The Gambler

THE GAMBLER by Timothy Dewey
copyright 1992






The lithe machine stormed past a line of cars on the highway. He held on for dear life as the beast made a run up the stretch of road that would surely had launched him if he had wings. It was midnight. The weekend was here.
A Sportster, it was his. He sat on it like it were built for him, although it was born decades ago, and had seen several owners. It had a custom look for a '75, an antique in the style of the bikes of old. He let off of the throttle and slowed between traffic. In the constant arc of light emanating from the vibrating mirrors, he had thought he noticed a vehicle closing in on him, could be a cop. A small car whizzed by, it's taillights instantly melting in with the glittering jewels of distant light in his path.
His ass hurt, it was cold, he had no gas gauge or reserve, but under the ill-fitting helmet, he was smiling... as best he could at 80 miles an hour. Several exits passed by without warning. He thought again about the fact that he had no gas gauge or fuel reserve. What was the range on this thing? On his only highway ride he had gauged it at just under 50 mpg when he knew the distance and the gallons he held. But he had tweaked the carb during a little fuel problem, and now he was just guessing. The last exit had the only gas station open that he had seen at this hour of the night. With a bold twist he throttled on into the night and gained on the garnet red lights of the future in front of him.
Twenty minutes had passed. In his mind he reasoned out his range, feeling for any indication that he might be wrong. He had put about three gallons in and ran it while he figured out his fuel problem, but how much distance had he covered during that troubleshooting stint. With a slight jolt he got his answer. the steed struggle for fuel, it coughed radically, a bolt of blue tailpipe lightning struck the highway. Still behind the pack of racing cars, he had room to perform the scavenging, side to side maneuver that he hoped would slide any remaining fuel down the throat of the beast. With a final lunge, his mount died beneath him, leaving the sound of the wind in his ears as the bike coasted to a stop. He cursed his hopeful ignorance as the bike stopped and he examined his position. In the distance, the slowly revolving gas station sign shone like a beacon in the crisp night sky. Luckily, it was a Sportster... and easy to push.
Inside of thirty minutes he was at the pumps. None of the cheap gasoline had enough muscle for the big twin engine. He loaded it with the next best thing, ninety-two octane and some octane booster, and was on his way. Lake Tahoe was a four hour drive from the San Francisco area. He had taken out a little more than an hour on what fuel he had. When he filled the tank, a little less than four gallons registered on the pump. Even with something not running quite right he figured he at least would have thirty five miles to the gallon, enough to get him home.
Once again he was blasting past the speeding traffic on the highway. Sacramento, Placerville, and then the twisting mountain road of highway fifty still lay in his path. The freshly fueled steed beneath him bolted like a rocket through the cluster of machines in and about the roadway. He reduced them to pin points of light as he raced to an open area of the road. The night was clear and crisp, cold stars shimmered above him as the sky met the blackness of the road ahead.
Since the refueling, he had figured on topping off at the first stop in Placerville, before climbing into the mountains. As he approached and passed the exit, he wondered why he gambled like this. It was a twisted venture, to take a chance at running out of gas before he reached his destination. As he left the exit to the gas stop behind him, he calculated and reasoned away the chance of running out of gas. Three and a half gallons at thirty five to forty miles to the gallon, running rough of course, would still leave him a slim margin of safety. But the bike wasn't running rough, it ran like a thoroughbred on a dry track at Bay Meadows. He would gas up at the first station in Lake Tahoe.
The roar of the engine subsided as he guided his mount through the stop and go sections of the highway in Placerville. With a twist he was up to highway speed as the sleeping hamlet disappeared behind him, swallowed up by the first turn of the ribbon of black highway. The temperature dropped by ten degrees as he climbed into the mountains. He could feel every minute climate change as he rode through them, savoring every warm pocket of air he blasted through, taking it for all it was worth. This was the ride, it was all of the discomfort, balanced with the thrill, the gamble. Just him and his machine, his iron horse... and the wind.
An hour later he crested the peak and slowed for the descent into the Tahoe basin. Before him lay a blanket of shimmering red and yellow lights from a dozen sleepless casinos in the distance. He geared down and slalomed the bike down the steep succession of turns and twists in the road until he motored out onto the floor of the basin. His turn was ahead, his ride not through. He guided the beast to the right and onto the base of yet another mountain. It would be another thirty minutes and he would be warming between the sheets of his bed, his lady next to him.
The pine trees and mountainous walls of granite blurred by him as he powered the bike up the mountain road. His thoughts were of the end of the four hour ride, the discomfort of the lengthy journey seeped into his thoughts like water through a leaky roof. A Sportster was never meant to be a touring bike. To the top of the this last mountain, the descent into the Carson Valley, and his trip would be through. Twenty more minutes as the bike flies. He was enjoying the hardy hoof beats of fifty two horses as their thunder cracked the serene morning air.
Like a bolt of forgotten lightning, it hit him... he didn't get gas in Tahoe. The urgency to finish the trip completely blocked it from his mind, until now. In an instant his casual, distant connection to the ride became a tense search for any sign of irregularity. As he went through a sweeping turn, he let off the throttle in a vain attempt to conserve fuel. The lights of his little town were in sight, he had a chance. With little fanfare, the horses stopped, the wind was once again the only sound, aside from the blaring curse of his ignorance.
It was nearing three thirty in the morning. He couldn't have picked a more desolate area to run out of gas. Four miles behind him lay the small town of Woodfords. Ahead of him lay the town of Gardnerville, his final destination. He would push the bike until someone passed by, if anyone did. The lights of his little town beckoned to him, staying well out of his reach for now. He tried sitting on the bike, pushing with his feet.... no good. Once again he got off and pushed. To each side of him he detected movement in the darkness. The moon was absent from the sky, giving him an unrestricted view of the universe, it's unending pin points of light glowing like bits of phosphorus on a black sand beach. Again movement in the fields on either side of the road. The mountains stood in the darkness behind him, they had yielded to the open grazing land of the valley.
Hundreds of head of dairy and beef cattle watched the man push the Sportster down the four miles of highway. He knew his wife was sleeping, or he hoped she was. He felt uneasy... no phone, no way to let her know. Any attempt to wake any of the ranchers that lived several miles off of the highway would probably be met with gunfire. If she was sleeping, it would be for nothing anyway. He would be home, but when. The man walked the bike some more. Headlights appeared seven miles down the road. By turning the ignition on and of, he blinked an S.O.S. at the on coming pinpoint of light.... to no avail, they turned off and he was once more left to push the bike to it's eventual destination.
Before the end of the journey, eight cars would fly by on the highway. Even though he had a full beard and leathers on, and the fact that it was in the middle of nowhere and four in the morning, he still resented the fact that they wouldn't stop for him. He cursed them as they flew by, changing lanes to avoid any possible confrontation. In their mirrors, they could see the man yelling at them in the fading glow of their tail lights. Why would he be pushing this bike down the road at four in the morning, for his health? That did seem to be it, at least to them. In forty five minutes the sun would be rising. He could feel his wife's eyes staring into the darkness from a warm, cozy bed. She was awake, he knew it. Just to pass the time while he walked the bike, he tried to let her know he was alright through the mental bond he knew they shared. He walked on.
When the sunrise came, it spilled onto the mountains to his left. The ten thousand foot peaks were painted majestically in a pale golden hew as the light from a new day took away the shadows of the unknown. He could see the road clearly now, and his place upon it. The movement of the cows in the pastures on either side of him were no longer mysterious and eerie. The serene countryside and towering peaks made him feel fortunate to be witnessing something he had taken for granted for so many years. A short distance ahead was the spot he had waited to see. A pull off next to a grouping of mailboxes, and a short distance away a ranch house. His bike would be safe while he walked the next two miles to his home.
As he set the bike behind the mailboxes, a man emerged from the farm house. He looked over at the bike, and then the biker. The rancher disappeared into a shed as the biker walked by. When he emerged, the biker asked if he could buy a gallon of gas. The rancher replied that he had none. Any fool could see the dozen or so pieces of gas powered equipment in and about the yard. It wasn't uncommon for a rancher to even have his own gas truck. The biker pointed out the fact in passing, but received no response. This guy wasn't going to help him. It would be a waste of time to ask about using the phone.
He hoofed it down the road, his neighborhood in sight just beyond the grazing field, but still almost two miles away. The road seemed endless as it wound it's way into the barren high desert behind his little town. It was, however, a short cut compared to the highway. The fences that ran along the road held in the cattle as they grazed, but there were none in the meadow this day. He held back the urge to jump the fence and take the shortest route between two points. He had lived here long enough to know that the road was a short cut compared to the fields. There were unseen trenches and washes, any number of fresh cow piles, and animal burrows, all of which would certainly curtail any time you would save having gone that way. He looked at his watch, two and a half hours had passed since he had run out of gas. His wife was still asleep, he hoped. In the back of his mind, he could feel her waking presence, her worry as she looked out of the front window.
He had arrived every weekend at or around three in the morning from his job in the bay area. On this night, the first night ride on his new bike, he had not come home. She stood at the window, a tear in her eye as she thought of the children, the possibility that he had met with disaster. She pushed the bad thoughts to the back of her mind. Thoughts of him lying dead somewhere off of the mountain highway, or of his broken and bleeding body being stuffed into an ambulance. She looked down at the number she had copied from the phone book for the highway patrol. In ten more minutes, at six o'clock, she would call. Just show up... please. After wiping her eyes, she silently walked back into the bedroom to get the portable phone.
As she walked to the back of the house, he stepped onto the sidewalk from the dirt road and walked through the awakening neighborhood. He was nearing the end of his journey, and was glad to almost be home. This was the first time he had ever walked six miles under these conditions. The only other time he had walked any great distance was with a thirty pound pack and a night of partying in the mountains with his back packing buddies. One thing for certain, he would never run out of gas on this bike again. Twice in one night is enough.
He walked up to his front door and put the key in the
lock as silently as possible. If she was still asleep, he
did not want to wake her, or the children. As he entered and
closed the door behind him, she came from the back room,
phone in hand, the speed dialer chasing the busy signal until
it would win out. At first, she was angry. What happened,
why didn't he call, then she hugged him and cried. He felt
her love in a strong, encompassing, python like grip, her
gentle sobbing rocked them as they stood together.
Damn it, he thought... he had hoped this scene wouldn't
play, that she was asleep. But it did, and she wasn't. She
was with him on that road, the whole time. In her heart she
could tell something was wrong, and she was right.
In his explanation of what happened, and why he didn't call, he left out the fact that he had run out not once, but twice. She would never understand the failed reasoning he went through, the chances he took. When he was through, she got the kids up and they all headed up to gather the bike.
As he poured the fuel into the tank, his wife and kids waited for the beast to thunder to life, Two kicks and it rumbled beneath him, eager to run after the brief sleep. He mounted up and with his family escort, headed off into the sunrise. He was glad to be home.

Signs of the Time

Signs of the Time by Timothy Dewey
copyright 1992


Leon folded the well scrutinized map of Thailand up and put
it back in the large manila envelope that held the other
paraphernalia vital to his upcoming vacation. He quickly modeled
the new hat he had bought, a rather khaki colored bush hat, the
side pinned up with an airline logo pin in an Australian Outback
kind of way. Leon pulled the hat from his head and stuffed back
into the bag from whence it came. He smiled widely, "Leavin'
tomorrow!"
To say I was envious was an understatement. A vacation to
Thailand was as far away to me as a date with Lady Di. "I won't
think of this place, or you guys, for the next eight days." Leon
stated as he returned to the flap drive motor he was
reconditioning. I gave him a curt smile and looked back and the
large valve I was working. It lay in twenty pieces in and around
my work bench. Time for an unauthorized coffee break. I would
most certainly go unnoticed in this football field size shop at
the airline. I could, in fact, light my hair on fire and run
around in circles and my associates would not bat an eye. Doing
your eight hours a day in an airline accessories shop conditioned
you to just do your work, and never mind what anyone else did.
I took my cup of coffee in hand and meandered over to Leon's
bench.
So when are you leaving pal? Have you got a choice of
flights?"
Leon fended me off as he continued to work on his unit
while he logged down a minute bearing tolerance he had just
measured, then considered an answer to my inquiry. "While you
are walking in from the parking lot tomorrow, look up. There's
only one flight and I'll be on it... leaves at 2:30 in the
afternoon."
I sipped down the coffee with my teeth clenched to
avoid any surprise at the bottom of the cup. "Ever been there
before, in a war or something?"
Leon shook his head, "Korea was before me, Vietnam after me.
Nope, I haven't been to Asia... up until now."
As I walked back to the bench, my nemesis, Dave,
tossed a balled up piece of garbage into my coffee cup. "Ten
points..." he yelled and then returned to his work. I made a
mental note that I would have to get my revenge before the night
was over and then returned to the headache of a unit sitting on my
bench.
As promised, Leon hopped the one and only flight, a 747-400,
destined for Bangkok, Thailand. His work bench stood empty.
This vacancy would only be noticed by several workers who relied
on him for technical assistance, good conversation, or a good
laugh. Anybody else at this immense operation would be oblivious
to his absence.
The day dragged on with it's usual lack of vibrancy and
variety. Because it was a Friday, the traditional weekend inquiry
was passed about like a hot potato. One person would ask the
next what they had planned so they could tell them in turn what
they had planned, then they would move to another location and ask
the next person. It was a rudimentary custom in the shop and
gave a gave you an artificial sense that someone actually cared
what you were doing.
Dave and Bob were having some last minute discussion at Bob's
bench that took on hushed tones as I arrived. It wasn't that they were
talking about me or had something they didn't want me to know about,
Dave just did it to tick me off.
"So," I said, "What are you going to do this weekend Dave?"
"Yard work." The reply was standard for Dave. If he actually
did yard work every weekend his yard would look like Buchardt
Gardens.
Bob announced he was to take his leave of this stinking
city and motor up to his soon to be retirement retreat. "What
are you going to do Tim?" Bob asked with what seemed to be
genuine concern.
"I have to go to the library. Still doing that report on the MIA/POW's
of the Vietnam War for my night class. It is due in two weeks."
As the remainder of the afternoon decayed into night, we
would take turns wondering what Leon was doing on his 15 hour
flight.

Leon took a long draw off of the bronze beverage swilling
about in the plastic cup among the clutch of ice cubes. His
flight was already to long, and he had already watched two movies
and read a tree's worth of magazines. He flagged down the
flight attendant and ordered a couple more drinks. If all went well, he
would be sound asleep for the next six hours of his flight, and wake up in Thailand.
He finished the last of the drinks and laid his head back. It what seemed like
minutes the flight attendant walk by and ask him to raise his seat to the full
upright position. He looked at his watch, could it be? He had been asleep for six hours.
He silently thanked Jim Beam as he focused in on what was going on around him.
The passengers were made ready for landing by a throng of flight attendants
who were busy stuffing pillows and blankets into overhead compartments and
gathering complaints and food trays.
The plane touched down on the tarmac in Bangkok and the passengers gave
a collective sigh. As they exited the aircraft the warm, humid air blasted them
like a belch from a volcano. This did nothing to improve Leon's general condition,
which was mildly hung over. He showed his passport and went through the normal
motions of entering a foreign country. Before leaving the airport he exchanged his
currency into Baht, the local dollar, and then claimed his luggage. He only spoke two
languages, English and money. At least one of them would be helpful here in Thailand.

He checked into his lodging at the Bangkok Towers and was quite impressed.
The room actually seemed to be worth the two hundred and eighty dollar a night
price tag. He pulled several bottles of his favorite liquors from the mini bar and
what looked to be a crystal glass disguised as a bud vase and took them out onto the
balcony.
The view was splendid, again worth the money. The balmy weather was working
on him, conditioning him. He looked off into the distance through the Bangkok skyline.
Below him the city was in full swing, traffic blaring away below him with only the slightest of noises actually reaching his ear. Far off to the left of the hotel was the thick mat of the triple canopy jungle that extended beyond view in a misty wave of heat. He had told the company travel agent to put him in a hotel at the edge of the city so he could experience a little of Thai wilderness and adventure.
Leon called down to the concierge and made dinner reservations in the Tower restaurant. "Seven o'clock, I want to eat at seven.... good. Hey, are there any nice walking trails for a quick hike?" Leon wanted to shake off the thirteen hours of sitting he had done on the flight over. A young lady on the other end of the line told him that she had some brochures that offered several fine hikes on the hotel property.
Leon hung up the phone and mixed himself a large cocktail, donned his shorts and walking shoes, his new hat, and he was out the door. He strolled through the cool air-conditioned lobby and up to the beautiful young girl behind the concierge desk. "Hi there. I
just called about the hiking brochure." She smiled in a public
relations manner and handed him the brochure. He spared her any
compliment about her gorgeous appearance, figuring that she
probably heard it from any number of drunken, out of line tourists.
Leon stood there and examined the map of trails. The one
that skirted the jungle behind the hotel looked as though it
would provide him with the most to see.
The young lady confirmed it, "That is one of the finest trails to hike... it goes by a
waterfall and through the outskirts of the jungle. Please obey the signs though, sir.
You may not go off of the trail, it could be very dangerous."
"Dangerous?" Leon echoed.
"Yes sir," she continued with wide eyes, " there are many wild animals... and snakes. There's a shuttle leaving for the trail head in about two minutes outside that door..." The young lady was interrupted by a phone call and Leon took his leave of her.
He sipped down part of the potion he had mixed himself in the hotel room and boarded the shuttle. After a short ride the shuttle heaved to a stop and Leon got out and took off down the
trail that led towards the jungle. There was hardly a sole on the path, it was quite peaceful. The whirring noise of the city eventually gave way to the motion and tones of the living jungle.
Leon tipped his hat to a German couple that offered a cheerful "Guten Tag" as they passed on the trail on their return to the hotel. He walked further into the jungle with every step,
the path offering glimpses at lizards and colorful insects.
Off to his right he watched as a long green snake slithered down the branch of a tree. "Look at that." He said in mild amazement.
As he walked further down the trail the daylight was having increasing difficulty filtering it's way down through the thick cover of jungle trees and foliage. He could hear a waterfall
ahead, it's unending fluid motion lending a pleasing hush to the noises emitting from the jungle. He reached the end of the trail and watched the water cascade over several rock formations and end in an emerald green pool at it's base.
The sign mounted on one of the trees read;
End of Jungle Trail - Do not continue - Trespassing Forbidden.
Another just below it detailed the waterfall and thickly matted jungle.
Leon walked several yards past the sign in defiance. He could hear another waterfall in the distance. He looked around to see if anyone was looking and then continued on into the jungle forging his own path as he went. The warning sign disappeared in the thick growth behind him, and although he was not aware of it, he had become lost... in more ways than one.
The sound of the waterfall he had been following diminished until it was gone altogether. He stopped and listened carefully, but heard nothing but the life of the jungle around him. He
turned back and walked in the opposite direction to get back onto the jungle trail. After several minutes he began to realize the situation. Looking up offered no navigational bearing, around
him was the never ending forest of analogous trees and ferns. He continued in the direction of the hotel, trying in mounting desperation to find some discernable landmark. As he strode through the bush, he was aware of a different sound in the jungle around him. In an instant he was surrounded by a squad of men, clad in black, carrying automatic weapons.
Leon froze at their shrill command, their leader pushing him to the ground as they spoke in what sounded like local tongue. A thonged foot put unbearable pressure on his neck and he soon
passed out.
Leon was slapped into consciousness and then yanked to his feet. The cold barrel of a weapon prodded him down what appeared to be a trail. In front of him, two of the black clad men led Leon and the others with a destination in mind. Leon was two bewildered to speak at the moment. All he could think of was why he didn't see this trail before... and who the hell were these guys.
He shot a quick glance behind him as he was prodded along. There were six altogether, the last one sported Leon's new hat. He had no idea what was going on. "You guys with the hotel?"
His question was answered with a quick blow from the butt of an automatic rifle. He stumbled forward, the open wound on the back of his head flowed scarlet. Who ever these men were, Leon seemed to be their prisoner.

Back at work I toyed with the project sitting on my bench. A hapless array of diaphragms and regulators, poppets and pins, that, when assembled correctly, kept an airliner full of people
safe and on time. Time for another unauthorized coffee break. I took my cup and went on a social tour of the shop to pay my respects to my associates. After all, they had given up the better part of a day to be here at work with me. That in itself deserved a little of my time, work to do or not.
As I passed by Leon's bench, I couldn't help but notice he was not there today, or the last four for that matter. "Hey Bob, when was Leon suppose to be back?"
Bob, one who was always ready to converse with almost anybody, stood up and walked over to Leon's empty work bench. "Tim lad, I thought he was suppose to be back on Monday... I think he must have had a little trouble catching a return flight."
I scoffed at the idea, "Come on Bob, he has enough seniority to bump Moses. He would at least be able to catch a flight at least some time during the week. It's Friday, he must have caught a bug over there and is sick."
The reasoning was there. He was after all in Thailand, a single man's paradise. There must be more things you could catch there than trout in the Russian River. We passed that answer in and about the shop to anyone who asked. On my way to the sink to rinse out my coffee cup I passed the foreman's office.
"Hey there," I called to get his attention, "is Leon sick?"
The foreman looked at a well stacked pile of paperwork and pulled a single sheet from the middle. He ran his finger down the page and stopped, "Leon is A.W.O.L. since Monday."
I thanked him and returned to my bench. Bob noticed my quick exit from the foreman's office and surmised correctly as to why I was there.
"Is Leon sick?" He asked with concern.
"No... He's A.W.O.L., since Monday."
We both silently began to worry much more than just minutes ago. Where was Leon?
The night passed quickly, as does every Friday night in the shop. We traded the usual insults and practical jokes. We were playing the "what are you going to do this weekend" game as the clock counted down the minutes. None of the responses seemed to change from week to week, month to month, but we asked anyway.
"Yard work." Dave replied.
Bob was going to lock himself in this weekend and finally rent a video or two he had wanted to watch. And of course I still had the finishing touches to make on my POW / MIA's of the Vietnam era report for my night class.

My reading table held the books I had checked out of the library, dangerously stacked like rock pinnacles in the Utah desert. I completed the bulk of the report, and had to leaf through a few of the picture filled publications to get a note or two for my reference page. My eyes were heavy, and if I didn't stop soon I would do more harm than good. I turned several pages in a pictorial edition of Time / Life... and something caught my eye. I turned back the page and looked at the top picture. I rubbed my eyes slowly to allow my them to focus and stop playing tricks on me. The man in the picture wore a hat just like the one Leon had shown us before he left on his trip.
The caption under the photo read, "Viet Cong with prisoners on Thai / Laos border." It was dated 1969. The man in the picture guarded the small group. His left hand holding an AK-47 at waist level, the barrel aimed at five men. One of the small indiscernible faces seemed familiar. I got up out of my chair and rustled through a desk drawer to find my magnifying glass. When I had it in hand, I returned to the photo and lowered it into viewing range.
The hat the man with the gun wore bore the airline pin, one of recent logo, holding the side up in Australian Outback kind of way. Behind him, the prisoners sat on the ground, there hands on their heads. I felt a chill rake through my body as though I had been dumped naked into the frozen waters of Lake Tahoe. There was Leon... sitting in shorts and a shirt, a wide eyed helpless look on his face. Around him sat several others, dressed in fatigues and torn flight suits. Prisoners of a war long since over, lost with time, and for Leon... lost in time.