Cash Machine

I am frequently terrified of checking the balance at the Cash Machine.

With four,

no five,

one was hiding

cigarettes left.

Always give the pack a good shake before you come to any jackass conclusions.

Always check your evidence.

I bend my knees, crack my wrist blow in the fist and scream like a low stakes jack praying for craps

for gas cash

to get the fuck off of Fremont St at 4:33 on the morning before New Year’s Eve.

C’mon

C’mon

C’mon

GIMME TWENTY.

GIMME TWENTY

GIMME TWENTY!

It’s a long prayer, please be in there

I stare waiting to hear the churning scream of the tumblers starting to click and

spit it out

Spit out

Spit out.

Please.

Spit out.

Pull it together, stick your finger down your throat and

Spit

It

Out.

CRAPS!

And I count how many days till payday and think of how I can treat myself with what I got left.

I’m still four dollars short of a bottle of Two Buck Chuck.