The Gambler Redux: 99 Problems

“I got two choices y’all: pull over the car OR bounce on the devil, put the pedal to the floor.”

-Jay Z

“How much does a lie weigh?”

“Say what,” asks the man vainly cleaning a dirty glass with an even dirtier rag behind the bar.

“I… nothing.”

We’ve been at this bar before. Or a thousand like it.

Rob Williams in a dirty shirt in a dirtier barroom.

Usually, though, he’s crying. Or angry. Or crying and angry.

Every now and then, usually when he’s with his fellow Whoresmen, he’s happy - you know, just a little too happy. An engineered, keystone smile.

But something is different this time.

This time he’s just a monolith on a smoke stained barstool. A mass of cells breaking down second by second as Hank Sr. describes a poor whippoorwill over the jukebox.

There’s nothing there.

He rolls the drink around in his hand, staring at his distorted reflection in the dark.

A door somewhere behind them cries for WD-40. Sunlight breaks in, causing the bartender who has appeared in front of Rob to squint momentarily. He nods his head to the entrant and then eyes up Rob with his glass.

Rob doesn’t acknowledge either.

“You spend any more time with that one and I’mma call the preacher in to marry y’all.”

The bartender is an ugly man - past the pockmarks and boils and wrinkles. It’s his soul.

Someone hurt him a long time ago.

Rob grimaces, not so much as raising his head, but his hands turn white from the pressure he’s suddenly putting on the glass.

In his head he smashes the glass into the bartender’s dome piece six different ways.

And on a different day, he would. But today, he's too busy rotting away.

B-b-b-b-bad to the bone.

Rob yearns for the late nineties.

When did people stop using ringtones? What is this fucking world? 

He sighs deeply, releasing the glass to pull out his phone.

“Hello.” Flat. Muted.

“Ro… Rob, you good? What the fuck man you sound like you’re on the wrong side of the bridge, brother,” John lets out in a single breath.

He’s excited about something.

“Yeah, I’m shaving. What’s up?”

“Brother, it’s happening. They booked you against Kerry. This is it, bud. You got another shot at the 5 Star Title and it’s the main event. The fucking big show.”

Rob opens and closes his hand, remembering the feeling of the catcher’s mitt.

On another day, Rob might be able to share this moment with his closest friend. Not today, though.

“Oh, wow. That’s something. Hey, man, let me call you back when I get done here.”

“Ok. I love you, bu-”

Rob hangs up the phone and throws back the contents of his glass, relishing the burn all the way down.

“I love you, too.”

Well, fuck me.

He thinks about Kerry. About the last time.

“I’d of kept that fucking glove. The dingo, too.”

The dingo did the job.

He remembers saying he was all in.

But, he wasn’t.

“I’m going to have a piss,” Rob announces to the bartender.

If he’s heard, he isn’t acknowledged. Rob slinks to the bathroom quietly.

The bathroom has that unmistakable dive bar smell. Sticky floors and the sickly, sweet aroma of old whiskey. There are no urinals, just a trough.

He stares at the wall in front of him as he unzips, his mind unable to focus on a word in the sea of stickers plastered on the wall.

“Robbie, Robbie, Robbie,” a familiar voice calls.

So much low hanging fruit. How come you only come around when my dick is in my hand? Or and here I thought some asshole forgot to flush.

But, “Oh, hi Todd,” is the only thing other than piss coming out.

“Hi, Todd? That’s it? Robbie - you don’t call, you don’t write. You don’t titttthe. Have you forgotten your good friend Brother Todd?”

I could pin it all on this fucker.

“No, Todd. I haven’t forgotten you.”

One shake.

Two shakes.

"Three and you’re playing with yourself."

BAM

At least Big let Rob put his dick away before landing a haymaker that leaves The Legend on the ground. Little and Big begin a flurry of kicks to Rob. Rob can only seem to wonder what kind of bacteria lives on the cool, white subway tile against his cheek.

A solid shot against his head busts a fickle, old wound open.

Rob watches his blood dance down the faded and yellowed grout lines.

“Enough,” Todd barks at his hounds.

Rob smells the shine from Little’s boot as it presses against his head.

Through the ringing, Rob picks up “Hurt” playing in the bar.

So many jokes god.

Did something crack?

“I said enough.”

Todd lands a direct hit to Little’s crotch, who joins Rob on the nice cold floor.

The dive bar bathroom looks like a b-grade snuff film.

“Sorry about that, Robbie - you know how dogs are. Sometimes it’s hard to get them back on the leash once you’ve let them off,” the little man smiles simply as he lands his own kick to Little’s ribs. “Isn’t that right, Brother Little?”

“Sure thing,” Rob opens and closes his jaw. Something that shouldn’t click is clicking. He knows it’ll irk him to no end.

“Brother Big, help our friend Robbie up.”

The giant man is careful to not let any of Rob’s blood get on his perfectly pressed shirt as he lifts Rob up with ease, setting him down to lean against the sink.

Rob opens and closes, opens and closes his mouth as he slides down to sit on the floor. Click click.

“Thanks big guy,” Rob manages.

“The Church needs its due, Robbie. Apparently you need a deadline. We want the entirety of your tithing by the PPV - or we’re going to start getting real familiar with that cute blonde and the boy that looks remarkably like you. Now, Robbie, a little bird told us you got a big match at the next ReVival.”

The little man pulls a handkerchief from the inner coat of his impeccable white suit. Rob wonders where Todd gets the little suits. Baby gap, maybe?

“Phew, been a while,” the little man says while dabbing at the sweat on his thick, gray brows. “I hope you are picking up what I’m putting down here. We ain’t asking you to do anything other than, you know, be yourself. Do what everybody expects you to do anyways. Would go a long way with The Church.”

Todd neatly folds his handkerchief and puts it back in his sports coat. “Come on, Big. Pick up your brother and let’s get out of here.”

The giant picks up the smaller man, who still is holding his crotch.

As the door opens, Rob looks up over at them, mouth open a bit too wide.

“How much does a lie weigh?”

“What,” Todd questions. “Boys, I think y’all done broke him. I don’t know, Robbie, but I can tell you how much a suitcase of money weighs. The PPV.”

Rob sits with his weight in silence.

He opens and closes his jaw, feeling that nagging click, trying to answer one question: Why didn’t he fight back?

After what feels like an eternity, he slides his phone from his leather jacket. 

Cooley

 

yo

…

what’s up man?

in the shit. need to run sumthin by u. need to get right.

right on. Rob nods and slides the phone back into his leather jacket.

He’s sick of being  with people who don't know what get right means.

Cooley knows.

“Just a taste,” Rob whispers to himself.

There’s no one there to argue with him.

RING RING RING

“Fuck,” Rob gently bangs his head against the tiled wall behind him.

He’s late.

But not that late. He could stop by Cooley’s on the way.

The Legend hoists himself up, a trickle of blood running from his ears. He snorts, looking at himself in the mirror. He opens and closes his jaw while turning side to side.

“I’ve looked worse.”

RING RING RING

The second alarm.

“I’m coming, Finn. I’m fucking coming.”

The kid even moves like me. How can he not see it? How can he not know? 

As Finn bounces off the rope and sprints across the ring to the other rope, Rob watches in awe.

Finn is Rob twenty, maybe thirty, years ago. Chiseled, but not juice level. No, more like a pit bull. He explodes into motion, his body listening without arguing.

Effortless and light.

How much does a lie weigh?

“ROB!”

Rob blinks.

“Yeah?”

“Can I fucking stop,” Finn nearly begs, gasping for air.

“Sure, yeah. Take five.”

“Goddamn, man,” Finn calls out from his hands and knees.

Rob tosses a faded gatorade water bottle onto the mat in front of Finn without thinking about it.

The young man stands, little dots appearing on the mat below from the sweat dripping off him. Rob wonders how long he was checked out.

“So, Kerry again, huh?”

What does he see when he looks at me?

“Yeah, that’s what they booked. Guess they figure I didn’t get my fill last time,” Rob replies. “Alright, enough fucking off. And look - you’re coming off the ropes too early. Lean into it, let the ropes push you. They’re a tool - let the tool do the work.”

Finn runs it back and takes Rob’s advice to heart, bounding off the ropes just right this time.

Rob nods in approval. He doesn’t even notice Finn watching for it.

“Ok let’s work your lock up for a bit,” Rob says, climbing into the ring.

They dance around one another a bit. Something about being in the ring with this kid lights that old fire in the rotten cunt’s belly. He charges in, quickly pulling the younger bull down into a headlock.

“Come on, boy. You gotta be quicker than that,” Rob lets him free and steps back, putting his hands up.

“You excited to get another shot at the 5 Star,” Finn asks as they circle one another.

I’m scared shitless. 

“Sure.”

Finn moves like Rob’s shadow, waiting for the opportune moment to lock up. Rob’s not sure how it happens, but he finds himself in the headlock this time.

Goddamn the kid is fast.

Fast, but not efficient. He’s doing nothing to block the inevitable. Rob locks his arms around Finn’s waist - prepping a German Suplex that will have the kid eating Excedrin for a week.

But, he doesn’t hit it.

Instead, he softly taps on Finn to get him to break.

“Watch,” Rob says and softly turns Finn around. He pushes in on either of Finn’s arms to lock his elbows tight to his sides. “Squeeze like you’re trying to push out a big shit. They can’t get a good wrap if you’re tight.”

Finn nods and they go again.

This time he protects himself before letting Rob go.

“You gonna be here tomorrow,” Finn asks, fully out of breath.

Rob pauses for a moment.

If I admit this shit and go away, who’s going to keep this kid from getting suplexed? 

“Yeah,” Rob finally squeaks out, “I’ll be by tomorrow. I gotta shower and run, though.”

They dap one another and Rob holds the hug just a bit too long again.

He could sit in the hot shower all day - skip Cooley entirely. Just sit there, soaking in that relaxing heat. Allow himself that time to not carry any of it - will he tell on himself? Will he take the dive? How the hell is he going to pay Todd?

Can he even win?

Kerry is The Emerald Apex.

He’s younger. He’s hungry. He doesn’t flinch.

Kerry Kuroyama just shows up and does the goddamn thing.

But, all Rob allows himself is a rinse.

He needs to go see Cooley.

His feet squeak on the tile floor as he half-heartedly towels himself off, walking to the locker.

The humid, soapy smell of the air is replaced with cigarette smoke.

“Oh, lord. Here we go,” Rob calls out as he towels off, not turning around to see The Father sitting on the bench behind him.

“Robert.”

Rob refuses to look at The Father, tossing his wet towel into the laundry bin.

“I don’t have time for this shit right now," he calls over his shoulder as he pulls his clothing from the locker.

“Yes, I see you have a very busy schedule.”

A pregnant pause.

“What the fuck do you want, man? I did what you said. I kept my goddamn mouth shut.”

The Father nods, smoke billowing from his nose.

“Ah, yes. But you have not committed to the pot, Robert. You just paid the ante.”

“What - what the fuck does that even mean?”

“You have not made your decision, son.”

Rob grimaces at the pain in his jaw as he slips on his cowboy boots.

“It’s all so simple, right man? Just live with this fucking cancer of a lie for the rest of my life, right? Jesus, man, it’s awful. I can’t eat. I can’t fucking drink. I can’t do anything.”

“Hm. That does seem to be your cross to bear. For a time, at least. You can’t tell me that you didn’t feel it in the ring just now. With the boy.”

He’s not wrong. And he knows that Rob knows it.

“Yeah, but everything else…”

“Will get easier with time, Robert. You’ve done this to yourself. Of course it hurts. It always will. But, with time, you will find new meaning - have new memories. Life is not over.”

Rob wants to believe him. He’s still holding the boot pulls despite having already put the boots on.

“At what cost?”

“Cost? Let’s talk about cost. You are a two time felon, Robert. The cost of you getting to be the hero in your own story is twenty to thirty years.”

A defeated sigh. Rob tries to ignore it, walking across the room to the mirror.

“And where will the boy be, then, Robert, hm? Who will teach him to protect himself?”

Rob opens and closes his mouth in the mirror, staring at The Father behind him.

“Fuck you. Always playing Monday morning quarterback. Where the hell were you when I was getting my ass kicked all over earlier, huh? You don’t get to use him, you fuck.”

“Playing the hand I was given, Robert. You should try it some time.”

Rob winces as he pulls his shirt over his bruised and battered ribs.

“Go fuck youself.”

On the way out the door, Rob pulls out his phone. He's done arguing.

His fingers twitch as he pulls up Cooley's text.

Cooley

on my way

"He better not have nodded off without me," Rob mutters to himself as he exits into the cold.

Rob can feel it as he walks up to Cooley's door. Sweaty, hot - stomach bubbling. Not sure if he's going to puke or shit himself.

Of course the door was unlocked.

“You better not have used all your shit, Cooley,” Rob calls out as he shuts the door behind him.

How much does a lie weigh?

Something familiar plays on Cooley’s Clearaudio Statement V1. Sort of.

Rob remembers the eight ball Cooley spent waxing poetic about how that system (which costs more than Rob Williams made most years of his life) was too big to fail.

The perfect machine, he called it, Rob reflects as he stops by the kitchen to grab a beer.

“Your fancy record player is fucked, Cooley,” Rob chuckles.

Indeed, Cooley’s perfect machine is fucked.

It’s Jagger - he’s saying something about leaving roses on your grave. But he sounds drunk.

Rob turns the corner to the living room, still clicking his mouth open and closed between slugs of the quickly emptying beer.

“Where the fuck are you, Cooley? This music is tripping me out, man.”

Inside the living room he finds Cooley.

A needle sticks out of his arm like a lawn dart. Cooley is slumped against the Clearaudio Statement V1.

Rob plants his cracked lips against Cooley’s blue lips, one ghost trying to give another the kiss of life.

He pounds on Cooley’s chest. Hard.

He pours the ice cold beer on Cooley.

After each action Rob listens for breathing.

Nothing.

Rob waits for it - thinks about the situation he’s in clearly trying to will it. He even holds his breath and pushes.

But the tears don’t come.

He doesn’t know what else to do, so he presses his forehead into Cooley’s shoulder. Inch by inch, he slides down to lay next to his fiend.

Jagger keeps on singing about flowers that don’t grow anymore.

The immediate aftermath is a cyclone: paramedics and police. Neighbors out on their porches staring.

“Most people would’ve just left him,” one of the police tells Rob after getting his statement.

Someone asks Rob for a name.

“Cooley.”

“The other one.”

Rob doesn’t know it.

They call Cooley’s emergency contact and Rob’s phone begins to ring.

Someone asks Rob if Cooley has any family.

He shakes his head no. They ask if he’s sure. He shakes his head again.

They tell him it will be ok and hand him a piece of paper. There’s a family crying on it and a number to call. He folds it neatly and sets it down on the coffee table.

And just like that, one by one they all leave.

The very last person there is a tired looking officer who has been shackled with the unfortunate job of asking Rob to leave.

Rob is left sitting outside in a lawn chair - a bottle he took from Cooley’s liquor cabinet between his legs.

The wind is blowing lightly. It causes the yellow “crime scene” tape over Cooley’s door he didn’t break down to flap.

They left a light on inside.

Rob cannot stop thinking about that light.

Nobody even asked him if they should turn it off.

The bottle is halfway gone when the headlights force Rob to cover his red and dry eyes.

The car door shuts. He recognizes the way Charlotte shuffles her heels immediately.

Rob looks up at her face and finds the moonlight frames her beauty in a mythical way.

She doesn’t need to say a word.

At first, Rob pushes her hand away when she reaches for his head. The second time she pushes past him.

Suddenly he’s melting into her arms.

Charlotte cradles Rob’s head in her arms, running a hand through his long hair.

Something gives. The gates don’t open, but enough to let the pressure out.

“Come home,” she whispers in his ear as he takes a stuttered breath.

“Ok,” he crackles in a whisper.

He pushes himself up - knees wobbly, stomach full of butterflies. Charlotte wraps an arm around him and he leans into her.

She helps him carry the weight - to the car.

He stands in the moonlight, breath heavy with whiskey. Rob knows he needs to figure it all out - to decide how he’s going to play his hand.

But, not tonight.

Rob Williams has had his ass kicked today.

That hasn’t stopped him before.

“I love you, Charlotte.”

“Shut up and get in the goddamn car.”