Monk's Castle
Part Two
by Jack Lennox2
I waited at the light gunning the engine to keep it firing, then turned left onto the strip they could have named Vegas Drive Junior.
I rolled down the street slow and easy in time with the dreamy fanfare of the strip. Having crossed the bridge at the north end of town, the short row of soaring hotels on the left side of the road stretched ahead of me, shrinking in perspective as they retreated, each distinctive in its design -- some modern as a skyscraper, some rustic as a steamboat. On my right, blocked from the river, normal commerce, including banks, small offices, and a decent sized mall thrived under the shadow of the preponderant casinos. The traffic was sparse, the muted hustle looking weary in competition with the blazing noonday sun, but day or night, the city on this side of the river never goes to sleep.
Several hundred yards south loomed the 25-story Gold River, its huge flashing marquee angled at the street, a towering carnival barker pitching dollar slots, budget all-you-can-eat buffets, and music headliners with names known to most anyone living in North America. They'd often be the same names you'd see in Vegas - the only difference being that Vegas had the actual entertainers - we, more often than not, featured their impersonators. It did look good on my résumé, and you really haven't lived until you've laid down a groove for a cat who's almost Wayne Newton. The Gold River is the main attraction for such fare, and the band was backing Diana Ross that month. I'm not sure you could have guessed he wasn't the real thing. I pulled into the lot thinking how life is something that happens while you're making other plans. Feeling a little perverse, I figured I'd walk through the ground-floor casino to check the action. Instead of parking in back, I looked for a space close to the front entrance. Good parking karma - I only had to endure a short blast of heat before passing through glass double doors and into the cool dark embrace of chanceful luxury. The assault on the senses is immediate -- bells and whistles and the clink and chatter of a thousand greedy machines seducing with bright winking optimism. It's pretty annoying, really.
I headed for the elevators in back, taking in a scene that had recently stamped itself into my psyche. The lush and brassy interior of the hotel-casino is another world from across the river. You can't help but feel a little richer, as if maybe the place was some kind of exclusive country club, and even in faded jeans and a T-shirt that had seen better days, you were somehow worthy enough to be invited in out of the dust and heat. It was a slow Monday afternoon, which bore an even more privileged air. It didn't look like the high-rollers were out yet. Most of the machines sat idly as impatient parasites waiting to be fed, and only small casual groups were clustered around the bright green gaming tables presided over by dealers looking bored but always alert. As I made my way without hesitation through the maze of one-armed bandits, I passed scores of older folks, retirees bused in daily from all parts, dressed in shorts and sneakers, fanny packs stuffed with savings, tired faces passing their dotage one coin at a clip.
No longer a stranger around the place, I traded nods and perfunctory greetings with several familiar faces ... Eddie, a little over five feet of muscle heading security on the floor ...Joseph, a dealer and frustrated guitar player - my biggest fan. Of course, I always saved a few smiles for leggy cocktail girls ...you know how it is; they tend to be starved for male attention. When I'd made it to the elevators, one of the doors rolled open to one even more familiar.
"Dude!" I was greeted by a row of pearly whites set in a dark-skinned face.
"Jay, my man!" I slapped his extended palm with matching enthusiasm to initiate our short handshake ritual. Dhananjay Chandra was one piece of work who always brought a grin. Our tall, skinny drummer was just a kid, really. Just twenty-two. As a Caribbean East Indian migrated from Trinidad as a teenager, he hadn't found the difficulty many of his peers experience becoming assimilated to our culture.
"Lena's up there," he crooked his long neck upward then leered wolflike. I knew he was referring to Lena Cherry, one of the backup singers -- the one you'd likely notice first if you had the pleasure of taking in the show.
"Jay, you're married. Remember?"
"No law against looking," he happily informed me in his still detectable Hindi accent.
"I suppose... See anyone else today?"
"Just the new girl," he managed after thinking a moment.
"Jenna?" I held in my enthusiasm.
"Yes, dude. She's probably gone by now." His expression turned serious and a little too knowing. The new girl was another backup singer they'd hired a few weeks ago, and one who didn't mind hanging out with the rhythm section during breaks. It's possible that I may have let on that I liked her a little.
"When did you see her?"
Apparently, she was upstairs with her check already in hand and waiting to go down when he got off the elevator.
"You like her," he stated matter-of-factly.
I grinned, conceding. "Yeah, she's nice, don't you think?"
He shrugged. "I wouldn't kick her out of bed for eating crackers."
I laughed, the odd-but-familiar statement amusing coming out of his mouth. It was hard to imagine what it must have been like for him to find himself in America, a 14-year-old kid torn between two such dissimilar cultures. He was another improbable connection in my small world, someone I'd known but hadn't seen in years before our unlikely reunion. We'd met on a city park basketball court in Las Vegas. I was in my mid-twenties and on the mend after another bottoming out. He'd just moved there with his parents, a devoutly religious family relatively wealthy from the cocoa industry but, ultimately, bourgeois refugees from a Caribbean nation in the throes of political unrest and a regime unfavorable towards East Indians. He spoke a little English; I certainly knew nothing of his language, but the shooting of hoops provided what was needed to forge some kind of temporary bond. At first, he was probably the worst player I'd ever seen, a spastic windmill of unprofitable motion, but steadily improving each day. I still smile at the thought of the gangly kid's enthusiasm for learning, not only the fine art of playground basketball, but for anything and everything subversively American.
"I'm going to the bank." He held up his check with a smile. "I feel lucky today."
He'd already informed me that Dhananjay in the ancient dialect means, one who wins wealth.
"Maggie probably won't be too thrilled."
"She'll shit a brick ...'Jay, we have a bun in the oven'," he mimicked his wife, about six months pregnant. "No worry."
"Well, stop before you lose too much." Maggie worked at the local Wal-Mart, the two of them hoping to pull in enough income to support their now growing family. Knowing we'd see each other at rehearsal the next day, we parted ways without undue fanfare. I stepped into an open elevator feeling virtuous. I wasn't going to waste my hard earned money.
*****
A few minutes later the same doors slid open and I stepped back out into the casino. Check now firmly in wallet, I had some errands to run - bank, gas, some groceries - but I wasn't ready to leave just yet. The place does have a certain allure that even a puritan such as myself must acknowledge. I wandered aimlessly through the expansive room, a Byzantine maze that always seemed to me to stretch a good city block in every direction. The games were of no real interest to me, but I like watching people ...and truth be told, I was keeping a hopeful eye out for one face in particular. There's a large recessed area in back with picture windows looking out on the river.
That's where I spotted her.
She was seated on a barstool facing away from the bar. Poised there in profile, she sipped what looked like cola through a straw. Above and behind her to my left a row of video screens displayed lines on sports games, and in front of her, a mostly empty room gathered sunlight that almost defeated the shadows and dark decor. A few men scattered along the lengthy bar seemed too preoccupied with betting odds to notice the girl sitting alone with her drink. They had to be jaded, I thought, and my East Indian friend a bit prone to understatement. I couldn't see any guy wanting her out of bed for any reason.
I'd stopped in a spot a bit out of her line of sight and found myself rooted there, for the moment content to see her posed unassumingly. Cute is one of those words... a nebulous nicety that gets used a bit too indiscriminately ...but I think it works well as a first impression of Jenna. Contrived by nature to charm. She was wearing a sleeveless white top with blue trim cut a little too short to hide her naval, a simple grey skirt too short to cover her pale bare legs, and her feet were stuffed into mules, an oversized platform for her smallish frame. It seemed she always wore her hair in a state of pleasing disarray, a thick auburn snarl on top partly pinned back behind her ears and falling recklessly in blond highlighted tufts, streaks, and plaits to her shoulders. Her deep brown eyes were large and direct, her mouth magnetically expressive, her fleshy nose just odd enough to be adorable. I figured her age to be mid-twenties -- turned out she was 31 at the time. I hadn't felt this way about a girl in a long time -- probably high school ...you know, those years when an adolescent heart is so much more inclined to embrace that euphoric obsession from afar. I knew Jenna only superficially, and she really didn't match any preconceived notions I might have had about the ideal woman to draw my eye. I guess tall, statuesque, bookish, reserved, and shy could have served that image. I knew she wasn't reserved or shy. The first day she showed up at rehearsal she blended right in as "one of the guys", chatting and joking unselfconsciously. I tend to keep a low profile, so we hadn't made any kind of meaningful connection.
We needed no formal introduction, however, so I finally uprooted myself and headed toward the bar. As I approached her, I was rewarded with a receptive smile.
"Hi, Donny." I liked my name on her lips. Her eyes captured mine and held them hostage.
"Hi, Jenna. Hiding from the heat today?"
"Waiting for my ride, but I've got an hour to kill."
"Oh yeah? I could drop you off somewhere."
"She's gonna expect me to be here, but thanks for offering."
Her grin was inscrutable. She nursed at her straw without averting her eyes.
"She?" I asked myself out loud, contemplating the encouraging. It was none of my business.
"My roommate. She's my wheels these days."
"You without a car?"
She frowned and sighed dramatically. "It got totaled."
"With you in it?" I asked with concern, despite the fact that she didn't appear to be injured.
She explained that it had happened several weeks ago in Palm Springs, a resort town on the other side of the desert southwest of here in Southern California. She was approaching an intersection when another small car turned left in front of her. Laying full on the brakes, she managed to slow enough to avoid catastrophe -- a few small cuts and bruises -- but the front of her Toyota was too badly damaged to be repaired. The kid driving the other car had no auto insurance.
"That stinks. You gonna get another car?"
"I'm looking. When I hit the jackpot, I'm getting a Porsche." A broad smile brightened her face, but I couldn't tell if she was joking.
"Well, I guess you're in the right place." I returned her smile, and with irony.
"You can be my lucky charm ...that is, if you're not going anywhere for awhile."
I shrugged. "I might have some luck to spare."
She turned to set her glass on the bar and then climbed down off her pretty perch. "Come on, Donny-boy. I'll show you how it's done."
I followed her to the cashier's where she traded a twenty for a small bucket of quarters, then was led in silent amusement as she searched with great concentration for a machine that, presumably, was surrounded by a favorable aura. Her game was Video Poker. Not exactly a complex contest of cunning contrivance, or so I thought.
"This is okay." She'd finally found to her liking one of the little blinking bandits. I recognized it as a "Jacks or Better" game, but that represented about the extent of my knowledge.
"You need to sit here," she tapped the seat to the right of where she'd settled.
"Uh, okay... This is your lucky side?"
"Every time I've won big, someone I like was watching from my right. If I do well, that means I like you." She winked an eye and hit me with that grin, but I was already more impressed with her as a strategist.
"You know they did an experiment about this once," I offered. "They put some hungry pigeons in a cage with a mechanical feeder that automatically offered them food at short regular intervals. Even though the birds couldn't affect anything, they started acting out strange routines in the intervals where they weren't being fed. The routines all grew out of something the pigeon happened to be doing when the feeder appeared."
"Okay, Professor. I take it that's your long way of saying I'm bird-brained ...or just superstitious?"
I laughed. "Just out of curiosity, why'd you pick this machine?"
"I had a gut feeling. That's how lucky people make good decisions ...and it has a good payout table ...see?" She pointed to the display of payout columns. "It's a nine-six, four-thousand machine with a 99.5 percent expected payout."
"What does that mean?" Apparently, there was more to this than I thought.
"It means Full House and Flush pay 9 and 6 to one coins, and a Royal Flush jackpot pays 4000. Over the long run, the machine should give almost an even chance. I need a little extra luck, which is where you come in. You need to think positive." She turned to me expecting confirmation that I was going to be a functional part of the system.
"I'm thinking only good thoughts." Looking at her, that wasn't something I needed to work at.
That seemed to satisfy her, and she fished five quarters out of her bucket, popped them into the slot, and tapped on the "Deal" button. It seemed rather unceremonious compared to the arm on the side you used to have to tug at beseechingly, applying real force, imagining a special advantage or influence in the pull to attract wealth in your direction. Where's the romance? Two Jacks came up along with an 8, 9, and 10 of Hearts.
"Why five coins? Aren't you just going to lose faster? ...Oh, sorry...think positive," I added hastily.
"Max Bet always gives you the best long term payoff odds." She tapped the "Hold" button under the 8, 9, 10, and Jack of Hearts.
"Don't you want to hold those Jacks?"
She turned and looked at me as if I might be a little slow. "A pair of Jacks pays even. A Straight Flush pays over 60 dollars."
I might be a little slow.
She pressed "Draw" and got a 3 of Spades. "Think positive," she glanced briefly my way, her direction thankfully a reminder rather than an accusation.
I watched as she continued to pour coins down the machine's throat, gaining a little here, losing a little there. It doesn't cough up winnings in a bright clatter in these streamlined modern times, but instead registers each triumph electronically to be cashed out to the more fortunate when asked. Yes, it had been a few years since I'd played the slots. My eye was mostly on Jenna, her face glowing pink by the light, her hands moving in a shell-game-like blur, her body bending and twisting to implore the gaming gods for their favor. Machines change in the blink of an eye; people not so fast.
"How often do you play?"
"This is the first time since I moved here a few weeks ago," she answered without diverting her attention away from the game. "My ex and I used to go to Vegas several times a year."
"Is he the one who gave you all that good luck?"
She stopped playing and turned her head. She wore a wry grin, not so inscrutable. "No. Carlos wasn't the kind to share his good fortune."
"How long do you play ...I mean at one sitting?" It seemed like I should change the subject.
"It depends. I'll quit before I lose more than what I start with. I've gone for several hours ...you can leave if you have to," she smiled. I ordered drinks from a passing girl, Jenna sticking with Diet Coke while I went for a beer. I was perfectly content to sit next to her and just watch her in action, her every movement a determined but delicate grace. A small hand again tapped "Deal" and came up with two Kings, two Queens, and an Ace. She held a King, a Queen, and the Ace, all Hearts.
"You're passing on two pair?" I was cautiously incredulous.
"If you want a jackpot," she explained patiently, "you best not pass on the opportunity." She looked at me. There was that grin again.
She didn't win any jackpots, but by the time her roommate, a pleasingly plump blonde named Denise, found us, Jenna was up about 20 bucks. Content with her winnings, she decided to call it a day. I didn't ask her if she'd done well enough for me to earn her favor. I waited after the two girls excused themselves to visit the Ladies Room. Jenna returned alone.
"I figured I'd hang out here awhile. Still offering that ride?"
There's a little bakery-cafe at one end of the casino, and we agreed to take a stab at lunch. In an attempt at upscale, I ordered some kind of turkey sandwich with a fancy name; Jenna decided on a chocolate croissant.
"I take it lunch isn't your important meal of the day."
"Any meal that includes chocolate is important," she informed me, and in all seriousness.
"What is it with women and chocolate?" I wondered out loud.
"It causes the release of endorphins ...they're like a drug," she explained with a mouthful. "It's got other stuff in it, too, like theobromine, which is an aphrodisiac. And caffeine ...all together they produce feelings like being in love."
"Well, in that case, eat up and enjoy."
She wiped a little chocolate from her upper lip. We shared a smile.
"I'm looking for a new roommate."
It took me a moment to process the non sequitur. "Oh, yeah? ...why?"
"Denise is an old friend. She was the one who talked me into looking for a gig here." She sat back in her chair, arms folded, regarded me with a measured eye. "When things worked out, I was already staying with her, so it made sense to just move in and share the rent. But she's moving out at the end of the month ...her boyfriend has a place. Now I need someone to share the rent. It's a nice apartment."
The way she ended her explanation sounded like she was trying to sell me on the place, but I couldn't imagine she was thinking of me as her new roommate.
"Is it? Do you know anyone here, or are you going to have to take out an ad?"
She just stared at me, her face impassive. It occurred to me I was being slow again.
"You're asking me? You want a guy as a roommate ...a guy you barely know?"
"I've asked the other girls in the band, but no luck. I don't really know anybody here. I heard your current living arrangements are less than ideal."
"Who told you that?"
"I don't remember. It must have come up somehow," she answered nonchalantly. The conversation seemed not to have any effect on her calm.
"Don't get me wrong. I'm flattered you'd ask ...Are you sure?" My head was spinning, the implications and possibilities creating a tornado of uncertainty.
"Look at it this way. If I had to put out an ad and interview people, I wouldn't come up with anyone I know as well as I know you ...besides, I trust you, Donny-boy."
It turns out Jenna has this smile -- I figured she must use it to get what she wants, because it was quite irresistible. We talked about the details as if I might actually accept her offer, but I knew I was going to need to work it out in my head when I could think more clearly. With her sitting a few feet across the table, her brown eyes flashing, her every subtle movement an inadvertent seduction, I was only clearly distracted.
*****
I was headed downstream, the river on my right, the magic kingdom sinking like Atlantis in my rearview mirror. Back on the main road south, car gassed and errands run, Jenna floated on the drift of my imagination. Before dropping her off at her apartment, we'd spent the entire afternoon wandering the casino, gravitating to the calmest spots where we could sit and talk. I couldn't remember ever having felt so comfortable with a person I'd known for so short a time. With the possibility of becoming roomies out on the table, the conversation had turned more personal. I don't think I'd ever related the story of my life to anyone, but the words flowed freely. Jenna responded by being equally open and expansive. I now, at least, had a rough outline of her life -- a life very different than mine, yet from opposite directions we'd ended up very much in the same place.
Her childhood was as conventional as mine was unorthodox. Jenna was a "Valley Girl". If you happen to be unfamiliar with the term coined in the eighties, it describes a young female growing up in the comfy bubble of middle-class suburbia, a tract house in the San Fernando Valley providing a home base for all-important expeditions to the local mall ...a less-than-highly-fashionable wardrobe, malfunctioning mobile phone, and fragile popularity her only real crosses to bear. In the arid gulch of that cultural wasteland, she still managed to get good grades in school, retain a passion for learning, and develop a taste for music not delivered by preening, puppy-faced pop stars. I thought maybe part of her charm is the guileless optimism that can be preserved for one not beaten down by hardship. Her life changed, though, when she married young.
Neither the Carlin nor the Rodriguez households were overjoyed at the prospect of a marriage between Jenna and Carlos, two headstrong kids barely out of school. Carlos, at 20, was a reformed wannabe gangbanger recently attracted to the reputability of settling down and raising a family. Jenna, just 18, admitted she'd always had a thing for Hispanic guys, and she and Carlos had been a volcanically hot item her last year of high school. After a year of failed conception, and not from lack of trying, they discovered she had a chromosomal abnormality. Bad eggs. Carlos wasn't agreeable to donor fertilization or adoption, so it was a disappointment that came to roost and refused to leave the snug Rodriguez nest. Her young husband still expected Jenna to play the traditional role of submissive homemaker like his mother, which perhaps illustrates how poorly 20-year-olds can be at picking prospective life-mates.
Although Jenna entered the union as a wife more than eager to please her man, she had not a subservient bone in her body. The compliance she reluctantly offered came mostly from a desire to keep things pleasant, some irrational guilt for her procreative inadequacies, and subtle intimidation. Her life with Carlos was a limiting one as they had little in common outside the bedroom. He resented any effort she made at personal growth, and could become irritated with her for as simple an act as reading a book. He never abused her physically, but there were times when she wished he'd beat her just once so she'd have an excuse to get out of a marriage that each year was becoming more and more like a prison.
She was 24 when they finally split, and it was the beginning of her renaissance - an awakening, a new age of both discovery and rediscovery. She'd always loved music.
Her background was Catholic -- not the grand cathedral, browbeating nuns kind, but rather the modest and progressive Catholicism of a suburban Southern California community church. Her parents were devoutly active in the social and political life of the parish, the spiritual side more a cozy fire around which to gather the family. By the time she was a teenager, Jenna had mostly grown apart from any religious convictions she might have had but, to please her parents, conceded to remain involved with the children's choir where she had starred much of her life as lead in many a lavish production orchestrated by an enthusiastic choir director. After her marriage, one of her first expenses was a good vocal coach, and she found herself lured once again to the excitement of the stage. The professional arena was not quite as receptive and forgiving as gentle community pastimes, but Jenna remained undiscouraged.
Such short moments together and yet the dream girl I'd admired from afar was now real ...and a real part of my life. We had plans to meet again the next day for another lunch before the Tuesday afternoon show and Wednesday, after considering her offer, I would get a look at the apartment. Jenna's journey to the Mojave had taken a route from Los Angeles County north into the mountains, and then east; my path had been west and south down the river. As I drove home that evening, the familiar place seemed foreign to me. A swollen sun was low in the sky, and due to some atmospheric condition I won't pretend to understand, the town reflected an eerie crystal light. The shadows were warm premonitions cast in unfamiliar directions, and the trees, rocks, and buildings had sprouted new where they used not to be. Out of the corner of my eye, the river flowed like liquid silver. My Firebird was a spaceship that had landed on a small mysterious planet, and inside I floated, an awestricken astronaut. I thought about stopping and putting my foot down onto the solid ground of this unexplored world where I was certain that if I leaped, I would soar twenty feet into the air.
I hoped I wasn't moving too fast.