held the other up like a trophy. He said, “Here. Keep your goddam money. I don’t need your fifty bucks to prove it’s real. I only need one. I’m out of here.” He hobbled away.

Karl yelled over the noise of the machine, “Hey, what about the money, man?” Mike came back, pointed at the old woman, and yelled, “That’s not our money. It’s Lucy’s.” Then he turned and stormed away. The Original Artists followed, trying to get an explanation.

Meanwhile, the old woman sat there in disbelief as the slot machine kept spitting out coins. She extended her arm again. The dry Nevada weather must be good for my arthritis, she thought.

When Jimmy caught up with Mike, he grabbed his arm and stammered, “Do you know what you just did? You just threw away a couple thousand bucks. What are you, stupid?”

Mike stopped and turned around to confront Jimmy, giving the others time to catch up. Steve was an ashen white, like he had just seen a ghost. He said, “I think he’s some kind of freak, if you ask me.”

Ted said, “Hey, give the guy a break, man. He just got out of the hospital.”

Karl said, “Mike, can you do it again? This might be our meal ticket.” Everyone started talking at once, a flurry of words hurled at Mike.

Mike shouted, “Our meal ticket? You guys just don’t get it, do you? This isn’t about money. The band was never about money. It was about making a statement, remember? It was about art. It was about love. We wanted to show the world how it’s drowning in shallow materialism. It was about changing the system, and not having the system change you. Besides, that old lady would have won that jackpot anyway, if we hadn’t forced ourselves on her. We’re just letting nature take its course.”

Steve grew quiet listening to Mike’s speech because he knew Mike was right. The band was never about money. And who knows, maybe he was psychic. He had seen things he never wanted to admit. He said, “Sorry, man. I was wrong.”

Mike sighed. “Look, I’m sorry. I’m still just freaking about my collapse on stage. I’m stressed out. I need some time to recover.”

Steve regretted his moment of looking weak to the others. “Yeah, well, just make sure you’re at the gig tomorrow night, cripple boy. Philosophy doesn’t pay the bills. Cast or no cast, you sing or we don’t eat.”

Mike turned and limped out the door, leaving the others bewildered, trying to figure out what was more amazing, the jackpot he had predicted or Steve admitting he was wrong.

Excerpt from The Gospel According to Mike

He said, “Saint Francis was right. It is through giving that we receive. It is through pardoning that we are pardoned. It is through dying that we are born to eternal life. But here are some things he did not say: It is by closing our eyes that we begin to see. It is by abandoning ourselves that we find who we really are. It is by loving others that we are loved by them. It is by giving up our expectations that our expectations are met. It is by emptying out our souls that our souls are filled. It is by non-attachment that we gain the only attachment worth having.”