She always thought it was better to have one steady job than to live a life on the edge like he did for all of those years, never knowing when you're going to be up and when you're going to be down.
But the thing is that my father wasn't cut out for full-time work. He craved more. He needed the excitement of the nightlife. I was never like that when it came to gambling.
He taught me a little bit and we would play in secret with Michael when Mom was at work. We weren't supposed to tell her that he was teaching us to play because he knew she would never approve of that.
Michael was a lot like our dad.
He loved gambling for gambling’s sake. He would get so excited when he had a good hand, but for me, I never really cared.
It was all logistics.
Could I win?
What are the chances and the likelihood? And if I didn't think that the risk was good, was falling in my favor, then I wouldn't play the hand.
I haven't played in years. Mom made me promise that it's something that I would never take up no matter how desperate I was for money, but what about now?
How do I save her life?
How do I come up with this money without gambling, without doing something elicit?
No, the solution is just to not tell her. This would be my secret. This would be the way that I try to make everything right.
I go back home and find the old books that my dad kept in the back of the closet. Mom wanted me to throw them away, but I never could throw away a memory of him.
I held on to them because, well, I didn't have much else. She threw away a lot of the pictures after he left in order to try to erase all the pain that he had caused her.
What she didn't realize was that she wasn't the only one in that relationship. There were also Michael and me, and we needed him to be around, even if it was just in spirit.
I read through the books while Mom took a nap in the other room. I try to remember what he taught me about the game, and then I go online and read more.
I read everything that I can find and I decide to play on my laptop just to see how it would work out. At first, I play with fictional money and I lose every single hand.
I fold.
It's poker, and after five games in a row, I feel like a fool. Then I make an account, put up fifty bucks, maybe it would work better if the stakes are more real and the money is more immediate.
I play another round.
I play one game and then another, and then another with a computer or some unknown person on the other end. After two hours, I lose it all.
The fifty dollars is gone just like that. It’s gone. I saw the cards, and I couldn't make them work. I bluffed, but no one believed me.
Maybe I don't have the same skills my father did, or maybe I didn't learn enough. It's probably a little bit of both.
What about now?
What the hell do I do now?
I close my laptop and pace around the room. Just a few hours ago, learning how to gamble, making that much money at the casino seemed like an actual plausible business, but, of course, there are lots of people with a lot more experience vying for the same thing.
No, if I can't win online with fifty bucks, I shouldn't try to play for real.
I could get better, of course. Learn the tricks, maybe even take a class, but I don't have time for that.
I owe them the money within a couple of weeks, as soon as they call to schedule Mom to come out, and what then?
What do I do then?
13
Dante
I move my legs swiftly as I cover the ground, one heavy step after another. The rain is falling in sheets.
Seattle is not my favorite city in the world, even though it is one of the most beautiful places in the summer.
But it's not the summer. It's April, and the skies are gray, and the sun hasn't visited this part of the world in months.
Luckily, I don't live here.
I don't live anywhere.
I have a suitcase and a laptop and a tablet and a phone and a storage unit outside of Bangor, Maine, and that's it.
I live my life on the road. The world can be a dark place, but every time it gets a little darker, I get on the plane and fly away.
Not many people survive in my position, doing what I do. They get restless.
They miss their friends and their families. And I've worked this job longer than anyone.
I like the consistency of it, despite the fact that I travel almost every week. I live out of hotel rooms and room service, and the only thing that stays the same are the gyms and the pools in those four and five-star hotels, as well as my daily or almost daily five-mile run.
No matter where I am, I wake up early and hit the pavement in order to ground myself.
I run before I get into the shower and get to work. I run before I sit in long, oversized conference rooms with floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out onto the skyscrapers and listen to pitch after pitch of why my company should invest in their risky venture.
I've skipped a couple of days of running, due to jet lag, and it shows. My muscles ache and my lungs burn, and I push through until I get back to the hotel.
After a quick shower and a breakfast of black coffee and a vegetarian omelet, I head over to the office and ride all the way up the elevator to the 30th floor.
A friendly receptionist waves me in and shows me to the head of the table. Another conference room, expansive, full of mahogany, with walls covered in textured and impressive designs, modern and sleek, and undoubtedly very expensive.
Dillard Vasko, the CEO, comes in soon after, a little bit flustered and out of control. He's nervous. He has tried to get this funding a number of times before, trying to set up an appointment with me without much success.
He's a little bit older than I am, and definitely someone who works many hours for a living. The wedding band glistens under the warm glow of the lights, but when I shake his hand, it's clammy and a little too wet.
"Thank you so much for meeting with me, Mr. Langston. I really appreciate your time."
"Yes, of course.” I nod. " Should we get to it?"
"I was actually going to wait for my numbers guy to join us."
My face falls, and he registers that as disapproval.
“Okay, let's get started. I know you're a very busy man,” he quickly adds.
I smile.
I'm not trying to put him through the hoops or make him work particularly hard, but people wait for these appointments for months.
My firm represents over 50,000 angel investors who trust me and a few other people in the company to make decisions about where to put their money.
To approve of the venture typically requires me to travel to the city where the company operates, looking at the expenses and the net worth, as well as a bunch of other numbers and then talking to the CEO about projections and plans for the future.
I'm here to analyze whether he's a worthy investment. Dillard Vasko knows this, and he's nervous.
He needs the money.
They all do, but I wonder if he needs it a little bit too much.
"Tell me about your profit-loss statement,” I initiate the conversation.
Suddenly, Vasko gets very nervous again and gets on this phone to text the numbers guy, who's running late.
I have a feeling that person, the accountant, perhaps, or maybe the Chief Financial Officer, won't be employed in this position for too much longer.