52

The boxes did whatever it took to get to Switzerland. Six people, owners or pets themselves, answered the call, as the boxes' collective sphere of influence got even wider.

The boxes were almost giddy with excitement. They felt the quickening that Merry had felt. They were rapidly approaching the status of fully realized personalities.

"Oh my god, I can't lose!" said Bob B. Soxx. He had grown stout, he had a moustache. Lifting 75,000,000 pounds over his head was good for some things and not others.

Parquet St., in some ways, was a weird place to put a restaurant. "It's hard to exercise out here," Bobby said.

"What are you talking about," said Jim Bombarde. It was Bobby and Jim and their friend Rebecca Pidgeon, who had just recently abandoned a promising singing career with her band Ruby Blue, to go and marry David Mamet. "What about the big red sidewalks? There's miles of them."

"Oh," said Bobby. "I wouldn't walk there. It's not safe."

"You know," Jim said, "every little bit helps. You can park your car at the far edge of the parking lot instead of parking in the closest --"

"Saffron Path doesn't have a parking lot," Bobby said. And besides, he thought, commenting harshly on the portly Bombarde, you're one to talk.

Snapping out of a memory, Bobby returned to the present and pulled the slot-machine arm.

"I CAN'T LOSE! This is AMAZING! I just keep on winning!"

"That money's for Switzerland, Bobby," said a voice.

Some hosts were stronger than others, or more forceful, better at defying the box's messages.

Switzerland! said the box, threatening to throw a tantrum.

"Believe me, Bobby, if I throw a tantrum, your eyes will bleed."

Bobby raised his eyebrows. What to make of voices in his head? He knew he wasn't going crazy. That would be too easy an explanation.

Bobby kept on gambling.

"Dangerous thoughts," said the box.

Bobby didn't answer.

"What would your disciples say? Can you be a spiritual mucky-muck and still play the slots to the tune of..."

"No one ever said a holy man couldn't gamble," Bobby said.

"Four hundred!" said the box. "I'm glad you're playing the $2 machine. Why don't you try the $5? All we need is $899, plus tax."

"Hmm," said Bobby. "You know, that's not such a bad idea." He walked over to the $5 slot machine and began playing and began winning.

"Six hundred," said the box. "You're getting close. Be careful."

Bobby continued plunking five-dollar coins into the oversized slot machine. Instead of a jingling mountain of coins, Bobby kept on deferring his winnings and betting the entire pot, over and over.

"Eight hundred," said the box. "Nine hundred. Okay, stop. That's all we need."

Bobby shook his head.

"Bobby, stop playing. We have all the money we need. We're due at Fashion Pizza in only eight days. Move your feet."

Bobby shook his head and pulled.

"At least stop sinking your whole purse into the next pull. This is really dangerous."

"Are you nuts?" Bobby asked the box. "You've seen my luck? Watch this!"

The box watched as the slot machine came up with a succession of bars, lemons and little red ambulances.

"I -- whoa!"

"You lost it all."

"That's not how slot machines are supposed to work!"

"Well, that's how this one works. You should have read the rules before you started playing."

Bobby leaned his head against the machine. He slowly pounded his fist on the little red ambulance with the spinning siren.

"Congratulations, Bobby," said the box. "You've set us back twelve hours."

Bobby's eyes opened. "Is that all?"

"Yes, that's all. We just have to start over. Do you have some quarters left, I hope?"

Bobby nodded. He did have a few quarters.

"Back to the regular slot machines, please. And this time, my friend, I advise you to follow instructions."

"Yes, box."