It sat on the edge of town: surrounded as if cradled by the pointed peaks of the Sierra Nevadas around its eastern horizon, and to its west, the vast, rolling San Joaquin valley. The skies were vast, painted in vibrant blues and fluffy whites. If it weren't for the latent misery of my existence, I would find it pleasant. Before all of this, I, in fact, did. But now I only saw and cursed the pollution-filled haze that held in perpetuity above the valley skies.
I walked across the gravel and stepped down to the tarmac, cutting across its black surface to the security door in the back.
"Have a good shift." The man behind the bulletproof glass said with a broad smile.
He was a new hire, and eager, it seemed. That exuberance would fade in a month or two of rote work. I flashed my badge across the scanner, and the small, black rectangle embedded on the red-orange painted walls beeped and unlocked the door. A three-deep line waited for their turns to clock in and begin their shift, and I fell in behind them.
Music blared from the speakers in the ceiling. The same dozen songs over and over and over again, that I would hear in my head when lying down to sleep for the night. I walked down the hall and took my third left into the main storage closet. Twelve other people were already waiting there, talking with one another in Tagalog and Spanish. I sighed, grabbed one of the rolling trash cans, and leaned against the shelf, waiting for our assignment.
"Hey, James!"
A hand slapped my shoulder.
I turned around: it was the only person I really got along with on the job: an elderly man named Hector. The rest, I could barely speak with. A few didn't speak a word of English, but most would only devolve into talking about subjects I couldn't quite get into: love and sex; wealth and hobbies. None of which I could afford to embrace at the moment. How could I embrace life if my father were clinging so tentatively to his? How could I embrace love when my heart was filled with so much sorrow and rage? There was nothing left inside of me but those. And nothing will ever remain inside of me again, until the day he opens his eyes.
"Hey Hector, how are you doing?"
"I'm doing alright." He said as he slapped my shoulder again. "I'm doing alright."
His wrinkled face was embossed within a thin white beard and equally thin, white hair. He only worked here because he was bored in his retirement.
"How about you?"
I forced my lips into a smile.
"As well as I can be," I said with an equally forced chuckle.
The door opened, and John, our supervisor, walked in with a clipboard. He was a rotund, balding man with peach fuzz on his face and bright grey eyes. His words were always spoken with a jovial bounce.
"Alright, we have a concert tonight, so you," he pointed to one man: Isaac, "And you," he pointed to a woman: Grace, "Will be working the event."
John turned to Grace and repeated the words in Spanish. He then gave out the rest of the orders to the crew in Spanish as well, before turning to me and Hector.
"You're in the A2 restroom." He motioned to me and continued, "Make sure you help on the gaming floor as well, Maria is in there tonight and will need the help."
A2: The smallest restroom, and the one closest to the casino's entrance and its two bars, was always the busiest. He liked to put me in there on days that we were sure to have the most people coming.
"And you're in C1." He said to Hector. "Get your radios, check your breaks, and take it on time this time."
He pushed by us to hang the schedule paper up on the corkboard. I turned around to look at it, while the others gathered in the hall to talk with one another. I had the latest break, as usual, and also had to make sure to check all the other restrooms when the other people were on lunch. I sighed and waited for the crowd to clear from the one-lane hall while they stood and talked with one another. With faint 'excuse-me's,' and gentle prodding, I was able to part through them like a salmon up a waterfall.
Work was rote. My mind was occupied by thoughts of my father. Every so often, flashes of pain would make their way through my body as I imagined the pain my father must have felt that night. Anger mixed in with those flashes, and I continued working through those surges.
How was life fair? These worshipers of Fate — that same Fate that robbed my father and mother of their golden years- spent thousands of dollars a night. Some of them repeatedly win thousands upon thousands of dollars. Should I try my luck tonight as well? So that my father might live another month? My hand wandered to my wallet: barren and empty, save for a single twenty-dollar bill that I had to stretch out for the next five days. I sighed and retreated back into the restroom to continue my work there.
People pushed past me in the dozens to urinate on the floors and to defecate on the rims of the toilets.
"Man, your job sucks, huh?" One man said as he noticed someone leaning against the wall across the room — a yellow puddle forming beneath him.
I was on the radio with security to get him removed when he continued after his glazed-over, half-opened eyes scanned me.
"You're one ugly motherfucker you know that?" His voice slurred, and his stance wobbly. "How the fuck do you even live with yourself when you're that ugly?"
I sighed.
"We're sending a couple of security over that way, just calm down and get out of there."
"Like seriously," the man continued, putting his hand on my shoulder and slowly shaking his head. "If I looked like you, I'd kill myself."
The smell from the man in the corner, and those in the stalls, and the smoke swirling in through the vortex of air that spun around the casino constantly to filter out the smell of cigarettes was overwhelming as his drunken face inched closer. The smell of the fermented hops on his breath was the final straw, and I clenched my fist.
And then he stopped.
Everything stopped.
The smells were replaced by the odor of singed copper. The sounds — the chirps and whirring of the machines outside, and the thumming of the music coming from the bars, by a quiet static. The color, too, was drained from the world. I glanced around. Nothing moved. Nothing stirred. It was as if someone had stopped time right then and there.
Was this disassociation? Was I losing my mind? A thousand thoughts raced through my head.
"Mr. Matthews." A voice called from the lobby. "If you would come out of there, please."
The voice sounded as if it rolled off every single tile on the floor: off the wooden panels on the wall, and off the porcelain of the sink. It echoed like thunder, and my heart shook in its place in my chest. There was a feeling that overwhelmed me: a smallness, is the best way to say it. As if I were standing in the shadow of a great mountain, or within the inner sanctum of a cathedral. Fear filled me, and animated my heart in a race through my chest, but something deeper and more primal moved within me: compulsion.
I stepped away from the man who was accosting me just a moment ago, and stood as frozen as a statue. My footsteps echoed as if they were taken across marble. All the world stood still. The smoke cluttering the ceiling stayed, and undulated as if I were standing beneath the surface of an alabaster sea. I glanced around.
"Over here."
The voice came from the direction of the entrance of the casino. I turned to my right and weaved through the frozen crowd. The wheels hung in place, as shadows stretched and darted as I passed: as if all the evils that lived within these walls were fleeing some ethereal good as I made my way to the front.
In the lobby, just as one walked into the casino, they were greeted by a statue — carved from the remnants of a Giant Sequoia, of Big Foot, with red trickling out of his eyes. In front of this statue, there was a man dressed in a blue and gray pin-striped suit. He rocked back and forth on the polished tiles: his well-shined, brown shoes creasing as he strained himself to look up into the face of the creature. It was difficult to look him in the face, as it felt as if I were staring at the noon-time sun.
"A fascinating story, this one tells." He said.
His voice still rolled like a storm.
"According to the stories told about him, he was instrumental in creating the people of this land. Do you know it?'
"I do," I said. "I asked one of the tribal Elders who came in one time about him. Apparently, He," I motioned up to the statue, "was the one who suggested that man walked upright."
"Indeed. And once man was created, they looked upon him and were afraid…" he paused as if taking a breath. "So he drew himself on a stone, crying." He motioned to the red tears coming from his eyes. "Tell me, Child, are you afraid?"
"A little," I answered.
My breath caught in my throat. And my heart pounded.
"Do not be." The man responded. "For I am here as an agent."
"An agent?" I asked.
"Yes. An agent of change, if you will: for you, and for many other creatures."
"What do you mean?"
"I am here as a representative of the Wisher's Crusade." He said with a bow. "And I am here to recruit you."