He knew that luck was a being that had no owner, that there was no way to hold her, that, at the first opportunity, she would escape you and you would not see her again for a long time.
He had tried everything, touching wood, clovers, patron saints and even the golden Chinese cat, but there was no way. Luck had left him.
He remembered the times when luck smiled on him. Those endless parties with the gamblers who were already known as brothers, their gestures, their tics, their sardonic smiles and even the smell when the party was twisted. Times when he made a lot of money and luck hugged him hard, until one night he lost everything.
Now he walks into a bar, stops in front of a slot machine and looks in his pockets for a coin he knows he doesn't have. He is mesmerized by the monotonous dance of the pikes, the diamonds, the clovers, the clubs and the hearts, until someone touches him on the shoulder and tells him to move away. Then he turns around and leaves. He doesn't like to see how luck smiles on others.
Then, before nightfall, he goes to the old bridge outside the city to find a good place to sleep downwind among the cartons. There, in between the sleep, he counts the days he has left to receive the four hundred and eighty-five dollars of his pay and to take a shower, shave and sleep a hot night in a crummy pension.
The next morning he'll look for a good hand and see if his luck changes. However, he forgets that luck is elusive, that it is lost in the ethylic vapours, in the dark night and among the clovers, the pikes, the diamonds and the hearts.
Image Source: Pixabay
