(note to those who know me: what follows is fiction)
My best friend Chelsea was a sort of astronomer, though most people called her an astrologer. After many years typing in the business world, she returned to the stars, her first love. She started spouting mysterious words like quincunx, ascendant, cusp, conjunct, transit. She poured over circular diagrams filled with mysterious symbols and spoke of houses as though everyone had many of them. She got a job at the Walmart close to where she lived so she could avoid commute time, thus devoting more time to the star charts. This left her seriously short of money, but she said that the stars predicted no need for her to worry about money. I worried about her and thought she had perhaps lost her mind, especially the day she said something big and wonderful was going to be happening the following week.
Indeed, the following Wednesday, she rushed into my apartment without even ringing in the bell, just opening the door and barging in. I was sitting in the kitchen drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. Despite my gruff rebukes and grouchy complaining about the insanely early hour, the next thing I knew, I had called in to work and we were driving in my car to Atlantic City, where the promised wondrous happening would occur.
When we got there, though, we found ourselves strolling the busy boardwalk in the chill autumn rain with no clear idea of where to go next. Chelsea was undaunted, saying she knew she would be led. I tried to appreciate the endless surf and wished I had brought warmer, more waterproof clothes. After several hours, when my flagging energy was just about depleted, she spotted a shop bearing a giant sign that read “Signora Fiorellini’s Fortunes,” with a subtitle that promised guidance on all matters “romantic, spiritual, and physical in weathers fair and foul.” ‘There!” she cried. I followed Chelsea into a dimly lit shop decked with cloth hangings from walls and ceiling. Several couches with deep pillows surrounded a small table behind which sat a bejeweled chair rather like a cartoonist’s vision of a throne. A magnificent woman draped in purple robes glided out from behind a curtain and sat in the chair. “Greetings, seekers,” she pronounced. Chelsea snatched out a handful of her star charts and began a long fast-paced and incomprehensible description of what she saw in them. I watched the purple lady. Her face had been theatrical when she arrived, but it became somber and worried. She grabbed a couple pages, then drew out a large book from under the table and studied carefully without speaking. Chelsea mercifully fell silent. Finally the woman spoke. “I can help you, but you must promise me to bring the name of the man you find.” Chelsea said, “of course,” and the woman gave us instructions to go to Harrah’s Casino between the hours of 11 and 2 that day. She couldn’t see anything more precise.
Chelsea thanked her profusely and we left. I marveled that no money had changed hands. When we entered with mirrored blinking light glitz of Harrah’s, plenty of money changed hands. Chelsea and I wandered through this alternate universe and watched money being stuffed into boxes by large pastry-cutter-shaped instruments wielded by silent, quick-handed dealers who expertly flipped cards and scooped up chips. The players were by and large grim and focused, even as their money went down the slots. Chelsea said she would know the man they were looking for when she saw him. I followed her in a daze, the heated atmosphere removing me completely from outdoor reality with its screeching gulls and cold, grey sand.
Suddenly Chelsea stopped and almost started hyperventilating. I saw no one out of the ordinary, but Chelsea carefully approached a small yellow-haired man with a coffee-stained t-shirt. She asked him if he was going to play roulette. He told her he didn’t usually. She said, “Twenty-two, 3:00, four times” and slipped him an envelope, which she later told me contained every penny she had. He looked startled. He told us his name was John Mason and that he came from Bellevue, Nebraska. Chelsea hugged him and kissed him as though he was a long-lost relative. She then repeated a charade with about five other men, though to these men she gave no advice and no money. “In case anyone is watching,” she whispered to me. By this time it was about 2:30 and Chelsea said we had to leave. We went straight to the car. Why did we not stop back at Signora Fiorellino’s, I wanted to know. Chelsea said a gut feeling was telling her that she should not, that perhaps Signora Fiorellino was part of some Atlatntic City mafia that went after winners. How did she even know the man won? “Oh, he won all right,” she said, “whether or not he played that money. He’s the most important man in the world.”
I never knew officially what happened. I’ve speculated that the blond man won $700,000 at the table and returned to Bellevue to build a library or something. I’ve speculated that he lost everything and returned to Bellevue without a dime. I’ve speculated that he didn’t gamble, but returned to Bellevue with Chelsea’s money to become a good family man. I’ve even searched for him on the internet to no avail. I did see an article about increased security at Harrah’s Casino. The newspaper article included a photo in which I was sure I could see Signora Fiorellino, dressed now in street clothes, standing next to a Harrah’s security guard reviewing video footage from the casino.
Chelsea would never discuss the incident again. Whenever I bring it up, she just renews her request that I produce the exact time of my birth so that she can do my star chart properly. I still worry about her sanity.
