“Eight of swords.” I can’t tell if the dealer recognizes the unlikelihood of the pull. It keeps happening. Over, and over, and over. Eight of swords, eight of swords, eight of swords. A woman, bound and blindfolded. Surrounded by a prison of swords. Water at her feet. No clear exit.
The dealer coughs up a lighter. Classic party trick. Offers to light players’ cigarettes. A few take her up on it. One decides he’s had enough, stubs it out where his third eye should be. Waives a server over. Orders rocket fuel with a twist, which is free, as long as you’re playing.
I’m over table games; I move to slots. Slots are mindless work. Insert frequent player card. Insert cash. Place bet. Pull lever. Hope. Wait. Watch the nine of cups appear: wish fulfillment, nice. Watch the nine of pentacles appear: self-sufficiency and financial independence, fucking finally! Allow yourself a single sip of excitement. Think about the things a three of a kind could offer you. Fantasize about paying off your karmic debts. Remember the third reel is still spinning. Hope. Hope. Hope. The high priestess in reverse. Guilt. Doubting intuition. Smack the thing on its side like a busted vending machine.
Casinos strive for temporal disruption. Players need to come slightly untethered from time, their anchoring “gently stirred.” Not shaken. Nothing alarming enough to distress. Lulling is a subtle art. The tenderest lobster begins in cold water, then simmer, then a boil. Else the muscles tighten and the whole meal goes to shit.
But here, disorientation isn’t achieved through lack thereof, it’s through info flooding. Clocks are existent and plentiful. Analogs. Digitals. Grandfathers. Cuckoos. They all declare it is 5:55. No AM or PM. No movement. It’s perpetually 5:55. Which seems impossible, until it feels true. Until you catch yourself checking and thinking, “Look at the time, it’s already 5:55,” or “Oh! It’s only 5:55!” Depending on how close you are to your big break.
The cosmos through the windows don’t help to indicate passage of time, which is different in space, anyway. It’s impossible to know who is orbiting who, whether one’s moon is another’s sun. Most of it is dark matter, anyway. Eventually you stop thinking about time altogether. Until, of course, the next time you do, at which point you’ll be dismayed or relieved to learn it is exactly 5:55.
I’ve pulled the eight of swords hundreds of times today, as I do every day. It follows me. Sometimes I find it stuck to the floor. Peeking out from a wallet left behind. Always upright. Always waiting. Always trapped.
Once, I unwedged one from a bathroom faucet. It was rolled, blocking the flow. When freed, a new card appeared in its place. The fool in reverse. Then another eight of swords. The five of cups. Three more eights of swords. When I pulled the tower in reverse I gave up and accepted the sink’s dysfunction.
I watch an old woman bet her two front teeth and some space junk at a low-stakes poker table while I wait for the ATM. I’m observing a comet pass through a hole in the ceiling the exact size and shape of a humpback whale, when I notice my shoes are wet. Water is everywhere, about an inch deep. The carpet pattern begins to swim. I’m overcome with the urge to jump; splash in the rainwater puddled in our grandpa’s driveway, the way my sister and I did when I was eight and she was five.
I reflexively check the clock. 5:55. For the first time, I know that’s not the way. The way to what? I wonder. The water has risen. Ankle depth. More comets through the humpback whale. No—meteors. A whole shower of them. I realize we’re passing through something. The star card flips through the sky. Faith. Renewal.
When the water reaches knee-depth, I trust fall. I feel more buoyant than ever. Tadpoles cluster around my hair. The carpeting becomes algae-adorned rock. I let tears slip down my face, belly-laughing as I raise the water levels.
Suddenly, an exit appears on the north wall. Panic. I start to sink, quickly catch myself and tread, trying to stay afloat. I find a craps table and heave myself up past the pass line. A dealer tells players to place their bets. I realize they’re oblivious to the water, still zeroed in on the hands they’ve been dealt. Someone orders another drink. Someone folds, and all I can think is, I cannot leave this place. I’ll just be free-floating through space, untethered. What if I can’t breathe out there?
I realize I won’t be able to breathe in here, either, if it all goes under.
The craps table floats higher. In the time it took to consider it all, the exit sign has become almost completely submerged. I’m confident the door will be water-sealed, but I try anyway. In a leap of faith, I dive underwater, swatting poker chips and dismantled cuckoos as they drift toward me. I find the panic bar and push. Nothing. I try to body it, but I can’t get the right momentum. I need more leverage. And suddenly, I’m panicking about not leaving. I swim to the surface for air. I take it in in heaving gulps. I spin in circles. I spin out. I watch third reels spin while people try to win their mortgages back.
And there it is. The eight of swords. I pluck it from the water before it floats past. And the way I pull it, I’m holding it in reverse, and I see it now. Above her is just open air. The swords aren’t imprisoning. The binding isn’t tight enough to matter. If she just took off her own blindfold she’d see. She can leave at any time.
Space dust lands on my forehead. Reminds me of Ash Wednesday, so I leave it. I look up to see the water has risen so much that I’m nearing the hole in the ceiling. Above me, floating out there, wisps of color. Lights. The world card. I clutch the eight of swords to my chest, close my eyes, and tip back. I’m floating up, up, up, and out.