No-one pops up in his mind so I sketch in a host: the generic man’s man the system calls a Jimbo. I choose Jimbo 2, who’s in his forties, the age Jerry’s feeling.
"I used to play a lot," Jerry tells Jimbo 2, who’s playing doorman. "Never won big-time, not once. I’d come in and blow it the same night, left broke, the usual story, huh? Guess you’ve seen it a thousand times."
"Sure have sir," says the doorman. They like being called sir. "So what brings you back to our fine establishment tonight?"
"Oh, a memory lane thing I guess. Farewell visit. Last try at cheating the system."
Incredible how on some level they always just know.
The doorman laughs. "Dollar for every time I hear that one, I’d be Alex Bezos."
Jerry clucks his teeth, makes a face. "Good to be here. Came from my daughter’s wedding, over at the Lake."
"Oh yeah?"
"Five months pregnant, already got two, different fathers and her eldest’s retarded. Anyway up the aisle she goes. Snowball’s chance in hell of that one working out. I give it two years, max."
"Who’s the lucky guy?"
"A florist. What kind of man becomes a goddam florist?"
The doorman thinks for a moment. "How were the flowers?"
They both laugh, loud and meaty. Jerry sighs. "Anyway, family row, the usual shit. So I quit and here I am, all set to bet."
"You left your daughter’s wedding?"
"Let’s just say I removed myself from the equation," says Jerry. "Best for all concerned."
"Families, huh?" says Jimbo 2, shaking his head. "So, you feeling lucky tonight sir?"
"Matter of fact I am. Feel like I might just walk out with a few thou. No, let’s make that a million, why not. Yeah. I’m up for that."
"That what you want, sir?"
"You betcha. Would you say no to a million, man?"
"No, sir, I would not. Well, good luck."
"Yeah, nice talking."
Jerry takes a breath, forces his way to the bar at the centre, buys a double scotch, knocks it back in one, then gets himself a hundred dollars’ worth of chips. Meanwhile here at Ground Control my stomach’s rumbling. Come on Jerry, pick a table and let’s get started, I’m thinking. But he’s not progressing. He’s wandering around with his chips, looking at the tables, but not picking one. I was expecting Jerry to launch fast and smooth into the Great Beyond with his un-earned million in his pocket, and a big winner’s smile, false teeth blazing – but no. He’s sensing something’s off. You know when a cat’s decided to settle somewhere, and instead of just sitting down, it turns around and around and around, like it can’t decide which compass-point its ass should point to? Well Jerry’s indecision, it’s like that. Kind of a circling the drain thing I guess.
The system’s registered that the client’s uncomfortable and losing his gambling nerve.
From the way he’s swaying now, as he heads for the Men’s, you can tell he’s got that seasickness problem the tech guys can’t seem to crack. The Angel Wobble we call it. I co-feel stuff but so far I’ve been immune to that one. Some colleagues, they’ll actually puke.
He staggers to the sink and splashes cold water on his face, then takes a deep breath and looks up.
AAAGH! The line on my screen spikes, then plunges.
Jesus. Woah there, thinks Jerry. WOAH! Who’s that ugly old bastard in the mirror? He blinks with shock. Jesus. It’s me. What happened?
I can’t help laughing. He hurtles out faster than you can say, suck it up, old man.
So, scrub Las Vagas as a scenario.
Repeat offer? The Angel wants Jimbo 2 back in the frame.
I know Jerry won’t go for it, but I press OK anyway. Call it a little bet with myself.
"Hey big guy," says Jimbo 2 as he heads for the door. "You quitting already?"
"Yeah," goes Jerry. "Just didn’t feel right." Like it’s some heroic moral choice he’s made.
The Angel tries again, with Jimbo 2 saying: "You ain’t tempted to go back in and take your chances?"
"Nah, man," says Jerry. "It’s a young man’s game. I’m done here."
"Told ya!" I yell at the Angel. In my side vision Angus looks at me with a question on his face. "Sorry. Got carried away there," I tell him. "System’s an idiot. I’ll need to re-boot Jerry here, he bailed out." I shift the input. "While he’s in limbo let’s do the other one."
When the helmet’s re-calibrated I enter the kid, name of Jessie-May. She’s got mild cerebral palsy according to the notes, and on top of that she’s all over the place emotionally, probably cuz her mother’s piggybacking. You get that a lot. Parents, priests, exes from hell, etcetera. Parasite presences, usually malign. I include God here. Takes a while to calibrate Jessie-May, and once I’m in we’re straight into a bad memory. She just peed herself behind the wedding marquee and wet her dress. When Ma found out she went apeshit and slapped her cheek right in front of the pastor.
Sorry ’bout that sir, said Ma. I know it don’t look too Christian, on my wedding-day and all. But Jessie-May here’s got learning difficulties. And sometimes the fact is, a big girl needs a big slap. Pissing yourself at your own mother’s wedding. What kinda behaviour’s that, huh? I said, HUH? And Jessie’s thinking: weddings suck. Everyone’s being mean. When Grandaddy leaves I’m hitching a ride.
I tweak the sensor, fast-forward her the hell out. Jeez, I thought my family was bad, God rest em.
So now she’s on her own in the desert someplace near the scene of the crash no doubt, all dry dirt and clumps of tumbleweed and other bitch-scratch vegetation. No landmarks, except a hill up ahead, turbines sprouting out, spinning to the max. And down there in the valley, a grove. Almonds maybe. Whatever. It’s a long way off but she’s thirsty as hell. She’s still wearing the dress that she pissed all over behind the marquee. She hates it. Well I empathise with you there Jessie-May. Lavender silk. A dumb sash at the back, like she’s a Christmas parcel.
She’s just getting to wondering how the hell she got here. Jessie don’t think fast, but she thinks just fine – till Ma crashes in again.
Might not all be such a blur if you paid some attention, Missy. Might not be if you asked a few questions of whoever was driving the car, check they’re not over the alcohol limit.
If there was a way to un-fuse that bitch Ma from the kid I’d do it, believe me, but she makes a valid point.
Jessie-May’s main feeling right now is thirst: I’m getting it too. She’s remembering how Grandaddy told her about the time he woke up from a blackout in the boondocks and found himself in a peach-grove and drank water straight from the irrigation pipe.
Come on kid, Kylie’s rooting for you here. Use that memory, it came to you for a reason. You’re not the only thirsty one here.
Up she gets. That’s my girl. Jessie-May’s legs are uncooperative but she makes it to the plantation and puts her lips to the rubber pipe that snakes along the first line of trees and sucks the water, too hot, with grit and all. Broken almond shells dig into her knees and there’s a diesel and blood smell on her that I can’t fade out completely.
When she’s finished she looks up and sees a building: some kind of kiosk.
So you gonna head that way and try get yourself cleaned up, or you gonna lie there and feel sorry for yasself, Princess? bitches Ma.
The sign’s hanging loose. Place looks abandoned. But there’ll be shade.
So what you waiting for, dumbass? Go for it, before I—.
The door clangs as she pushes it open – an old fashioned bell. Interesting Angel factoid: retro or even genre features can pop up in folk who have the TV on all day.