Cayce Osborne
When they cover the roulette wheel and begin dismissing the croupiers, that’s my cue to leave. But today, I stay. People-watching hasn’t unearthed any inspiration, so I order another 7 & 7 and stay on my stool—the one that Jock always threatens to engrave with my name.
I take a sip, the aggressive carbonation of the weak cocktail tickling my nose. Studying the mirrored wall behind the bar, I scan the room for someone with potential. The casino is filled with stereotypes—caricatures and clichés. I’d feel like a hack for writing about any of them.
An aging Sinatra wannabe studies his poker hand and scratches at the worn green felt with a pudgy finger. The croupier deals, and the jack of hearts flashes in my direction as he picks it up with a snap. I can’t see the rest of his
