With Damien in Black Hawk

A short story about two young gamblers

Image by Mike Protzik

So we’re there driving through the paved streets of the Old West and Damien’s yelling to girls from the passenger window and he’s drinking from a flask and I’ve been taking swigs here and there while “Love Fuzz” by Ty Segall plays on the radio. The only thing standing out in that little town is a building of glass towering over all of us on the hilltop to the east. New hotel — gaudy and modern and ominous. It sits there a mirror-wrapped castle reflecting the sun’s glare. Damien breaks my spell by saying, “Let’s do Fitzgerald’s Casino.”

“You don’t want to check out a few more first?”

“No. Fitzgerald’s. It’s gotta be Fitzgerald’s. It’s all in the name. Besides, the whiskey’s gone warm and I’m lusting for central air.”

So we’re there in the casino, which is mostly empty except for a loud craps table on the other side of the massive game room, and I’m irritated. Some part of me hates to see other people winning. I’m distracted by the ubiquitous smell of cigarette remains and stale perfume. Awful 70s…