The Keymaster
It’s a subtle glitch, a flicker. To those who aren’t accustomed to the barrage of whirs and beeps, and lights and smoke, the change is easy to miss. Not for them, though. Their senses have been conditioned to cut through the noise.
Something in their arthritic fingers must sense the shift. Maybe the changing decimal places send a buzz that fizzles down from the billboard into the cabling, through the machine and into buttons, shocking their paper thin flesh and pulsating through their nerves? Old bones tend to do that apparently, throb with the whisper of an oncoming storm.
They must feel it. Because all at once, they look up.
$XXX,XXX.00, $XXX,XXX.01, $XXX,XXX.02, $XXX,XXX.03…
The Jackpot sign is the gaming area’s centrepiece. Looming from the ceiling, its glow (the most auspicious shade of red) is unmissable. It's shaped like a ring, readable from every angle of the pokie floor, boasting that big number that everyone here has come to win. Ever so slightly, the big number grows, ticking and ticking, higher and higher until BANG - it resets.
When the Jackpot goes off, there are no alarms, no pops of confetti. The big number slips slyly into an unsuspecting machine. It’s not cunning enough to trick them though. They know, the regulars always know. They have that big number etched behind their eyelids, any slight change they detect. Pavlov’s Pokies, I call them. They can sniff out a Jackpot. They’ve been trained to salivate over it, trained to sit, to stay.
And there it goes now. Back to the beginning. From the bar, I hold a safe view of the eruption. But it’s only a matter of seconds until the secret becomes airborne, spreading from the pokie veterans of the 300s who linger near the Jackpot sign.
From the veterans, the news will slip between the lemon squash ladies of the 390s, seeping its way into the smoking section. It’ll pass between the great Cartlon Dry and Draught Schism of the 230s, and the vodka soda lads of the 200s with their culturally appropriated tattoos. In the 120s, the house red regulars will whisper to the espresso elders of the 90s, and the 18 year old vapers of the 50s will eventually catch wind of it. Like the sour smoke from their lips, it’ll spread and spread and spread to all 436 machines, until I’m shoved from my hiding spot onto the pokie floor.
We pokie attendants are small cogs in a much larger scheme. Whatever players need—a drink, a lighter, a clean ash tray—we’ll bring it straight to them. We’ll bring them anything as long as they don’t need to leave their machine.
In doing so, I’m a sacrificial lamb, you see? Destined to cop the brunt of their shaking fists and dirty glares and mother tongue mutterings about how this place is rigged, and how the managers are actually government spies who control the machines, and how I am the most corrupt person on earth. Yes, that’s right, me. The 21-year-old girl currently running off half a Red Bull, two Naprogesics and a dehydrated sausage roll. I am the most corrupt person on earth. Why? Well tonight, I’m the conjurer of fate, the gatekeeper of fortune. Tonight, I am The Keymaster.
“Alright Cash, you're up.”
It would be remiss of me to ignore the irony of my last name, as if all those in the Casha bloodline were destined for the auspicious title of RSL pokie attendant. I reach for the keys on my belt, their soft jangle inaudible against the bright chinks of schooner glasses and the brighter use of expletives. Yep they’re still there, unfortunately. The help sign for Machine 113 blinks softly on my iPad. Lucky bastard. Let’s make this quick.
“Wait, where’s your RGO badge?”
I’m legally required to wear this badge. A part of me believes that if I don’t, I will burst into flames. We at the club have to let everyone know that we are ‘Responsible Gambling Officers’.The government puts a lot of money into “minimising gambling harm”. The Law student in me says good on them for seeing a need and doing something about it. The English major in me wishes parliament knew what an oxymoron was. It’s difficult to promote Responsible Gambling when we all sure as hell know that addiction keeps this place open and makes pokie companies billions. There are only so many times you can suggest a person take a break from their machine or recommend self exclusion before you get an ear full.
But when you ignore the casual verbal abuse, being The Keymaster is satisfying. It’s funny how people expect that winning a jackpot is some formal event. They must imagine being greeted by some shadowy figure in a crisp suit and dark shades; a Big Brother entity who hails from the control room that selects the winning machine. With a firm hand shake, they would congratulate the player for cracking the code, unlocking the elusive prize that so many have fallen in pursuit of.
But no, it’s me. An iron deficient girl who, with all the enthusiasm she can muster at 1:53 am, will give them a small congratulatory nod. With one turn of my key the machine screen will flicker and zip…it’ll disappear. That big sum, the one that took them years of button slapping, all the stars aligning, and their entire superannuation fund to win? Gone. $0.00. When handing out cash as The Keymaster I’m powerful like Zeus, or Oprah. I can grant people’s wishes and with the turn of a key, I can make them disappear.
I avoid eye contact as I slip through the crowd which has started to congregate around the Jackpot sign. If they catch sight of my keys they’ll follow me to the winning machine. Once they find the winning player, it’ll be nothing short of anarchy. People will start clawing into their back pockets, pulling out random favours they’re owed from years ago, as if they’re entitled to the prize, as if they’ve earnt it themselves.
“Miskina, what are you still doing here?”
Oh phew, hello Machine 397.
She beckons me over to the other side of the crowd. Machine 397 is my favourite. She likes me because she knows we “share blood.” The fact that Malta is one third the size of Canberra helps with this assumption.
“You are so young! Mella, shouldn’t you be out with your friends?”
Not tonight 397, I’m indebted to this cause. I have to make you stay.
On busy nights like these, quitting my job and joining the slap-life with 397 looks alluring. In our Responsible Gambling training, they warned us that gaming venue staff are at higher risks of developing gambling addictions. 397 is unphased by this. She thinks I’m lucky enough to win big.
“We are a very lucky people.”
Yes 397.
“You know what happened to Saint Paul when he was shipwrecked on Malta?”
No 397.
“He was bitten…by a snake! And you know why he survived?”
No 397.
“He was in Malta of course! That’s the luck we have,
we gave it to him…and he survived.”
Yes 397, you’re very right.
A set of crimson rosary beads are wrapped around her pointy knuckles, so pointy it looks as though her skeleton might pierce through her skin. For someone so religious, 397 sure has a lot of faith in these machines. Maybe religiosity is what makes a good gambler, having enough belief in something that lies completely out of your control, surrendering to something that may never eventuate, something that may not exist.
“And now we are here in the Lucky Country, and you know what that means…”
No 397.
“We have double the luck! We are very blessed like that.”
The Lucky Country. Surely that was a self-given title. Maybe 397 is right, luck is in a person’s blood. When 397 was in utero, Italy bombed her village. When her parents woke up the morning after the air raid, they found an undetonated bomb resting in the vegetable garden.
Now 397 is testing that fortune in this Lucky Country. She tells me of her luck on theDragon Link, how she won a couple of hundred the other day. She tells me of her luck that her son moved close to her, and her luck when he agreed to help her around the house.
She tells me how lucky she is that her walls are thick, so the neighbours never hear his yelling. She tells me how lucky she is that the bus stops right outside of her house so she can come here everyday.
How lucky she is that this place has so many friendly faces, so many new people to talk to. Here, she never feels lonely. She’s also lucky that the club has so many things to do, so many machines to choose from so she never has to sit here in silence.
She’s lucky to have a place so different from the one waiting for her back home.
“Oi Casha! Where are our Schoonanews? We ordered two of ‘em.”
Patience is a virtue 218.
I could use some Irish luck when entering the smoking section. Not the Australian kind, not the kind that surrounds me. Machines 218 and 219 are tied at the hip as usual. Whenever one orders their Tooheys New, so will the other, just a machine away. I have to stifle a chuckle whenever I spot them. They look like they’ve been pulled straight from a cartoon, big 218 with his lumbering build and oafish laugh, and small 219 with his mouse-like features and uncomfy silences.
“You wouldn’t happen to have the keys tonight would ya?”
No definitely not 218, this bulge in my pocket is completely unrelated.
“That’s a shame. I would have asked ya to get a feature out the back for me.”
He guffaws.
Oh 218, you cheeky bugger. What an original joke that
I definitely haven’t heard at least six times tonight.
218 assures me he’s on a winning machine because he won the Mega BBQ Pack in the meat raffle and do you know who wins the Mega BBQ Pack? Only lucky bastards, that’s who. It’s the bloody MEGA pack for crying out loud. He might as well chuck the lotto on.
218 and 219 come in a pair, ever since 219 got lucky one night and won the major with his wife. He, too, felt lucky that day. It was something in the smell of that last night’s rain, the way his new shoes hit the footpath. The next morning, his wife was unresponsive. At least it happened in her sleep, she was always lucky like that.
219 was lucky as well because he no longer had to share his prize money, waste it on shoes and bags and those appointments with Dr What-His-Face her cardiologist, that scammer. No, now he could live the luxury life drinking Schoonanews with 218, whose Mega BBQ Pack luck never fails. I’ve never heard 219 speak, but he was lucky to find such an empathetic friend in 218 who knows exactly how he feels at any given moment and speaks on his behalf.
PING PING PING - BULL RUSH!
“Oh wow Cash, don’t you leave. You’re our lucky charm.”
Very tempting 218. I wonder how many Schoonanews
it would take for me to blackout this conversation with you.
No one expects the most beat up machine to win the Jackpot. Machine 113 hides in the very corner of the place in its own little nook. Regulars don’t sit at 113. It’s far too shoddy with its 2007 graphics. People always tell me that good things arrive when you least expect them. When bad things happen, I never expect them either.
The middle-aged man there is a stranger, a well dressed one. I hope he’s the type that tips. He better, I’ve saved the little patience I have left just for him. I pull out the keys and channel my customer service voice.
Hi Sir, congratulations on your win!
“…”
113 is busy slapping.
Sorry, sir?
“…”
Still slapping.
Sir?
“Who?”
Um, you? You’ve won.
Even with the large sum emblazoned on the screen, his eyes are transfixed, mesmerised by the spinning tiles. Has he not realised? Maybe I should point to it.
See…you’re the jackpot winner.
“Oh…”
113 stops slapping and blinks away from the machine. For the first time our eyes meet.
“I just wanted to know what time you guys close.”
We close at 3am but I’ll write your cheque up now. It’ll only take a sec.
I hold up the keys. His indifference is unsettling. Maybe he’s delirious because it’s 2am? Maybe the machine static has lulled him into a trance, like a calming white noise machine? Maybe he’s rich?
“Nah no cheques, cash only.”
Sorry Sir, the win’s too big. Anything over a couple of grand has to be a cheque.
“Are you sure?Is there a manager I can speak to?”
Yes and they’ll tell you the same thing.
“Okay, nevermind then. I’ll just keep playing.”
113 got lucky on this business trip. Out of all the candidates, what were the chances he was selected? And what were the chances his hotel room was upgraded as well? And now, what are the chances that the big number is his? What are the chances he can’t claim it?
Are you sure?
“Yeah, I’m not cashing out. I can’t…”
He grins to himself.
“I’m not meant to be here.”
113 resumes slapping. Here, there’s no need to keep his head down. Here, he’s a stranger.
113 wasn’t expecting to win today. He could’ve ducked in and out, lost it all without a trace like every other time. But with a cheque, there’s evidence he was here.
One more time, she said. 113 is lucky these things chomp up cash. He won’t need to stay here for too long before the big number is not so big, small enough that he won’t need a cheque, won’t need to cover up his tracks, won't need to sign those papers like he promised her he would.
113 is a lucky man to have a wife who cares about him, one who was willing to give him one more chance. And 113’s wife is a lucky woman, to have a man willing to protect her from seeing him like this.
“Hey, you wouldn’t wanna get married would you?”
As I let 113 be, I think about the punishment of his luck, all the waste it brings. When I’m The Keymaster, I see it all the time. In the eyes of the pokie players, I see the temptation of everything that could be, the finality of everything that won’t. I see them put their days into the machines and when the day is done, my co-workers put their tips into them. Maybe we should all just close our eyes, go home. I need to go home.
113 is still slapping. He’ll keep slapping until the beer taps are plugged, and the schooner racks are put to dry, and everyone, winners and losers alike, shuffles out of here in a herd. He’ll keep slapping and slapping and slapping until the lights go off and my keys are locked back in their safe. He’ll keep slapping and slapping and slapping until the power goes out, until the screen flickers and zip…just like that, the big number is gone.