Read Online The Autograph Hound by John Lahr - Free Book Online Page A

people who were in them used to be right on this street. There’s no theater now except a strip show on Eighth Avenue. But the names of the theaters have been preserved. That’s the most important thing, VICTORY, LYRIC, LIBERTY. At night that’s all you see in the sky. It’s fun.
    There’s a fortune teller in this arcade that looks like my mother. She’s old. Her fingernail polish’s chipped. Her skin’s rubbery and kind of yellow. You have to watch very closely to see her move. But she does move once you put your nickel in the slot. She also tells you to get comfortable, pay attention, and come again.
    I put in a coin. She talks for a minute, then a card passes out at the bottom of the machine. It’s the only scary part.
    Say farewell to those blues you have been nursing. Get in the habit of looking at the brighter side of life. You have a temperamental nature. You lose your temper easily but regret it as fast.
    The last time she said I was a sweet person.
    You have a brilliant mind and enjoy reading and the fine arts.
    Icing on the cake, but getting warmer. The last sentence gives me a shock. I can hear my heart.
    A dark-haired person who is trying to harm you will soon disappear from your life, and you will prosper.
    How could she know? Just beneath her prophecy’s a note.
    Drop another coin in the slot and I will tell you more. Your Lucky Numbers—56, 57, 58.
    It’s good to know this for Fascination. I quit while I’m ahead.
    I take stool number 57. The rules to Fascination are the same as poker, except you play with five rubber balls. You roll each ball down the table, aiming for the holes, which are numbered like a pack of cards. You play against the machine, and like the sign says outside the arcade—EVERYBODY’S A WINNER.
    The game’s tense. The prizes are on the shelves above the machine, so close you can almost touch them. Mixmasters, waffle irons, radios, golf clubs—the same prizes they have on quiz shows. Jeanette comes by your seat when you win and gives you coupons. The better the hand, the more you get. Each gift has the number of coupons under it. You know what you’re working for.
    A man with a microphone calls out the winners. He talks to us while we roll. “Every man a winner, not a sinner. Three aces, now you’re going places. Four of a kind, rob us blind.” Sometimes I know I’ve won even before the announcer sees. I push back my stool (you get tired from the pressure). I pretend Steve McQueen has just folded his cards. He’s signing over his motorcycle to me. Tough nuggies, Steve. Straight, ace high.
    â€œWinner on fifty-seven. Little closer to heaven.”
    Jeanette gives me four coupons. She smiles. Sometimes when players have been at the table a few hours and are really doing good, they give her their coupons. I don’t believe in that. To the victor belongs the spoils.
    The backspin’s really cooking today. After each game, I rest and think about how I’ll play the next. I like to remember the wins. I look around at my competition. Only ten people are playing.
    Time flies when you play Fascination. There’s never a dull moment. The man at the microphone names me again.
    â€œWinner on fifty-seven. Full boat, buy your lady friend a coat.”
    This makes me think of Gloria. I decide to stop for a while and walk around. If you can’t concentrate, you can’t win.
    I stop at Boothill, a gun battle in the rear of the arcade—three shots for a quarter. It’d be silly if the gunman didn’t look like Garcia—yellow-brown skin, Stetson, rodeo shirt. I deposit my money, and right away a record of insults start coming from the guy—typical. “All right, you polecat, you lily-livered toad, no varmint’s gonna talk to me this way. Go for your gun, whippersnapper.” The gunman has the advantage. His hand’s on the six-shooter. I crouch. I slap leather. I fan