Me vs. Free Will
A philosophical crime story
“Pack of cigarettes,” I said, stepping to the cashier.
“What kind?” she asked. Her nametag read Lucy—a middle-aged blonde who might have been a looker in high school but had gone downhill since.
I pulled the dice from my pocket and rolled them on the counter: 5 & 1. “Lucky Strike,” I said.
“Original or Lights?” asked Lucy.
I flipped a coin: heads. “OG.”
“Gambler, huh?” Lucy grabbed a pack from the shelf behind her. “Heading to Vegas?”
I nodded. “For now.”
“$6.89.” She placed the pack of Lucky Strikes on the counter. “Cash or card?”
I flipped my coin again: heads again. “Cash.”
“Okay,” Lucy said, “but I’m gonna need more than that quarter.”
I pulled a $20 bill from my wallet and handed it to Lucy. She opened the register, put it inside, grabbed a ten, then paused.
“Do you need change?” She eyed the quarter in my hand.
Clever girl. I flipped it: tails. “Guess not.”
“My lucky day.” Lucy smiled as she closed the register, pocketing my change while I grabbed the cigs. The next customer in line gave me a curious glance as I passed by. He was a large man—a biker-type with a goatee, leather vest, and tattoos.
“Good luck with your gambling,” Lucy said as I walked out the door.
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it.” I stepped outside and opened the pack of Lucky Strikes. Which to choose? I rolled the dice on the hood of my Mustang—6 & 3—then pulled the ninth cigarette from the top row and sparked it with my lighter.
“You know those things’ll kill you.” The biker stepped outside with a Monster Energy drink and a scratch-off lottery ticket in his hand.
I exhaled a lungful of smoke. “Ain’t much worse than the sugar and chemical crap in that drink of yours,” I said. “Plus, it’s not my choice whether I keep smoking or not.”
“Tell me about it.” He scratched his lottery ticket with a nickel. “They’re addictive as hell. Took me forever to kick the habit. You should try the patch.”
I flipped a coin: tails. “Nope.”
“Beyond the lung cancer, quit smoking and you’ll save yourself a shit load of money.” He tossed his losing ticket in the trash.
“Quit buying those scratch-offs and you’ll save even more.”
“This coming from the gambler?” He scoffed. “What’s your game? Blackjack?”
“Nah.” I took a drag then exhaled. “My game is life.”
“You gamble on life?” He cackled. “What’s that supposed to mean? You play Russian Roulette or something?”
I had spun the cylinder of death before, but that was not what I was referring to. “It means every single choice I make in life is a product of pure chance.” I shook the dice in my hand.
The biker seemed to find that absurdly stupid. “Why?”
“Randomness is the only way to escape determinism.”
“The hell is that supposed to mean?” He looked at me like I had two heads—or two tails.
I took another puff. “You ever heard of the Libet experiments?”
