Ok, Roll the Dice by Mike Bozart - HTML preview

Staying in the summer of ’92 in San Francisco, and staying planted in that how-did-I-ever-stumble-into-and-root-myself-into-such-a-displacement-in-knowhere [sic], the mind-sink called Sidle on N; well, this me wondered, as yet another MUNI train clanged its way on by, parting the fog with well-learnt pry-cision. Molecular memory?

It was another mild, overcast, foggy-in-spots, August Thursday. Another one that I had grown to love.

Dash wasn’t working today, as he only worked on Monday, Wednesday and Friday. Ok, I think we covered that in a previous installment (but, just in case you are reading this first, Dash was a bartender at a fabulously forlorn joint in the Outer Sunset district of San Francisco that went under the pun-ishing [sic] moniker of Sidle on N.)

Yeah, I can remember the little, silhouette-style, rusty metal sign. Or, was it made out of wood and painted to look like metal? I should’ve taken it as a souvenir. Darn it!

Often times the trio of Shoulda, Coulda, and Woulda would be spreading Gouda cheese on some thin windmilled crackers. Ok, ok, enough nonsense. Message received, loud and clear. Let’s get this tale moving nose-ward.

Maria was behind the cherry wood bar today. She was originally from Honduras, in her late 40s, and worked as you might have surmised, every Tuesday, Thursday and Saturday. (The 333-square-foot demi-lounge was closed on Sundays; at least, I tend to think it was.)

It was now about 3:30. They usually opened the door at three. And once it was open, no one seemed to close it.

We were the only two people in the place. I never said much to Maria. I just figured – ignorantly – that she took the part-time gig to pay bills, and had no creative interests or inclinations, or any attention to be paid outside of the day-to-day mundanities [sic] of life.

Boy was I wrong, as I shelled out my sails to sea. I mean, as I shall set out to see. Or, wri-type. I think you get the jist of my drift.

Anyway, I was doodling mindlessly on a copy of SF Weekly when Maria walked by the little table where I was sitting. She glanced at my little cartoonish rendering.

“Are you an artist?” she asked with just a slight Hispanic accent.

I looked up at her. “I think the jury is still out on that, Maria,” I replied.

“What do you mean by that? Does someone have to certify that you are an artist now? What is this silly city coming to?”

“I mean that I’ve been shopping my art to dozens of galleries in the Bay Area [chronicled in the novella Mysterieau of San Francisco] over the past five months, and I all have is two walls in a South-of-Market coffeehouse and a handful of low-dollar sales. I’m not exactly the next Andy Warhol. I’m just another forever unknown, it would seem.”

“Oh, I see; you think that only if you become famous can your art be deemed good, worthy or valuable. And, until such time, it must be caca. [Spanish for crap] That’s such Americano loco [crazy American in Spanish] nonsense. Just keep doing your art and let the chippies [sic] fall where they may, amigo. [friend in Spanish] You understand me?”

“Sí, [Yes in Spanish] I do. I’ll take that advice. Gracias, [Thank you in Spanish] Maria.”

“Hey, I really like that little spaceman drawing. Can I buy it?”

“Buy it? Oh, please. Here, I’ll give it to you.”

I carefully tore the nine-square-inch doodling off of the back page of the newsprint periodical. I looked at her as I handed it to her. “I hope this brings you some good luck.”

“Hold on now, amigo; I have got to pay you back with something.”

“No, really; it’s ok. I don’t want anything for this little sketch.”

“You stay right there, artistimodo.” [sic]  Artistimodo? Did I hear her right?

“Ok, I’m not going anywhere.”

“Just uno minuto. [one minute in Spanish] Let me get my magic dice.” Magic dice? Is she going to hustle me in a craps game? Probably some loaded dice.

Maria walked back behind the bar. She then bent down and retrieved a small cardboard box. She seemed very excited about the box. Honduran jumping dice?

When she put the box down on the table where I was sitting, I noticed that it was actually covered in well-worn black velvet. She then sat down across from me.

“You’ve had this box for a long time, huh, Maria?”

“For three decades now,” she said with pride.

“I can tell that you greatly treasure what’s inside this box, Maria. You don’t have to give me your dice. Really. I already have some.” Él no tiene estos. [Spanish for ‘He doesn’t have these.’]

She didn’t even acknowledge my declination of offer. Maria just undid the interlocking bands and opened the small box to reveal a pair of slightly blue-tinged white dice.

“I don’t usually play craps, but when I do, I wear Depends.” Couldn’t resist saying that one. Probably just confused her.

“What did you just say, amigo?” She was indeed confused by my lame joke.

“I’m not sure, Maria. It’s like the words just got shot out of my mouth from somewhere in the future, maybe from Yellowknife.” I really need to tone down the nonsense. It’s not fair to her.

“All of you artists in this town are so silly.”

“Yeah, you may be right on that, Maria.”

She then looked in my green eyes with her dark brown eyes. “Do you want to know about your future?” she asked.

“Sure, who doesn’t?”

“Ok, amigo, grab both dice with one hand.”

I scooped up the dice, which felt very department-store ordinary, with my right hand. I wonder if she has ever done this trick with Dash.

I cleared my throat. “Ok, what now, Maria?”

“Ask a question to yourself – silently – don’t tell me – in which the answer is a number.” Now I see where this is going. A little fortune-teller action. I’ll just play along so as to not hurt her feelings. Well, I may as well ask a numerically answerable question. I know one: When will I get married?            

I nodded to Maria and then rolled the dice. A lucky seven came up, made up of a six and a one. Too bad I’m not in Reno. Maybe do a weekender next month.

Maria looked at the dice for a few seconds. She then placed her left hand on her forehead and told me to roll again. She didn’t exactly look happy; in fact, she looked fairly distressed.

“Ok, Maria, here goes roll number two. Wish me better luck.”

And with that remark, I rolled the dice again. Boxcars. A twelve – a pair of sixes. Hmmm … 7 + 12 = 19. Do I get married 19 years from now? Jeez, I’ll be 47! I don’t want to be in some cheesy singles bar at 47! Or, does it mean that I get married on July 12th? Or, is it going to be on December 7th? Oh, it’s just nonsense. Just stop thinking about it!

“Would you like to know what your two dice rolls mean?”

“Why, certainly! How much does it cost?” Here’s the rub.

“It’s free, hombre tonto. [silly man in Spanish] The price is nada. [nothing in Spanish] Nada, nada, nada thing. Remember, amigo, I owe you for that drawing you gave me.”

“Oh, ok.”

“Here’s the interpretation as I learned from my maternal grandmother. Your roll of seven had the six die above the one die. While rolling a seven is usually seen as good, this particular combination is not favorable. As a result I had you roll again. You then rolled a twelve. What this means is that something of importance will happen in seven units from now. It could be days, weeks, months, years; only you will know. But, that endeavor will not be successful. However, that endeavor will be re-attempted twelve units later with success. This is all that I can tell you.”

“Well, thank you, Maria, for that interesting and very intriguing reading of the dice. Buenas noches. [Good night in Spanish] I’ll probably be back next Tuesday.” If I don’t get run over by a red-light-running car like that guy on the 3rd floor of my apartment building, that is. Man, did that car send him sailing through the air. Brutal. Ughhhh.

I got up to catch the N train back to downtown. My thoughts as I waited at the tram stop: Divining the future. Such an old game. If it were only as easy as rolling dice. She seems to really believe in it, though. I won’t burst her bubble. That would be cruel and so unnecessary. When I see her next time, I’ll just tell her that I’m still trying to figure out the units of her interpretation.

In 1999 I would get married to the wrong woman; in 2011 I would get married to the right one.