Tunnel vision

A mobile phone rings and breaks through the almost reverent soundscape of beeping machines and tinny voices promising winnings or wishing good luck. The man in the back corner, almost completely merged with an expansive armchair in front of the slot machine, moves almost as if in a trance to answer his phone, whilst remaining transfixed by the constantly rearranging little pictures on the screen. "Yes? No, everything's dead here!", the man's voice is irritated, he speaks louder than he needs to and knows it. Everyone should hear his displeasure. One of the other players glances over. He knows what it's like inside that man, knows the feeling. He turns back to his own screen, on which golden little pictures of scantily clad pin-up girls arrange themselves again and again into memory-like sequences. The man on the phone hangs up. Frustrated, he slaps the start button with the flat of his hand. Once again the little pictures line up. Nothing. An artificially sounding female voice tells him that he would only need to top up his balance to find his luck. "That can't be right!", he exclaims, gesticulating towards the screen, whilst his gaze wanders across the row of players in the room. "One's missing, there, that one there, then it would be a full picture." Knowingly, the man next to him taps against the screen. "All criminals, they won't give anyone anything." An approving murmur goes through the room, then silence. Everyone stares transfixed at their screens again and the machines play their symphony. The excitement is forgotten. Lost, the man stares at his motionless screen. He had already gambled away three hundred euros, won almost nothing. Mercilessly, the machine had eaten through his savings in ten to twenty cent increments. Knowingly and willingly, the arcade employee had exchanged fifty-euro note after fifty-euro note for him. Luck – he hadn't wished him that, he knew better, because luck wasn't found here. He wanted to get back to his phone or quietly continue reading a book. In a fit of self-pity driven by self-hatred, the man pinches his leg. To the left, towards the wall, his hand shamefully hidden by the bulky armchair. He barely feels it, but it bleeds a little. One last time he rummages through his pockets searching for forgotten coins, little treasures that would steal his thoughts away. For a short time. Piece by piece. Minutes of false hope. One last look, he rises slowly. He glances about aimlessly and looks around on the floor, then he leaves the arcade. He leaves the door open, let the fellow working here close it. Shuffling slowly, he creeps through the alley. Without a destination in mind, but his legs carry him. An inner automatism drives him through the streets. 

It is a warm day, the sun shines unobstructed from the cloudless sky and lends the happenings in the city streets a fairy-tale shimmer. Tourists stroll through alleys or stream through the shopping streets, camera always at the ready. Amongst them a few purposeful residents who skilfully navigate through the crowd and go about their daily routine. He stops, as if waking from a trance he looks around. Beneath his shaggy beard his mouth twists into a bitter smile. Everywhere else, just not here, but he knows he would have ended up here anyway. As if pulled by strings he goes to the next cash machine. Ominously his account balance shines black embedded in brilliant white. 18.37 euros and not until two weeks will money be transferred to him from the state again. He withdraws 15 euros, for shopping, he promises himself. Out on the street he heads towards the nearest discount supermarket. To distract himself, he wonders what he would buy. Rice would get him through the weeks and perhaps, if he had a bit of luck with the five euros… Tormented, he forces himself to suppress the thought. Instead he tries to concentrate on the people around him. Wonders what problems they might have. A group of young women in matching T-shirts and short skirts mill about cheering in front of a kebab stand. One is wearing a bridal veil and already looks quite drunk. Uninhibited, she basks in the attention of her friends. A few metres away two older ladies are outraged at the drunken excess and a group of bouncers give the short skirts some unmistakable looks and whistles. A bit further down the street the discount supermarket's advertising sign shines between a hairdresser's salon and a nail studio like a saving signpost. With his gaze fixed on the goal, he marches forward, unhappily his thoughts circle around the coming days of deprivation. Dry rice and tap water for two weeks, he would go collecting deposit bottles to at least occasionally afford the luxury of some variety. So lost in thought, a quiet ringing and a heroic melody reach his ear, he knows these fanfares all too well, the heralds of his ruin. Nervously he searches for the source, from the corner of his eye he sees the origin of the promise in an inner courtyard. One fewer nail studio, one more arcade. The man knows that something new was supposed to go there. Where just a few weeks ago a nail studio had been, the logo of an arcade now blazed. Invitingly the gleaming logo points the way into the dim light. Forgotten is the rice, forgotten the gloomy thoughts about tomorrow – new hall, new luck. He can't lose here, he simply must win, then he would stock his fridge with the finest, not the cheap supermarket brands, but the good ones he would buy. Inside it smells unusual, a faint whiff of chemicals still seems to cling to the place. But the man only notices the real difference when a smoker sweeps into the room and a gust of nicotine-laden air drifts into the dim interior of the arcade. All the other arcades here had been established so long that their carpets were still saturated with decades of smoking, the new one would probably never acquire this smell. Lost in thought about the distinctive smell, the old gambler sinks into one of the squashy armchairs in front of a machine. At least the chairs are right, he thinks to himself and shoves his fresh ten-euro note into the machine's mouth. The digital clockwork begins to turn. Nothing, nothing again. There, finally, four in a row. A relieved sigh escapes the player as sixty euros are credited to him. His greed is awakened. He wants more and increases his stake. Outside it grows dark, but here, in the comfort of the machines, no time passes, here the light is always the same. Fortune seems to favour the man here, his ten euros have meanwhile become just over three hundred. He sets the stake to maximum. "It'll work today," he thinks to himself, "just one full picture, just once," almost pleadingly he devoutly starts the game. Nothing, the pictures stop, he's back to sixty euros. Following an inner urge, he stands up and goes to the door, outside it's already night, drunken activity forms a familiar soundscape of laughter, clinking glasses and testosterone-laden deep voices trying to communicate across the street. Another player gives him a cigarette and complains about his losing streak. The man just nods but doesn't listen to him. Greedily he sucks in the smoke. He only affords the luxury of cigarettes at the beginning of each month. The smoke scratches his throat, he shouldn't smoke, tomorrow he'd have a sore throat again. A disgusting taste fills his mouth. No smoke, he's reached the filter. Disgusted, he flicks the cigarette away, nods thankfully to his benefactor and goes back to his machine. Brief hesitation, but then he presses the start button again. The little pictures flee and return. Then the screen explodes in blinking ecstasy, a heroic melody sounds through the hall. Everyone turns around transfixed, full picture. The old gambler is overwhelmed, a high floods through him, a hot tingling spreads through him and he feels as if everything is spinning a little. Someone taps him on the shoulder, that's how you show it to the machines. "Good man!", someone says. "He must have the golden touch," it overwhelms him. He has his winnings paid out, can hardly believe it, he holds fifteen hundred euros in his hands. Quickly he presses twenty into the hand of the nice cigarette donor. Then he flees the hall, just away. He still has the high in his belly. Quickly to the snack bar and home before he gambles it away again. He barely notices the activity outside, only when a drunk bumps into him in the snack bar does he find his way back to his surroundings. The usual party crowd begins to arm itself with kebab and other fast food to counter the alcohol. It is now two o'clock in the morning, the hardened ones continue celebrating after their meal, the rest stumble home or sleep off their intoxication leaning on tables. With a bag from which a wonderfully tempting smell of food already wafts, he looks for a free taxi. Otherwise he always walks the hour home, but today he affords himself the taxi. The warm meal will do him good. He feels like a new man. With the money he could get by for a while and perhaps give up the machines. The comfort of his sofa lets him fall into a sleep full of great dreams. 

The old man stares at the screen in front of him as if frozen. His eyes, already slightly watery from staring at the bright screens for hours, are wide. He presses his hands against his head, one hand on the right and one on the left, directly above his ears and presses, harder and harder. It doesn't hurt, but it distracts him. He closes his eyes. Glowing red and merciless, the number forms before his inner eye, three red zeros. He is completely broke, yet he had won yesterday. His thoughts race, mock him, useless blockhead, a damned idiot is what he is. He could finally have afforded glasses, or a bicycle, something useful for once. But all he had bought himself was a day in the arcade. A day without desperate back and forth, without constant desperate glances at his bank account. But now everything is gone, his winnings, his self-respect from last night, his dignity. Slowly he rises, then he leaves the hall. 

He doesn't turn around, now he knows where to go. With firm steps he walks to the drawbridge.

Marian Wetterau