A House Is Not a Home (3 page)

With that cloud of self-doubt hanging over his head, the devil knocked—and Raheim opened the door.

His descent into the world of gambling actually began rather innocently (as it often does for most). On one of those rare weekends when he was in New York, Mitchell suggested they get away. They hadn't been on a trip together in a couple of years (that last outing being to Disney World to celebrate Li'l Brotha Man's seventh birthday). They wanted to go to a place where they could have privacy, and they didn't want to go too far in case either one of them was called in a family emergency. So they agreed on a spa and resort in the Poconos.

They spent Saturday morning and afternoon being pampered (facials, manicures, pedicures, full-body oil massage, thermal mud baths, and all the wine, champagne, fruit, sorbet, and ice cream they desired) and pampering each other (getting lovey-dovey in the Jacuzzi). That evening, after dining at an Italian restaurant, Raheim noticed there was a casino not far from the hotel; he coaxed Mitchell into stopping in. He gave Mitchell a hundred dollars—a little “maad money” to blow. And Mitchell blew it—in fifteen minutes—on the slots. Raheim decided to try his luck at the craps table. He didn't expect to win, but did. And then he won again. And again. And again. And again. It didn't matter the combo—6 and 1, 5 and 2, 4 and 3—seven ruled, and he was the high roller makin' it happen.

Of course, a crowd gathered. The shouts and hoots grew louder. The chips got stacked higher. And the sevens kept coming.

After close to an hour, Raheim decided to cash in—and, boy, did he cash in. He turned one hundred dollars into five thousand. He and Mitchell went back to the hotel room, spilled the thousand five-dollar bills on the bed (he chose the denomination they paid him in), and they each dove into, swam in, and tossed them in the air. For Mitchell, it was jood to see Raheim relax, have fun, laugh, smile. Mitchell was happy to see him happy, and even happier to see the Pooquie he fell in love with back.

Raheim did have fun. But he didn't have fun because he was spending quality time with Mitchell, something he hadn't done in months; he had fun because of the power he felt when he rolled those dice.
This is how I would've felt if I got all those parts I came this close to getting
, he told himself. He loved this feeling and he never wanted to lose it. He finally found something that he loved to do, he could make some extra green doing, and, most importantly, he could
control
doing (or so he thought). No one would be able to dangle the joods in front of him and, when he reached for them, take them away. He'd come up with the winning number every time.

And, for awhile, he did just that during his biweekly jaunts to the Taj Mahal in Atlantic City, Foxwoods in Connecticut, or the Flamingo in Las Vegas. He had become a regular, quick; the staffs knew him and they made sure he was well taken care of—“Good evening, Mr. Rivers,” “How long will you be with us this time?,” “Can I get you the usual?” “If you need something, just let me know”—for they knew he would take care of them. After a month, he could walk into any of his spots and get two, five, ten Gs in credit, no questions asked. And the other gamers gave him his props; he was the
real
Goldfinger, the Man with the Midas Touch. They'd get in on his action and give him a piece of their own, buy him a drink or dinner, even offer themselves in appreciation (women
and
men).

But there was nothing like THE RUSH—the tingly sensation in his hands, the itch under his fingernails, his toes curling, the goose bumps all over his body, his heart doin' a three-step.
This is what it must feel like bein' high
, he thought. Not pissy drunk, stoned, or coked up, but
high
. Light on your feet. Dizzy. Feelin' like you can fly. Hell, it was even jooder than gettin' his bootay banged by Mitchell—and that was
really
sayin' sumthin'. Pretty soon, it replaced sex as the fix he had to have every six days.

And because he had no interest in being banged (or doin' the bangin'), Mitchell figured that he had strayed. Mitchell confronted him about being so distant, about the trips he was taking, the new clothes (such as a tacky bloodred leather suit), the flashy jewelry (a rope chain with RAHEIM spelled in diamonds), the new car (a Jeep), and the new crowd he was hanging with (folks with “names” like Tricky Ricky, Ace in the Hole, and the Joker).

When he disclosed what had been occupying his time, Mitchell was shocked—and alarmed. “Pooquie, why are you doing it?”

“
Why?
'Cause it's fun.”

“I think you should stop.”

“Why?”

“Because, it . . . it's changing you.”

“And that's a bad thing?”

“It is when you spend all your free time doing it. And when you're late for appointments because you're hanging at the casino.”

“I was only late a couple of times.”

“A couple is two; you were late five or six times.”

“You keepin' count?”

“Troy and Tommy Boy have been. They called me last week about it.”

“So, what, you supposed to get me in line and shit?”

“They're concerned, and I am, too. Pooquie, you . . . you've got a gambling problem.”

“Say what?”
He wasn't some potbellied, cigar-smokin' bum, spending his whole paycheck on the horses at OTB.

“You have to stop.”

“Why should I?”

“So, you can't stop?”

“I can stop if I want to and I ain't. So long as I'm takin' care of thangz—”

“That's just it, you haven't been.”

“Meanin'?”

“
Meanin
', you haven't been spending time with me.”

“So, what, you wanna go with me?”

“Why would I want to do that?”

“The last time we hit the casino you said it was one of the best times we had in years.”

“That was then. And joining you at a casino does not mean you will be spending time with
me
.”

“
Me, me, me
. Is that
all
you can think about?”

“That's all
you've
been thinking about.”

“And you wonder how come I ain't been spendin' time with yo' ass?”

“Don't blame me for your problem.”

“I ain't
got
no problem.”

“The fact that you don't think you have one
is
a problem.”

“Yo,
fuck
you, a'ight? I don't need this shit.”

Mitchell grasped his left arm. “Pooquie, I'm trying to help you—”

Raheim shrugged his arm off. “Help me? Whatever.” He headed for the front door. He opened it.

“Pooquie, please—”

Raheim stopped.

“Please . . . don't walk out. If you walk out . . .”

He turned. “What, I can't come back?”

Mitchell stared at him, his eyes welling up with tears. “I'm . . . afraid for you.”

He snickered. “You ain't gotta be.” He couldn't believe how Mitchell was acting. He laughed about the whole thing on the way uptown.

But he wasn't laughing the very next day when the sevens stopped and that freewheeling feeling gave way to a tightness in his chest and tension in his neck. Where he used to clock ten Gs in one night, he was now losing it—and losing only made him want to play more. He heard a voice, a voice that had always been there, egging him on, but this time it was louder, more encouraging, ringing in his ears like an echo . . .
all it'll take is one more roll, just one more, and you can get it back, get it all back, so go for it, what do you have to lose
? And he would once again lose everything.

And you'd think that knot in his stomach would have been an indication that what he was doing was literally making him sick. The higher the loss, the more intense the pain became.

They say all compulsive gamblers have that “rock-bottom” moment. His happened when he was watching (of all things)
The Flintstones
.

That night, he had blown another bundle, his biggest loss ever—twenty-five grand (he had depleted most of his savings, CDs, and mutual funds, and now was dipping into the accounts he set up for both Li'l Brotha Man and Destiny). He decided to take a break and went to his hotel room. It was a single, smoking; he no longer received nor could he afford the royal treatment, à la the Presidential Suite. He flipped on the television and fell back on the bed—drained, exhausted, frazzled, and in excruciating pain. He heard Fred coaxing Arnold the paperboy to shoot marbles for the money he owed him, double or nothing.

Raheim immediately sat up. It wasn't as if he hadn't seen the episode before. But, for the first time, he was
seeing
it.

Fred was putting his financial future and mental health on the line—and so was he.

Fred was lying to and deceiving his loved ones—and so was he.

Fred was lying to and deceiving himself—and so was he. Fred was a desperate man in need of desperate help—and so was he.

He caught a quick glance of himself in the mirror over the dresser. Fred was a pitiful, pathetic sight . . .

. . . and so was he.

It wasn't a coincidence that on this night, in this room, and at this moment, he was faced with this televised characterization of himself—and the fact that it was a cartoon made it all the more scary.

He suddenly felt . . . COLD. That's right, COLD. Not just chilly, but FROZEN. He crept into the middle of the bed, as if he were recoiling in horror at something threatening. He folded into a fetal position, wrapping himself up in his arms. He cried the rest of the night.

He stayed in that position for a whole day. He didn't sleep. He didn't eat. He just brooded—and burned. He felt so embarrassed. So ashamed. So
stoopid.
If he thought he was a loser before, he knew he was a loser then.

He grabbed the hotel phone and dialed. To his surprise, he knew the digits by heart.

“Hello?”

“Uh . . . um . . .”

“Raheim, what's wrong?”

“Uh . . . uh . . .”

“What's happened?”

“I . . . I . . .”

“Just tell me where you are. I'll come get you.”

He came to the hotel and brought Raheim to his apartment in Jersey City. He had Raheim get out of his clothes and put him to bed. He proceeded to turn off the light and leave the room.

“Pop?” Raheim sniffled. “Yeah, son?”

“Uh . . . don't go.”

His father took a seat beside the bed. Raheim took his hand. His father watched him sleep an entire day.

When he woke up, his father was still in that chair.

His father leaned forward. “How are you?”

“I . . . don't know.”

“Are you hungry?”

He shook his head no.

“Thirsty?”

He shook his head no again.

His father squeezed his hand. “Son, you don't have to be embarrassed. Or ashamed. And don't think you're stupid.”

Maybe it was the way Raheim's voice had cracked over the phone. Maybe it was Raheim's not being able to put into words what was happening. Maybe it was that Raheim's father, in his own way, had been there before. Maybe it was that Raheim was his son, and he just knew he needed him. Maybe it was all of those things.

Whatever it was, Raheim was glad his father recognized it—and rescued him.

But then Raheim had to rescue himself. And while there was no one way people got in this addiction, there was only one way out of it.

He went back to Gamblers Anonymous a third time and thought that would be enough. But it wasn't. So he went back a fourth time. Still not enough. Number five. Six, seven, eight . . . He didn't think he would need the Group as much as he had, the way he had. But he wasn't just trying to kick a very bad habit—he was trying to get his life back.

But would the life he once had
want
him back? He'd been walking around in a fog for several years, blind to the world that was so important to him. And when the fog lifted, that world was no longer there—and neither were the people who made up that world. Sure, Little Bit and Li'l Brotha Man were still
there
—but they were no longer
Little Bit
and
Li'l Brotha Man
. They had done a lot of growing—individually and collectively—in the time he was missing in action. While they were
e
volving, he was
de
volving.

Little Bit always said he wouldn't fight
over
him but he would fight
for
him, and he did. He hounded and harassed Raheim to stop. He left Gamblers Anonymous pamphlets around the house and in Raheim's suitcase and pants pockets. Once he tried to trick Raheim into going to a meeting. He even enlisted Raheim's mother, Angel, even Babyface, B.D., and Gene to step in and attempt to talk some sense into him. Raheim didn't feel it was anybody's business what he did and it was nobody's business what was happening between them, so he told folks to mind their fuckin' business (except his mother—he might've been out of his mind but he hadn't
lost
his mind).

And then there was the time Little Bit followed him on one of his excursions, “confronting” him at the craps table. Raheim didn't notice him standing right next to him until another gamer asked if he wanted to join in. Raheim wasn't surprised to see him there.

Their eyes locked. Little Bit didn't have to say a word; he'd already said all that needed to be said. And as far as Raheim was concerned, he had heard enough. He turned his attention back to the dice and his back on Little Bit—and let Little Bit walk away.

Raheim didn't know it then, but that was the day he forfeited the right to call Mitchell Little Bit. By not heeding Little Bit's silent cry that day, Raheim pronounced that what they had was over.

Little Bit didn't bail on him;
he
bailed on Little Bit. And Little Bit didn't break up with him because of what he had become; Little Bit broke up with him because of what he had stopped
being
.