We were at a bistro in the Monte Carlo casino. There was no telling what time it was in Vegas, but this was between seminars. The big Vacutas convention was in town and all the major players in the vacuum industry were there. We lowly salesmen were brought along by corporate with the hope of getting some customers. Of course, none of us had any interest in working, especially not in Sin City. So, all weekend we tried our best to avoid closing sales—really stick it to the corporate stiffs. John, our manager, liked to screw with people on that end. He had developed a motto when selling the new vacuum model.

“Give this one a try, ma’am!” he would say, “of all our vacuums, this one sucks the most!”

John couldn’t keep his mouth shut for more than five minutes. Anything mentioned was like a challenge to him. You bring up your vacation to Aspen, he would counter with how he travelled all over the West Coast back when he was twenty. On a motorcycle, he would say, all alone. In the rain. Barefoot.

Anyway, we were three drinks in when John strolled over to our table.

“Hey fellas!” he said, squeezing beside Marston who was about to dig into a Ruben. Marston didn’t acknowledge him, just went on eating his sandwich. We were all that way, too engrossed in ourselves. I leaned back and looked at the chandeliers lining the ceiling. They were magnificent. The whole place was magnificent, yet sterile, artificial. It was like a caricature of success, a weird illusion that all fancy business folk buy into early and settle into late. I dreamt of fiberglass chandeliers often. Pleather jackets and silicone tits.

“Peter! How the hell are you?” John outstretched his hand. I took it. It was limp, clammy, a sensation of a rubber douche.

“Better than I deserve, John. How’s business?”

“Big waves, gentlemen. Big waves. I’m talking mad money!” he said.

“Oh yeah? Don’t tell me you closed the Johnson account,” said Marston.

“No, no, this isn’t vacuum related. I heard through the grapevine that there’s a golden opportunity in robotics. You ever hear of PellaWave?”

“No, enlighten us,” I said. 

In truth, I hated John. He was a rat fucker, a real piece of shit. He made used car salesmen look like the most honest people you’ve ever met. He was a rich kid supported by daddy’s money. He got the sales job out of sheer laziness, I got it out of desperation. My daddy wasn’t rich, in fact he had dragged the whole family into a financial hole. 

It wasn’t his fault, the old man got Leukemia. He harbored terrible guilt about it too. I took over the family finances and called to reassure him every week.

“Dad! I got the Johnson account,” I would say.

“Gee son, that’s amazing! They ought to give you a promotion.”

“They did! And listen, don’t worry about the mortgage this month. Drop in the bucket for me, I got you covered. Everything is going great, dad.”

The money in my savings account was smaller than my pin number. I added a few zeroes whenever I called. It lit a match under my ass, but really put the old man at ease.

I had to hand it to John when it came to finances though. He didn’t just have money, he made money too. He really did know how to sell when he felt like doing it. I’ve heard it said that you should surround yourself with successful people. John Barlow had all the signs of success. Money, a corporate position in sales, a Lamborghini Urus, and a hot wife with big, big implants. 

“PellaWave! It’s the latest in feminine wellness,” he was saying, “supposed to be an incontinence cure, makes everything—you know, work as it should.”

“It’s been done,” I said.

“Yeah, but not like this. Not like they’re doing it. The company is called Visio, they’re trailblazers.”

“Never heard of them,” I said.

“So, what’s PellaWave about, John?” Marston couldn’t contain himself. He was in already; I could see the hunger in his eyes.

“It cures incontinence, it cures atrophy, it cures dryness—everything, all without surgery. It’s based on this soundwave technology. Really advanced stuff. And the company is going public this week, gentlemen. You know what this means?”

“You’re thinking of buying?” I said.

“Thinking? Look at this guy! Thinking. Yes, Peter, I’m thinking. I’m in for ten large. If you’ve got any brains you’ll jump in too.”

“So let me get this straight,” I brushed my menu to the edge of the table and leaned in, “you want us to hop in a pump and dump as it IPOs. That’s ridiculous. It’s going to climb, obviously, but who knows what the peak will be? It’s a sucker’s bet.”

“No, no, you’re not getting the bigger picture. PellaWave, man. The company is going public a week before the FDA approves the device. It’s genius and a shoo in. You buy, you tough it out for a week and boom! I’m talking ten-x easy, easy. You in? or you in?”

“I’m in!” said Marston.

“Better odds at the slots,” I shook my head and got up.

“Wohh hey! Pete, come on brother,” said John, “listen, the only way this works is if a bunch of us buy at once. We create momentum, we invite smaller fish, and then we ride the wave until the closer.”

“That’s market manipulation.”

“It’s all market manipulation, Pete. You think the big boys don’t play the market? It’s easy money, no one will know. We need you, Pete. I got everyone in on this except you.”

I was a sucker for agreeing to it. It was a fool’s bet, but it would solve all my financial woes on the off chance it worked. If things went south, John promised he would make it up to me.

#

It was well past midnight at the roulette table and all signs pointed red. That was the hot streak – a bloody night. Maybe there was the odd black here and there, but red was dominating. So, I split the remaining $20 in my pocket between even and red, bracing for impact.

Marston sat beside me, completely shitfaced. He had been riding the red wave so far and was up at least $600 by the look of things. That kind of streak can make anyone overzealous. So, all night he was pounding whiskey sours like they were soft drinks.

Finally, the ball was loose and spinning, clanking along the roulette wheel. The damn thing near landed on 12 but hopped out and sat on 35.

“Fuck!” I pounded the table.

“Did we do it? Did I win?” said Marston.

“No,” I took a final swig of my beer, “I’m tapped out, let’s get to bed.”

“I gotta keep the train rolling though.”

“It’s over, we got a conference tomorrow morning. Come on, I’ll help you up.”

Marston’s Henley wallet fell out of his blazer as I hoisted him up. Out poured the Benjamins – and not just the ones he won either. The sight of the bills was like a shock to the system. In a pinch the greenbacks jolted me awake, I could smell their filthy coats even from where I was standing. Reluctantly, I scooped them up and tucked them back into Marston’s pocket before the vultures saw anything. In Vegas, dropping your money meant game over. There are no good Samaritans in Sin City.

I walked Marston along the ornate carpet past the slot machines and craps tables. The casino smelled mildly of cigarette smoke and gave you the high that all places in Vegas do. Excitement, disorientation, recklessness—too much for a vacuum company convention. At times it was even too much for me. The money was running low and the fear of returning home without the mortgage payment was growing. We took the elevator up and I deposited Marston onto the bed in his room.

“Goodnight,” I said, and shut the door behind me.

I tapped the keycard against the handle leading to my place. At the beep came a familiar face from the end of the hall.

“Hey, Pete! What’s happening?” It was John, tie undone, shirt stained, a girl that wasn’t his wife tucked under his arm.

“Hey, John.”

“Yo! You got the bet in right? It’s gonna be big, my friend, big!”

“Yeah, I got it. Where’s your wife?”

“He’s just messing around, baby,” John said to the girl and ushered her inside his room. “Gloria who? You know what I mean Pete?” He winked.

I opened my door as the bastard walked up to me.

“Hey, listen pal, it’s all cool. Gloria and I, we’re into this sort of thing,” he said with feigned innocence.

“Sure.”

“Let’s keep it between us though, okay? I’ll let you in on something else, it’s big. It’s for you and me only,” he got his arm around my shoulders, a friendly gesture under normal circumstances. But this was John the salesman coming out, the shark in shallow water.

“I’m quitting Vacutas. This gig is for peasants, brother. I’m going after bigger fish, and I want you along for the ride. What do you say?”

“What is it?”

“Listen, you know why we’re here in the first place?” he asked.

“To learn to enjoy losing?”

“Look at this guy!” John laughed, “no, no. Listen, I convinced corporate to host this thing. It was a way of getting my ass out here for free. The real show is the presentation I’m hosting. I got a special guest coming too. You ever hear of Mike Staten?

“No.”

“Brilliant man! Took a grand and transformed it into a fortune 500 empire. Come along, you’ll feel enlightened.”

“Yeah, I don’t know about that.” 

“Listen, Pete. I know things have been tough for you at home. I’ve been working with this Staten guy and he’s the real deal. He taught me everything and now he wants me to take over—I want you along for the ride. Stop by and check me out, it’s my big debut,” and with that, he let go of my shoulder and stumbled back to his room.

“Think about it, buddy!” he said before entering, “you’re smart, you take your time. But you can’t always live in fear, Pete!”

I opened my door and walked inside the shabby hotel room.

“Fortune favors the brave!” I heard behind me.

#

I was sitting in a conference room of timid lizard people. Each of them dressed to the gizzards in suits and ties. Our eyes were glued to a projector screen where a PowerPoint presentation was dispensing platitude slides.

I kept looking at the candlesticks on my phone as Mike Staten drawled on about his business plan. It was technical, dry, boring talk. The IPO graph had more life in it. Up and down, up and down. In the row in front of me was Marston.

“Hey,” I tapped him on the shoulder, “how’s it going for you?”

“The stock? Looking good. I’m solid, thinking I’ll hold it.”

“I’m up and down, this was a bad decision.”

The big hands were all out by the halftime intermission. The red numbers on my portfolio made me nauseous. From ten large I had seeped down into a high four thousand, the IPO was a dud. 

John walked into the auditorium. Late for Staten’s presentation, but right on time to watch me fail.

“Hey! How’d you fellas do?” he said with a smug smile on his chiseled face.

“Not bad, John. I got out near the peak, made $120,” said Marston.

“Count your blessings,” I presented the red candlesticks. Marston’s heart visibly sank into his stomach, but John was cool as a cucumber.

“Don’t sweat chump change, Pete!” he said, “I’m up in a minute. You listen up and follow my lead. Don’t worry, you’ll recoup and even double on your bet.”

“How much did you lose?” I said.

“I never lose, Pete. Out at the peak right before the downturn.”

“What? What the hell happened to PellaWave?”

“Oh, they just announced a delay this morning. Something about scarring during clinical trials. It’s a mess! But hey, you win some, you lose some,” he tapped me on the shoulder and hopped on the stage.

I was ready to strangle him but retreated to my seat. Utter defeat, destruction. Two paychecks lost with the third near depletion. I pulled the phone out and sold what I had. What followed next would undoubtably be another scheme, a get rich quick gimmick. But these worked for some, right? They certainly worked for John. They got him his money, his car, his hot wife. If history has any value and broken clocks are right twice a day, then there could be hope on the horizon.

#

“You know what I see here before me,” said John, “potential. Each and every one of you has potential – and you know what? That’s better than winning. Your journey has just begun!”

The crowd clapped, engrossed. The tall ceilings gave the impression of a church and as the seminar continued, the crowd came closer together. We joined our hands in reverence to the great John Barlow, some bowing and some praying. A sea of desperate faces with mine among them. The difference was that these people were sheep, I a mere observer of the shark on stage. I wanted to be the shark, me. 

John spent the next two hours dispensing more platitudes until he got to the personal stuff. The problem was the personal stuff wasn’t his.

“You know,” he said, “just a year ago, I was down bad. I know, hard to believe right? But life has a way of screwing with you in ways you can’t control. Am I right?”

The crowd clapped and nodded. Hundreds of desperate men and women in cheap getups bowing their heads, feeling what they were told to feel.

“The sad thing is that it didn’t happen to me. It happened to my dad. Last year, my dad was diagnosed with Leukemia, and I spiraled.”

The mention of it made me spiral. I felt the heat of rage envelop my brain, each molecule was ready to leap through the crowd and beat the shit out of John.

“Bullshit!” I yelled, I could control the violence, but not the outburst.

“That’s right!” John said, “bullshit! It was bullshit! My dear old dad, folks! Am I right? How many of you have been where I’ve been?!”

The crowd stood and gave a resounding roar of approval. I sank back into my seat, bewildered, humiliated. It went on from there, a complete detailing of my life. Everything I had ever divulged in the back room of the office came rolling off John’s tongue. It was disgusting, it made me sick to my stomach.

When the presentation was over the crowd was given an option to sign up for an additional seminar held by John back in Los Angeles. Most of the sheep got in a neat single-file line in front of the signup table. I tried to squeeze through but was held back and told to stand in line like everyone else. It was a long process, waiting for these people to sign their checkbooks and count their bills. It was sad too.

Everyone watched as a rail-thin man with a bad combover and a hook nose got on his bony knees and begged John for entry.

“Please! Please Mr. Barlow!” he said, “I lost all my money, this is all I have left in the world. Please make me a success! I want to work with you and Mr. Staten. I’ll do anything, anything!”

John just stood there with his hands on his hips and a smirk on his face. From my angle the whole scene looked like a public fellatio. A crowd of deviants gathered around a groveling fool and his master. I damn near left the line, but John caught me off guard again.

“Mr. Staten is retiring, sir. My new partner is right over there,” The crowd followed John’s gaze over to me, “Mr. Peter Hallbrook, everybody!”

“What?” I said.

John made a show of sauntering back onto the stage. Once behind the podium, he beckoned for me to join him. I shook my head at first, but relented once the crown began to clap and cheer.

“This man,” John said with a hand on my shoulder, “I cost this man a lot of money, folks. A lot—but he was gracious enough to finance this entire enterprise. Everyone give it up for Mr. Hallbrook!”

The crowd clapped and cheered again, this time more subdued and confused.

“What the fuck are you talking about?” I whispered.

“Yes folks, everyone makes mistakes, even me. But that’s why having a mentor is so important. While I watch over you, Mr. Hallbrook watches over me. That is why I’ve asked that all proceeds from this event go to him.”

I was stunned, a puppet on a stage. John shook me and I rattled. He spoke and my mouth was agape. He led me off stage as the crowd’s enthusiasm grew into uproar again. The line continued and Staten took payments while we retreated into a back room, away from prying eyes.

“What’s going on?” I demanded.

“Pete, this is what I meant by wanting you in on this.”

“You lied, you took my story!” I grabbed John by the collar, but he quickly pulled me off. 

“I did, I’m sorry. But there must be an emotional appeal to these things, you know what I mean?” he said, “I wanted to make it up to you. That Visio thing – obvious mistake. But listen, the money we get from these suckers, 80% is yours. That’s at least thirty-thousand.”

“Thirty-thousand?” it was more than half my yearly income.

“It’s already done. You’ll see it in your account. But look, I need the cash you have left from the stock bet.

“What? No. What the hell for?”

“Staten is going to deposit the money into your account, but it’s going to take a couple of days before we can transfer my share into mine. I need something to get back to LA. Need to get back tonight so I can organize the seminar there.”

“Look, this whole thing is too much,” I felt dizzy, hyperventilating. John’s face appeared distorted, distant. I had just ripped off an auditorium of people without knowing it.

“You piece of shit!” I said, “you’re making me an accomplice to this? What is this, fraud?”

“Wohh! Nothing illegal is going on, Pete. Look,” John checked his phone, “look in your account right now, you’ll see the pending transfer. I told Staten to step on it. Just take the money, I know you need the money. No one’s going to find out.”

Sure enough, the money transfer was on its way. A tsunami was flowing inside, the exhilaration of a quick win. Instant gratification—I hadn’t felt it in so long and it came so easy.

“Pete,” John said, “there are two kinds of people in this world. There are sheep and there are sharks. You need to decide right now, who do you want to be?”

I forked over the remainder of my stock bet to John. He was thrilled. He assured me that I was making the best decision of my life.

#

The next day I awoke bright and early for the final Vacutas conference. I was on edge, a burglar who had successfully committed a robbery. I spent most of the morning in the bathroom before stumbling awkwardly into the casino hallway. Down the hall were police officers knocking on John’s door. I slinked back into the doorway of the room, but one of the cops had already seen me.

“Sir, a moment,” he approached.

“Yes?” I said.

“We’re looking for a Mr. John Barlow, have you seen him?”

“No idea who that is, sorry sir.”

“Are you part of that vacuum convention?”

“No,” I said. The cop wedged his foot into the doorframe as I tried to close it. He pointed at the nametag on my blazer.

“Sir, lying to a police officer during an investigation is obstruction of justice.”

“Oh right, yes. I didn’t know what—I’m sorry. Yes, I’m part of the convention.”

“So, you do know John Barlow?”

“Yes, but I don’t know where he is. I saw him yesterday, but I don’t know. He might be going to the conference today,” I said.

“We’ll be there,” said the cop before turning away and walking down the hall.

I was sweating, trembling. I returned to my room and shut the door behind me. I took my phone and checked the balance in my account. The money I had given John had been withdrawn, but the pending thirty thousand was canceled, gone. I was out of money. Flat broke, humiliated. Whatever the game was, I had lost, I was a fool, a joke.

There was a knock at the door. I remained still, petrified.

“Peter? It’s me. We’re going to be late,” it was Marston. I opened the door.

“Have you seen John?” I asked.

“Nope, I guess he’s already at the conference, come on.”

I had no money or time. I was weak, the biggest sheep in Las Vegas. The biggest idiot alive. I watched Marston waddle down the hall, blazer wrinkled, and shirt untucked. There are sheep and there are sharks. You need to decide right now, who do you want to be?

“Hey, Marston! Wait up. Something happened,” I said. He stopped, turned.

“What? Did something happen to John?”

“No, no. John’s fine. It’s something else. It’s my dad,” I said.

“Your dad?”

“Yeah, he’s gotten worse, man. I don’t know what to do. I need to go back to LA—need to head back now. I just, I don’t have the cash to do it. I’m broke. I can’t go and mom’s worried. I can’t do it—”

“Shit, Peter. I mean, what’s wrong with him? Is it the cancer?” Marston was visibly shaken, gullible.

“Yeah, I don’t know. He’s sick. I need to go,” I said, “It’s a lot, but could you maybe. Well—no I can’t ask. Don’t worry about it.”

“No, what is it, Pete? I’m happy to help.”

“Well, I need money to get back. I know you won some here, could you lend it to me? I’ll pay you right back.”

“Sure, sure. Of course, man.”

#

The last Vacutus conference was over at four. That was about the time the plane was halfway to Los Angeles. I still had $500 of Marston’s money. I watched the rolling clouds from the window seat. A plane across the way was making streaks like tire tracks in the tuft of the sky. A Lamborghini racing down the speedway, a woman in the back. The birds in migration were greenbacks on route to pleasure somewhere far away.

The stewardess approached me with a food menu. I bought the most expensive dish and a glass of chardonnay. There was no need for apologies, I was a good guy. I would pay Marston back when I was a success. I mean, I did promise, I just needed a few things first.