The Chair by the Window

There was a chair by the front window of my hall that belonged to a man I will call Walt. He showed up at two every afternoon, bought one coffee, and sat there until closing. He never picked up a cue. He watched the games the way some folks watch rain.

For about a year, nobody asked him a thing. I figured a man who wanted company would say so. That is what I told myself, anyway, because asking felt like prying, and I have never cared to pry.

The regulars who make noise are easy to keep track of. They brag, they sulk, they slam the table, and you always know where they stand. The quiet ones are the ones who slip past you. Walt's coat got older and his coffee stayed the same size, and still I let it go.

One slow Tuesday I sat down in the next chair and said, "You never play, and you never miss a day. I have been wondering about that."

He took a long time. Then he said he used to play, years back, and then he started betting on his phone, and the phone took more than the table ever did. He came to the hall because it was the only place where nothing in his pocket could ask him for anything. He sat in the chair because it kept him out of his own kitchen, where the phone lived.

I did not fix a thing. I poured him a second coffee and let him talk until the lights needed turning down.

Here is what I learned late. The loud ones announce themselves. The quiet ones wait to be asked, and most of them will wait forever if nobody does. A plain question, asked without a verdict attached, can be a door.

If someone in your life has gone quiet around gambling, you can ask. And if it is you in that chair, the National Problem Gambling Helpline is 1-800-MY-RESET.

Ask the quiet ones.

Sal