All on Eight
by Rowan MacDonald
I received the notice on Friday afternoon, moments after returning from my latest interview. It was a wiry man who knocked on the door – bloodshot eyes, stubble. He stared at my feet when talking.
“You are required to vacate these premises,” he said, and handed me a piece of paper.
I had nowhere to go. The interview from earlier kept replaying on my mind.
“Good with your hands?” the building foreman had asked.
I looked at my palms. I hadn’t noticed how feminine my fingers were until then. “I can be good with my hands.”
The man clicked his pen, then gazed out the window to bulldozers and concrete. “Any building experience?”
Everything I’d ever built had fallen apart, from furniture to relationships. “Some.”
He shifted paperwork on his desk and said he would be in touch.
Darkness had fallen when I received the call. Unsuccessful. Another rejection. I heard the Beatles were rejected once and reassured myself that sometimes people are clueless when it comes to spotting talent.
Days later, I was throwing possessions into a backpack. It wasn’t much. I’d sold most things in the weeks before when trying to make rent. I left the apartment and headed towards the nearby park.
I had discovered a growing tent community when returning home from the Junction Arms one night. Maybe I would find kindred spirits and safety in numbers. There were bushes near the duck pond that looked appealing, and for a moment, I was transported to childhood and feeding the ducks with my father during happier times.
I didn’t own a tent, so crawled under a hedge near the fence, placing cardboard down to act as a ground sheet. I closed my eyes and fell asleep listening to distant cicadas.
I woke in the morning to jabbing in my ribs. A face peered through the foliage.
“Thought you were dead.”
I emerged into the morning light, rubbing my eyes.
“I’m Anna.”
“Do you always poke others with sticks?” I asked.
She laughed. “Only those I think are dead.”
“I’m Johnno.”
We walked through the park, not knowing our destination. “Are you looking for work?” she asked.
“Eight rejections this week.”
“Chinese consider the number eight good luck.”
“Yeah?”
“Nothing lasts forever,” she said, gesturing towards a businessman walking ahead. He was barefoot, carrying black shoes, a torn hole in his trousers leaking contents onto the path.
Anna kneeled to pick up loose coins, among them casino chips, which she handed to me.
“Feeling lucky?”
We neared the edge of the park, where the city skyline rose above. The casino loomed large. I glanced at Anna, then rifled through my bag for a smart jacket.
“I’ll wait,” she said.
The doorman viewed me with suspicion as I entered. People were already staring into slot machines, others wandering in pursuit of dreams they couldn’t obtain. I slowly approached the roulette table, nodded at the dealer, and handed across my chips.
“All on eight, please.”
BIO: Rowan MacDonald's short fiction has been awarded the Kenan Ince Memorial Prize, judged a finalist in the Tasmanian Writers' Prize and longlisted for the Furphy Literary Award. His words have appeared in various publications, including Overland, New Writing Scotland, Watershed Review, Variant Lit and elsewhere. He lives with his dog, Rosie, who sits beside him for each word he writes. His Instagram handle is @rowmac89.