you can, Slick. It’s practically bursting out of you, if you’d let it.”
“Do you head-shrink all your friends?” Ethan asked, bristling again. “Or is that how you lost them all?”
“Most of my friends aren’t as beautifully bottled as you are,” Randy said. “They also don’t bet their last dollar on black like some dogged idiot. You’ve captured my attention.”
“You keep bringing that up.” Ethan glared down at him. “Would you like to explain why it’s so stupid to bet on black?”
“God, there’s a loaded question. But hey, we’ve got a few blocks. Why not.”
Randy drew a breath, and then he launched into what could only be described as a lecture.
“The thing is, roulette sucks. There’s no way to beat it. You never, no matter what you do, have the best of it. In fact, that bit we did with your ring was the first time I’ve ever had an advantage on the wheel in my life. And I only played it at all because I didn’t give a shit about the outcome, because I won no matter what.”
“But if it had landed odd, you wouldn’t have gotten the ring,” Ethan pointed out.
“I wouldn’t have gotten it if it had landed on green, either,” Randy said. “But I didn’t want the ring, Slick. I wanted you.”
Ethan knew he wasn’t hearing the three words the way Randy meant them, but they still unraveled his edges a little. Which, come to think of it, had probably been the real reason Randy had said them. He sighed. “For the bet, yes. But that doesn’t explain why I was stupid to bet on black.”
“You were stupid to play roulette,” Randy said. “It’s the same screwy thinking that brought you to the table that had you doggedly insisting it would eventually come around to you.”
“The law of averages—” Ethan began, but he stopped when Randy laughed and shook his head.
“Don’t, Slick. Don’t quote that shit to me. You’re smarter than the idiots who come to Vegas because of the fucking law of averages.” When Ethan started to argue again, Randy cut him off with a shake of his head and sighed. “Look. This is the thing you need to get, right now, and you need to tattoo it on the inside of your wrists. The law of averages is a fancy phrase that sounds like math but actually translates to ‘wishful thinking’. I will buy that there is such a thing as karma, but do not talk to me about the fucking law of averages. It is not the case that if you let a scenario play out over a period of time that it will work itself out. It is not the case that if you spin a wheel full of red and black, it is obliged by a sense of nicety to be balanced or to rotate politely between one pole and the other. And don’t bring up coin tosses. Don’t bring up anything. It is not scientific, Slick . A roulette wheel is random . It is designed—and regularly, rigorously tested—to be random . It can be red all fucking night. It can be red once in an hour full of black. It can hit the same number six times in a row. It can do anything, because it’s random . It doesn’t even do what it wants, because it doesn’t fucking care. It’s a goddamned wheel. It doesn’t know who you are, doesn’t care that some guy was a complete asshole to you, or that you just won big at craps, or that the universe really owes you. It’s a wheel, and a ball lands in it. You can’t guess where. You can’t guess the color or the type of number. Well—you can guess . But you can’t know. You can’t even get into probability. You can’t , Slick.”
“Why are you yelling at me?” Ethan asked, feeling awkward because they’d stopped walking and people were staring at them.
“Because you’re better than that!” Randy shot back. “I watched you, and it drove me nuts. You thought, ‘It’s due for black’. It’s not due. It’s never due anything. And what you were really thinking, Ethan, is that it owed you. You humanized that wheel. You made it
“Do you head-shrink all your friends?” Ethan asked, bristling again. “Or is that how you lost them all?”
“Most of my friends aren’t as beautifully bottled as you are,” Randy said. “They also don’t bet their last dollar on black like some dogged idiot. You’ve captured my attention.”
“You keep bringing that up.” Ethan glared down at him. “Would you like to explain why it’s so stupid to bet on black?”
“God, there’s a loaded question. But hey, we’ve got a few blocks. Why not.”
Randy drew a breath, and then he launched into what could only be described as a lecture.
“The thing is, roulette sucks. There’s no way to beat it. You never, no matter what you do, have the best of it. In fact, that bit we did with your ring was the first time I’ve ever had an advantage on the wheel in my life. And I only played it at all because I didn’t give a shit about the outcome, because I won no matter what.”
“But if it had landed odd, you wouldn’t have gotten the ring,” Ethan pointed out.
“I wouldn’t have gotten it if it had landed on green, either,” Randy said. “But I didn’t want the ring, Slick. I wanted you.”
Ethan knew he wasn’t hearing the three words the way Randy meant them, but they still unraveled his edges a little. Which, come to think of it, had probably been the real reason Randy had said them. He sighed. “For the bet, yes. But that doesn’t explain why I was stupid to bet on black.”
“You were stupid to play roulette,” Randy said. “It’s the same screwy thinking that brought you to the table that had you doggedly insisting it would eventually come around to you.”
“The law of averages—” Ethan began, but he stopped when Randy laughed and shook his head.
“Don’t, Slick. Don’t quote that shit to me. You’re smarter than the idiots who come to Vegas because of the fucking law of averages.” When Ethan started to argue again, Randy cut him off with a shake of his head and sighed. “Look. This is the thing you need to get, right now, and you need to tattoo it on the inside of your wrists. The law of averages is a fancy phrase that sounds like math but actually translates to ‘wishful thinking’. I will buy that there is such a thing as karma, but do not talk to me about the fucking law of averages. It is not the case that if you let a scenario play out over a period of time that it will work itself out. It is not the case that if you spin a wheel full of red and black, it is obliged by a sense of nicety to be balanced or to rotate politely between one pole and the other. And don’t bring up coin tosses. Don’t bring up anything. It is not scientific, Slick . A roulette wheel is random . It is designed—and regularly, rigorously tested—to be random . It can be red all fucking night. It can be red once in an hour full of black. It can hit the same number six times in a row. It can do anything, because it’s random . It doesn’t even do what it wants, because it doesn’t fucking care. It’s a goddamned wheel. It doesn’t know who you are, doesn’t care that some guy was a complete asshole to you, or that you just won big at craps, or that the universe really owes you. It’s a wheel, and a ball lands in it. You can’t guess where. You can’t guess the color or the type of number. Well—you can guess . But you can’t know. You can’t even get into probability. You can’t , Slick.”
“Why are you yelling at me?” Ethan asked, feeling awkward because they’d stopped walking and people were staring at them.
“Because you’re better than that!” Randy shot back. “I watched you, and it drove me nuts. You thought, ‘It’s due for black’. It’s not due. It’s never due anything. And what you were really thinking, Ethan, is that it owed you. You humanized that wheel. You made it
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