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The
Toll Collector Travis looked down at the spinning reels and spoke softly to himself. "One million, seven hundred, nine thousand, four hundred, thirteen dollars." Early Saturday evening, Travis decided, instead of spending another Franklin, he would take a walk around the parking lot, maybe look for the old man who still haunted his thoughts. He stepped from the casino, and hot desert air rose up to wick the moisture from his reddened eyes. The setting sun slipped behind the endless row of hotels. The powerful neon lights and multi-colored billboards took over the illumination of the streets, and people scurried from one establishment to the next feeling like the odds would somehow tip in their favor if they went to just one more casino. Travis walked around the side of the Flamingo and scanned the parking lot, but there was no sign of the old man. Perhaps it had been a dream. Travis kicked a few pebbles and waited for something, but he wasn't quite sure what. He found himself over by the old station wagon, at first, taking pride in the fact that it had over 250,000 miles on its rusted and worn body. But soon, the raggedness of the brute overtook his admiration, and he realized just how old and ugly the wagon was. Sheila had begged him to sell the car. The neighbors complained whenever he left it parked out front. But he couldn't part with it. It was a symbol of his fight to beat the machines. Bryll, he, and this old vehicle had started out together and when he hit the big one, they would still be together. Travis opened the passenger door with a loud creak of the bone-dry hinges and sat among the silvery wrappers of candy bars, a melee of loose quarters, and four empty beer cans. What would he do with the millions, when he won? He pulled out a small picture of Sheila and the kids from his wallet. It was an old photo from their day at the lake. He glanced up at the beach towel. The boys had grown so much, and everything about them was different now. Sheila, too, had changed. She'd aged fast. Too fast, he thought. She was nothing like the cheerful ball of energy he'd met in high school. Nothing like the young beauty that made him laugh and smile, and she never noticed the nervousness pervading his teenaged years. Having two kids, taking care of the house and holding down a job of her own had been less agreeable than he would have predicted. Her once lovely skin now sagged into arcs below her sleepless eyes and long streaks of gray overtook the chestnut locks of her youth. Once he'd won, maybe he should trade her in for a younger wife, he suddenly thought. Just like the old wagon, once he was rich, he would swap them both for newer models. Even Bryll, he knew, would be awkwardly out of place associating with a fine gentleman millionaire. He fired up a Marlboro and watched the smoke as it slowly crept up the inside of the door and escaped out a small gap at the top of the window. He leaned his head back for just a moment. The long ash of the cigarette burning the flesh of his index finger startled him awake. His eyes popped wide and noticed the old man standing next to the car, tapping. He smiled back at Travis through the glass. "Travis, you know how to win," he said. The old man took the silver dollar and pushed it through the slot at the top of the window. The coin bounced off the armrest and landed in Travis's lap. Travis sat there, not quite sure what to do. After a moment, he flung the car door open, but the old man was already gone. Taking the silver dollar, he raced back into the casino. He exchanged it for four quarters and went straight to the Quad-7. Softly, to himself, the Toll Collector spoke. "One million, seven hundred, ten thousand, three dollars." He nervously pushed each coin into the slot. The wheels began to spin. As the first 7 came up, his eyes briefly swept the casino for Bryll. He was nowhere in sight. When the second 7 came up, he instantly felt his heart beating faster. The third and fourth 7's came almost simultaneously. Travis sucked hard, but couldn't seem to get enough breath into his lungs. Were his eyes wrong? Could the dream be coming true? Had he won? Had he finally won? Were all the sacrifices over? Travis cocked his head and looked down at the machine. Four 7's were perfectly laid out in front of him, but nothing more happened. No bells rang. No lights flashed. No one rushed over with a bucket of ice and champagne. What was going on? He looked down at his hand. Naturally, it was quivering, but his wedding ring was gone. He rummaged through his threadbare wallet. Only a faded photograph remained. He looked around the casino. Bryll was gone. The old man was suddenly awake. He wiped the sleep from his eyes and looked across the parking lot through holes in a disintegrating beach towel. He kicked open the door of the ancient wagon which long ago had stopped running, and he stepped out. The dry desert air drew moisture from him as he slowly and quietly made his way across the parking lot of the Flamingo. He fingered a last silver dollar, looked down at a circular indentation in his third finger, the mark of a simple gold band that the Toll Collector had, long ago, exchanged for a few rolls of quarters.
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