A Game of Marbles

The roulette wheel spun like a carnival ride, reflecting the flashing neon lights of the Beau Rivage Casino. A black marble whirled in its opposite peripheral circuit, soon to separate the winners from the losers. Harlan was there.

A crowd encircled the table. Casino chips lay scattered on green felt among the colors of red and black, and the numerical potentials for joy or heartbreak. The wheel slowed and the marble bounced wildly among the colored and numbered slots in this wheel of fortune or forfeiture. Animated bodies and shrill voices pleaded for the black marble’s favor for this color, or that number. The marble stopped, falling into a red slot numbered 22.

Cheers and groans mingled incomprehensively. The ambient air was electric. The croupier’s long rake retrieved the losing chips, paid the winning ones. Space at the table opened, and Harlan stepped in. Finally, he thought, another game of marbles, this time for real.

“Place your bets,” barked the croupier. Chips were wagered while Harlan stood fingering the bulge of chips in his pocket. They represented his entire savings from years of work. “You in, sir?” the pit boss asked. “Bet down, or move back.”

“I’m in,” Harlan answered. After all, it was only a game of chance, like life, he rationalized. He pulled the chips from his pocket and placed them all on 4 red, a 35-to-1 bet. And prayed.

The croupier spun the roulette wheel, sending the black marble into its circuit. The crowd was transfixed. Shocked at having bet it all on one spin, Harlan’s mind swirled with the wheel. He remembered the game of marbles in the sand lots of his youth.

That was a long time ago now. They gathered after school, best friends, risking their marbles to gain someone else’s, but knowing it worked both ways. Always a winner and a loser. Shooting marbles was simple. A circle in the sand, the bet of five marbles each, and pitching to a line to set the shooting order.

Harlan’s favorite marbles were the cat eyes, clear polished glass with an interior resembling a cat’s eye. He had kept one for luck. Bill’s favorites were the steam rollers, the jumbos that lacked finesse, just brute strength. He seldom won.

Tubby was the serious shooter and played for keeps. His black “shooter” had a mean backspin. He always scored, winning more marbles than he lost. If he were hot, he could empty the circle before anyone else got a shot…made for a bad day! Terry, Jimmy and Harlan were average shooters, mostly playing for fun.

Harlan’s gaze returned to the spinning wheel, the black marble bouncing in wild gyrations. Anxiety mixed with fear permeated the crowd. The roulette noose tightened. Harlan stiffened, squeezing his talisman. Oh, the power a black ball holds on one’s future, he thought.

Why was he here? Because he’d made the paper’s foreclosure section for a month. Come Tuesday someone else might own his farm. Options were limited. The bank’s loan windows were closed, the farm didn’t sell and his cash was all but exhausted. The chips on the table represented what was left---his last hope.

Harlan thought about his old marble-shooting pals. One dead, one an evangelist, one a pharmacist, one a chef and himself, a farmer. He wondered how things had played out for them. His eyes returned to the spinning wheel. In its reflection he saw his future.

The wheel slowed, the black marble bounced savagely, a consequence looming. Harlan studied the faces at the table, faces like his own. Faces that fate had dealt with in its own way. He wondered why they were here, what was their story?

Suddenly it was over. The wheel slowed. The black marble had made its choice. Anguish filled some faces, elation shown in others. A few left the table, others doubled down. Fresh money filled the vacancies for this game of marbles.

In games of chance there were always winners and losers. Harlan yielded his place and wandered through the casino. He saw the wretched sitting with vacuous faces at the slots, the calculating blackjack strategists, the disguised poker gurus. A circus of desperation and addiction, he concluded.

Harlan wondered about the future. Things wouldn’t be the same after tonight, that’s for sure. Neither would a game of marbles. He wondered if boys still played marbles in small-town sand lots. If so, would they realize its meaning or where it could lead? Now he knew.

Outside, he stood in the fresh air at the water’s edge of the Biloxi Gulf Coast. How would he reconcile tonight? Simple…just another game of marbles where there were winners and losers. And tomorrow? It’ll take care of itself, he thought.

Saying goodbye to the past, Harlan flung his cat-eye talisman into the indifferent surf. Laughing to himself, he moved on.