Below The Fold

Chances are…**

“The mail’s on your desk, dear,” Mrs. Renton greeted her husband from the kitchen, where she was preparing dinner. He shut the front door behind him and opened the hallway closet door.

“Thank you, honey. Anything pressing?” He hung his khaki overcoat on the same hook he always hung it, and then carefully placed his hat on the shelf in the back—upside down so as not to ruin the shape of the brim. Hat wearing may be a lost art, but that doesn’t mean it’s completely forgotten, he thought.

“No, dear. There was a letter from an Alex -something-or-other… I didn’t recognize the last name. Perhaps one of your fans?” His brow furrowed in annoyance at that. He’d taken great pains to retain his anonymity, especially in this age where any 13-year-old with a computer and half a brain could find enough information on someone to make a fortune from one of the entertainment tabloids—The whole Frank Cleary scandal came to mind—and he paid plenty for it. He’d have to call the agency in the morning and give Marcus an earful. Isn’t the whole point of having an “agent” to keep an intermediary between you and the rest of the world?

It’s nothing new, Thomas thought as he made his way down the hall towards his study. The price of fame is freedom, his publisher had said over a glass of Chivas on the eve of the release of his first blockbuster, Aurora Bleeds Tomorrow. Thomas joked about it being a steal at that cost with some throw away remark about the confines of the physical plane or some other hackneyed philosophical rhetoric. The truth was, his publisher wasn’t only right— it was a massive understatement. The book was optioned and produced into a movie within two years, and Marcus, shark that he was, landed Thomas six percent of gross, an unheard of deal at the time. The movie made $73 million on just the opening weekend and Thomas went from well-to-do writer to media mogul overnight. His face was everywhere.

Thomas tread across the rust-colored carpet and slid behind his particle-board-and-aluminum desk. Mrs. Renton had tried unsuccessfully to get him to throw it away for the better part of their 37-year-long marriage, but Thomas wouldn’t hear of it. “It’s as much a part of my writing process as the blasted computer,” he said every time she made motions to replace it with some trendy, overpriced schlock from that silly IKEA catalogue, which she had effectively used to rid the house of all character. But she did have taste, he reminded himself—at least in men.

He pulled the overstuffed leather chair—a gift from Marcus after Thomas’ second book made him a partner in the agency—closer to the desk. He picked up the antique ebony letter opener—another gift from Marcus—in his right hand and the first envelope in his left. The return address was in Chicago, Illinois, from an Alex Merrit. Thomas knew plenty of people from Illinois, but the name still hadn’t rung a bell. He sliced effortlessly through the envelope and pulled out a piece of neatly folded yellow legal tablet paper.

He unfolded it, revealing a check for $15,850.

Thomas stared quizzically at the check for a moment, as though it were some alien artifact he might have stumbled upon while walking on the beach. Then, his eyes drifted to the sweeping cursive adorning the legal paper.

“Mr. Renton,” it began. “You told me once that everyone should get a second chance. The one you gave me was all I needed. Thank you. Sincerely, Alex Merrit.”

Thomas smiled then, finally noticing the business card that slipped out with the legal paper. It read “Alex Merrit, Senior Partner” and the company crest underneath it said “Merrit and Nagle,” and nothing more, which was the mark of a blue chip law firm—so prominent everyone should know who they are.

“You made it, kid,” he muttered to himself, thinking back to his 30th wedding anniversary, and the trip he took with his wife to Las Vegas.

Thomas had just officially retired from teaching to write, and had just sold Aurora Bleeds Tomorrow and the trip was celebrating the largest check he’d received up to then—$150,000—an advance on the next book. He remembered taking his wife to see Wayne Newton their second night there, and how she had gotten drunk on white russians. He remembered tucking her into bed at their suite at the Desert Inn and wandering downstairs to play blackjack.

He stayed pretty even for a while and started to get bored, so he wandered off to the bar and sat down to watch the rest of the Air Force game. He loved the way Fisher DeBerry could take any group of zoomies and turn them into a competitive ball club regardless of where they came from, and without the recruiting methods of the big football schools. However, it was 16-6 going into halftime and Air Force was having a hard time of it. Looked like it wasn’t going to be Fisher’s night.

He sat down between an off-duty cocktail waitress and young man with sandy hair. As Thomas ordered a Dewar’s and water he glanced sideways at the young man next to him.

He wasn’t doing too well, Thomas thought. The kid looked downtrodden and tired, and his clothes looked like they’d been slept in. His head hung limply from his shoulders, threatening to skid his chin on the bar.

“Why don’t you pour one for the kid here,” he said to the bartender. The youngster looked up and managed a weak smile. “Thanks, mister.”

“Forget about it, son,” he replied. “You look like you could use it.”

“Damned straight,” he said. He sat quietly for a moment, then grinned ruefully.

“You ever wish your life had a rewind button?” he asked. “You know, like a VCR or a cassette player? Except after you hit rewind, you could play it forward with a different ending?”

“You mean like a second chance?” Thomas replied. The kid nodded. “Son, everyone should get a second chance. If my high school sweetheart wouldn’t have given me a second chance after we broke up before the prom, I never would have married.”

“I wish I could get a second chance,” the kid said. “I’m supposed to start my final semester of college in a week.”

“Where do you go?” Thomas asked. The kid pointed to the Jayhawk pin on his lapel.

“And, I just found out I got accepted to Tulane for Law School.”

“So what’s the problem?” Thomas asked. “You don’t want to go to law school?”

“That’s just it. I can’t. In the last 24 hours, I gambled away everything I had in my bank account, including tuition for this semester. Hell, I can’t even swing bus fare home. My friends took off last night after we fought about me spending so much money. They were right and I treated them like an asshole. My girlfriend smacked me in the face and I swore at her and told her to leave. It was like someone else was pulling my strings, turning me into the biggest schmuck since Joey Buttafuco.”

Thomas chuckled at the reference. “So, just how much did you lose?”

“Fifteen thousand, eight hundred dollars.”

Thomas let out a low whistle. “Roulette?”

“Yup. My buddy had a system.”

“Double the bet on odd on every loss?” The kid looked at Thomas incredulously.

“Yeah… except it was evens… How’d you know?”

“Son, that’s the oldest, dumbest ’system’ in Vegas. You got better odds playing blackjack.”

“Where were you 24 hours ago?” the kid muttered.

“Son, roulette is a game for fools and women. It’s got a pretty marble and red and black squares on this spinning Victorian contraption, and you’ve got all these odds out there depending on how you play—2:1, 3:1, 12:1, 36:1… and on and on. So it’s enough to keep you confused.

“And suckers think that they can predict where the marble’s going to land based on how the croupier’s going to throw it, or at least which group of numbers it’s most likely to hit. Or, they try the ‘double up your bet on the loss’ method, which, as you’ve discovered is just as hopeless.

“The thing is, the zero and the double zero prevent the odds from working in your favor. The only way you can break the house in that manner is by outlasting the house, which means you better have about a billion dollars to play it… or at least a hell of a lot more than fifteen thousand, eight hundred dollars.” Thomas looked the kid over. “What’s your name, son?”

“Alex Merrit. But ‘jackass’ will do fine.”

Thomas shook his head and pulled out his checkbook.”Yeah, you’re a jackass, but it sounds like you’ve learned your lesson. Here’s a second chance, kid,” he said, pulling out a pen. He clicked the end of it and began writing out a check. “I got a run of real good luck recently, so I can afford to do something I normally wouldn’t have been able to do.” He ripped the check out of the checkbook.

“Here’s a check for all your losses.” he said, pulling out his wallet and opening it up. “And here’s $50 to get your ass on a Greyhound home. It’s your second chance, take it and run.”

Alex sat staring gape-mouthed at the check. He started to protest.

“Consider it a loan. Interest free. Pay it back when you can. My address is on the check. Now don’t stop at any tables. Just walk away and never look back.”

Alex stood up, his eyes moist. He shook Thomas’ hand, finished his drink and turned on his heel and walked away. Thomas turned his attention back to the game and watched the Falcons lose 30-6. Then he went back to his suite and spent the rest of the trip uneventfully.

And here he was, almost eight years later, looking at Alex’s repayment.

“Dear?” his wife called from the kitchen, shaking him out of his reverie. “Dinner’s about ready. Why don’t you get washed up. I made roast chicken, with your favorite, twice-baked potato.”

Thomas smiled, folded the check in half and slipped it into his breast pocket. He pushed back from the desk and walked into the kitchen for dinner.

**This story is inspired by the true exploits of Katy Carter’s grandfather, a man of substance, charity and good will.