Elliott
Beginning of a longer short story, this just follows the day of a man named Elliott.
Elliott did not think he was addicted to gambling, not any more addicted than you to hiking or (if you are boring and/or senile,) knitting. Gambling was simply a hobby. A hobby that, true, had cost him thousands of dollars, was still just a hobby. Elliott had read somewhere online that the average person spends hundreds of dollars on their hobbies every year, and yes he spent a little more, but he still liked to think of himself as a high-roller. Weaned from his college fund, he occasionally had moments of self realization, though it took very little to drown out such thoughts.
Because of his carefree spending, he quickly shifted from being given a room for free, to being kicked out of the room he had missed the bill on last month. Senor Tyre was by no means the job that Elliott had yearned for when he had graduated, but it did allow him a long enough lunch break to walk to the Gold Nugget slots off I-72.
His favorite machine used to be the chrome “Wilson’s Standard Chief” slots that only cost a quarter, but he settled now on a “Booker’s Irish Jackpot,” which was much uglier and didn’t have the nice bell sound when you spun it. Elliott salivated at the thought of that bell sound, it had always meant he was celebrating some event, but as the celebrations became more sparse, and Elliott couldn’t find an excuse to go back to the casinos, he soon found himself alone, pulling the chromium steel bar with the fading red ball at the end, chasing after the highs of winning 5 dollars on a 25c buy-in.
His shiny silver Casio showed double zeros, he had to get back to Senor Tyre soon or he might be fired. Again. Elliott had already been fired from the dubiously stereotype based tire store twice already, but the workers available in the shithole of a town that Elliott was temporarily (for the last three years) staying in were few and far between.
Elliott wasn’t necessarily a bad worker, but he did come back five or ten minutes late from his lunches three days out of the week, which Mr. Peronzo believed to warrant thirty minutes of unpaid overtime. He assigned Elliott overtime regardless of whether there were three or four customers that day, five being a rare occurrence these days.
Why Peronzo continued to hire Elliott, Elliott himself didn’t know, he definitely would have fired himself the first time he had come back late from the Gold Nugget Slots. But maybe Peronzo wanted to believe that business at the tire shop was as good as it used to be, or maybe he just didn’t want to feel like he was alone. It didn’t really matter to Elliott, he didn’t care much for Peronzo or his oily and mostly bald combed black hair.
Elliott passed through one of the glass front doors; the other had been broken years ago, but Peronzo kept this one as shiny and clean as a new pyrex measuring cup. He nodded to Peronzo at the front desk, who maintained the indifferent tired look on his face despite Elliotts tardiness. Elliot grabbed his Saguaro-cactus green polo shirt from the hook behind the desk and marveled at the beauty of the Mexican man in a tan poncho with a tire on his elongated sombrero. Such a beautiful logo.
The rest of the day held a grand total of two more customers, slightly below par for the already meager daily business. At 8:30 (8:00 plus thirty minutes of overtime), Elliott closed down shop and got into his beige 1978 Ford Pinto, a nice little car that looked just like a mustang, if the mustang had been chewed up a little bit, squished, then thrown in a muddy pond for that nice muck brown finish. The day was getting darker faster in the past few days, and Elliott did not like that at all, ever since he had been mugged and lost all fifteen dollars in his pocket, he much preferred the false sense of security that he was given when he could actually see the criminals.
Lucky for him, he now had this car. A gift from his brother who, unlike the rest of Elliott’s family, still pitied him enough to give him his old car. His brother truly was a nice man, a little flamboyant with his showing of wealth in the cars and clothes he bought, but one could still be nice in their Porsche 911 and Italian jackets.
Elliott’s new apartment was not too dissimilar from his past lodgings, what with its fair share of dens, “massage” parlors, and the occasional cockroach. But at least the landlord wasn’t stingy about when the rent came in, as long as you were all square by the end of the year. Elliott hadn’t always lived in dumps like this, he used to live in the nice places, the types of places where the rent was more than the cost of his Pinto and you couldn’t just punch through one of the walls (an occurrence that had happened twice to Elliott’s apartments in recent years).
Elliott’s pinto puttered by the Palace of Gold casino, Elliott’s favorite before it closed. That was the Casino that felt like a second home. Elliott had spent more time on their Standard Chief machine than he did in his own bed at times. The crowds had dissipated with the rest of the city, but Elliott stayed, right up until the very end. He remembered the last day, he had won a jackpot; six thousand two hundred and fifty dollars. Elliott knew on that day that something special had happened, almost like the machine had sent him its last farewell before it was shut off and moved to some storage container somewhere. Elliott couldn’t even make out the golden “Oriental” lettering on the small building with the bonnet roof; reminiscent of a Pizza Hut roof if it had been squashed down a bit so that it lost its brand association and simply became a gently inclined roof. His apartment building on the other hand was not trying to entice or wow you; Elliott lived on the third floor, the “penthouse” suite with two entire windows to the outside, which allowed for beautiful views of the ill-maintained road and during the day, he could even make out the Palace of Gold casino, but it was too dark for that now so he didn’t see much of anything.
A few feet beside the door, a couple of hooks were affixed to the wall. Walking through the door, he threw his keys with his left. He had only made it once, the very first time he had tried, and yet he tried everyday. Today he fell just an inch short. Maybe tomorrow.
Elliott did not think he was addicted to gambling, not any more addicted than you to hiking or (if you are boring and/or senile,) knitting. Gambling was simply a hobby. A hobby that, true, had cost him thousands of dollars, was still just a hobby. Elliott had read somewhere online that the average person spends hundreds of dollars on their hobbies every year, and yes he spent a little more, but he still liked to think of himself as a high-roller. Weaned from his college fund, he occasionally had moments of self realization, though it took very little to drown out such thoughts.
Because of his carefree spending, he quickly shifted from being given a room for free, to being kicked out of the room he had missed the bill on last month. Senor Tyre was by no means the job that Elliott had yearned for when he had graduated, but it did allow him a long enough lunch break to walk to the Gold Nugget slots off I-72.
His favorite machine used to be the chrome “Wilson’s Standard Chief” slots that only cost a quarter, but he settled now on a “Booker’s Irish Jackpot,” which was much uglier and didn’t have the nice bell sound when you spun it. Elliott salivated at the thought of that bell sound, it had always meant he was celebrating some event, but as the celebrations became more sparse, and Elliott couldn’t find an excuse to go back to the casinos, he soon found himself alone, pulling the chromium steel bar with the fading red ball at the end, chasing after the highs of winning 5 dollars on a 25c buy-in.
His shiny silver Casio showed double zeros, he had to get back to Senor Tyre soon or he might be fired. Again. Elliott had already been fired from the dubiously stereotype based tire store twice already, but the workers available in the shithole of a town that Elliott was temporarily (for the last three years) staying in were few and far between.
Elliott wasn’t necessarily a bad worker, but he did come back five or ten minutes late from his lunches three days out of the week, which Mr. Peronzo believed to warrant thirty minutes of unpaid overtime. He assigned Elliott overtime regardless of whether there were three or four customers that day, five being a rare occurrence these days.
Why Peronzo continued to hire Elliott, Elliott himself didn’t know, he definitely would have fired himself the first time he had come back late from the Gold Nugget Slots. But maybe Peronzo wanted to believe that business at the tire shop was as good as it used to be, or maybe he just didn’t want to feel like he was alone. It didn’t really matter to Elliott, he didn’t care much for Peronzo or his oily and mostly bald combed black hair.
Elliott passed through one of the glass front doors; the other had been broken years ago, but Peronzo kept this one as shiny and clean as a new pyrex measuring cup. He nodded to Peronzo at the front desk, who maintained the indifferent tired look on his face despite Elliotts tardiness. Elliot grabbed his Saguaro-cactus green polo shirt from the hook behind the desk and marveled at the beauty of the Mexican man in a tan poncho with a tire on his elongated sombrero. Such a beautiful logo.
The rest of the day held a grand total of two more customers, slightly below par for the already meager daily business. At 8:30 (8:00 plus thirty minutes of overtime), Elliott closed down shop and got into his beige 1978 Ford Pinto, a nice little car that looked just like a mustang, if the mustang had been chewed up a little bit, squished, then thrown in a muddy pond for that nice muck brown finish. The day was getting darker faster in the past few days, and Elliott did not like that at all, ever since he had been mugged and lost all fifteen dollars in his pocket, he much preferred the false sense of security that he was given when he could actually see the criminals.
Lucky for him, he now had this car. A gift from his brother who, unlike the rest of Elliott’s family, still pitied him enough to give him his old car. His brother truly was a nice man, a little flamboyant with his showing of wealth in the cars and clothes he bought, but one could still be nice in their Porsche 911 and Italian jackets.
Elliott’s new apartment was not too dissimilar from his past lodgings, what with its fair share of dens, “massage” parlors, and the occasional cockroach. But at least the landlord wasn’t stingy about when the rent came in, as long as you were all square by the end of the year. Elliott hadn’t always lived in dumps like this, he used to live in the nice places, the types of places where the rent was more than the cost of his Pinto and you couldn’t just punch through one of the walls (an occurrence that had happened twice to Elliott’s apartments in recent years).
Elliott’s pinto puttered by the Palace of Gold casino, Elliott’s favorite before it closed. That was the Casino that felt like a second home. Elliott had spent more time on their Standard Chief machine than he did in his own bed at times. The crowds had dissipated with the rest of the city, but Elliott stayed, right up until the very end. He remembered the last day, he had won a jackpot; six thousand two hundred and fifty dollars. Elliott knew on that day that something special had happened, almost like the machine had sent him its last farewell before it was shut off and moved to some storage container somewhere. Elliott couldn’t even make out the golden “Oriental” lettering on the small building with the bonnet roof; reminiscent of a Pizza Hut roof if it had been squashed down a bit so that it lost its brand association and simply became a gently inclined roof. His apartment building on the other hand was not trying to entice or wow you; Elliott lived on the third floor, the “penthouse” suite with two entire windows to the outside, which allowed for beautiful views of the ill-maintained road and during the day, he could even make out the Palace of Gold casino, but it was too dark for that now so he didn’t see much of anything.
A few feet beside the door, a couple of hooks were affixed to the wall. Walking through the door, he threw his keys with his left. He had only made it once, the very first time he had tried, and yet he tried everyday. Today he fell just an inch short. Maybe tomorrow.
Elliott did not think he was addicted to gambling, not any more addicted than you to hiking or (if you are boring and/or senile,) knitting. Gambling was simply a hobby. A hobby that, true, had cost him thousands of dollars, was still just a hobby. Elliott had read somewhere online that the average person spends hundreds of dollars on their hobbies every year, and yes he spent a little more, but he still liked to think of himself as a high-roller. Weaned from his college fund, he occasionally had moments of self realization, though it took very little to drown out such thoughts.
Because of his carefree spending, he quickly shifted from being given a room for free, to being kicked out of the room he had missed the bill on last month. Senor Tyre was by no means the job that Elliott had yearned for when he had graduated, but it did allow him a long enough lunch break to walk to the Gold Nugget slots off I-72.
His favorite machine used to be the chrome “Wilson’s Standard Chief” slots that only cost a quarter, but he settled now on a “Booker’s Irish Jackpot,” which was much uglier and didn’t have the nice bell sound when you spun it. Elliott salivated at the thought of that bell sound, it had always meant he was celebrating some event, but as the celebrations became more sparse, and Elliott couldn’t find an excuse to go back to the casinos, he soon found himself alone, pulling the chromium steel bar with the fading red ball at the end, chasing after the highs of winning 5 dollars on a 25c buy-in.
His shiny silver Casio showed double zeros, he had to get back to Senor Tyre soon or he might be fired. Again. Elliott had already been fired from the dubiously stereotype based tire store twice already, but the workers available in the shithole of a town that Elliott was temporarily (for the last three years) staying in were few and far between.
Elliott wasn’t necessarily a bad worker, but he did come back five or ten minutes late from his lunches three days out of the week, which Mr. Peronzo believed to warrant thirty minutes of unpaid overtime. He assigned Elliott overtime regardless of whether there were three or four customers that day, five being a rare occurrence these days.
Why Peronzo continued to hire Elliott, Elliott himself didn’t know, he definitely would have fired himself the first time he had come back late from the Gold Nugget Slots. But maybe Peronzo wanted to believe that business at the tire shop was as good as it used to be, or maybe he just didn’t want to feel like he was alone. It didn’t really matter to Elliott, he didn’t care much for Peronzo or his oily and mostly bald combed black hair.
Elliott passed through one of the glass front doors; the other had been broken years ago, but Peronzo kept this one as shiny and clean as a new pyrex measuring cup. He nodded to Peronzo at the front desk, who maintained the indifferent tired look on his face despite Elliotts tardiness. Elliot grabbed his Saguaro-cactus green polo shirt from the hook behind the desk and marveled at the beauty of the Mexican man in a tan poncho with a tire on his elongated sombrero. Such a beautiful logo.
The rest of the day held a grand total of two more customers, slightly below par for the already meager daily business. At 8:30 (8:00 plus thirty minutes of overtime), Elliott closed down shop and got into his beige 1978 Ford Pinto, a nice little car that looked just like a mustang, if the mustang had been chewed up a little bit, squished, then thrown in a muddy pond for that nice muck brown finish. The day was getting darker faster in the past few days, and Elliott did not like that at all, ever since he had been mugged and lost all fifteen dollars in his pocket, he much preferred the false sense of security that he was given when he could actually see the criminals.
Lucky for him, he now had this car. A gift from his brother who, unlike the rest of Elliott’s family, still pitied him enough to give him his old car. His brother truly was a nice man, a little flamboyant with his showing of wealth in the cars and clothes he bought, but one could still be nice in their Porsche 911 and Italian jackets.
Elliott’s new apartment was not too dissimilar from his past lodgings, what with its fair share of dens, “massage” parlors, and the occasional cockroach. But at least the landlord wasn’t stingy about when the rent came in, as long as you were all square by the end of the year. Elliott hadn’t always lived in dumps like this, he used to live in the nice places, the types of places where the rent was more than the cost of his Pinto and you couldn’t just punch through one of the walls (an occurrence that had happened twice to Elliott’s apartments in recent years).
Elliott’s pinto puttered by the Palace of Gold casino, Elliott’s favorite before it closed. That was the Casino that felt like a second home. Elliott had spent more time on their Standard Chief machine than he did in his own bed at times. The crowds had dissipated with the rest of the city, but Elliott stayed, right up until the very end. He remembered the last day, he had won a jackpot; six thousand two hundred and fifty dollars. Elliott knew on that day that something special had happened, almost like the machine had sent him its last farewell before it was shut off and moved to some storage container somewhere. Elliott couldn’t even make out the golden “Oriental” lettering on the small building with the bonnet roof; reminiscent of a Pizza Hut roof if it had been squashed down a bit so that it lost its brand association and simply became a gently inclined roof. His apartment building on the other hand was not trying to entice or wow you; Elliott lived on the third floor, the “penthouse” suite with two entire windows to the outside, which allowed for beautiful views of the ill-maintained road and during the day, he could even make out the Palace of Gold casino, but it was too dark for that now so he didn’t see much of anything.
A few feet beside the door, a couple of hooks were affixed to the wall. Walking through the door, he threw his keys with his left. He had only made it once, the very first time he had tried, and yet he tried everyday. Today he fell just an inch short. Maybe tomorrow.
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