Joe's life changed forever one evening in October. A regular at the Grafton poker room in Dublin's city centre, he looked away from the Champions League highlights that he had been following while the dealers changed over and looked back to the dealer's seat. It was as though he'd been struck by a blonde thunderbolt. Her nametag said Adriana but Joe couldn't see that, beguiled as he was by her beautiful face with its blue eyes framed by straight blonde hair and its Slavic cheek bones that you could ski down. The other regulars too were quietened by Adriana's appearance until, that is, she shuffled up and dealt. The game then relapsed into the usual routines of folding, calling and raising with occasional flashes of excitement but Joe had lost all interest in that.
The only thing that held his attention now was Adriana, her face and her equally beautiful voice, controlling the table with its sibillant Mitteleuropa tones. Some of the regulars attempted to banter with Adriana and she laughed along easily with them, revealing that she was from Bratislava in Slovakia and that she had only been in Ireland for a week, having worked in Paris before that. Joe was too shy to join in the conversation so he just listened to her voice, watched her face surreptitiously and had to be reminded of his turn to act many times. He was in heaven.
Eventually the dealers had to be changed again and 'Grumpy Gav', a local boy, took over. The regulars discussed the new arrival in their midst and crude comments of the 'what I wouldn't like to do to her' variety were bandied about. Joe smiled outwardly at these witticisms but inside he felt sick that an ethereal being such as Adriana should be discussed in such terms by these degenerates. Eventually he busted out of the tournament and, Adriana being out of sight, he wandered forlornly out into the streets and in the direction of his bachelor flat in The Liberties.
Joe was now thirty-seven years old and had resigned himself to his solitary status in life for many years now. A civil servant in the Motor Tax office, he was a man of routines - work, a few pints with the lads on Wednesdays, low buy-in poker tournaments on Thursdays and Fridays and a visit home to his aged mother in Longford at weekends. He didn't expect much from life except predictability and the most dangerous thing he had ever done was to register for a €1,000 poker tournament after landing a big touch in his regular game once. Women were a foreign country to him and, until the appearance of Adriana in the Grafton, he was quite happy for things to stay that way.
All that weekend, engaging in ritual conversation with his mother in her dreary grey house, he thought of nothing other than Adriana, her smile, her elegant fingers spinning cards to all corners of the table and, most of all, her deep blue eyes filled with laughing knowingness. That Sunday night, having returned to Dublin, Joe did something he had never done before. He went to the Grafton. As soon as he walked in the door, he saw Adriana dealing at the cash tables. The poker room manager blinked in surprise when he saw Joe standing in front of him. "Tournaments closed, sorry Joe" he said. "I'll play cash" replied Joe quickly, pointing at Adriana's table.
There was a seat available and Joe took it. It was notionally a €1/€2 table but there was a crowd of cash regulars on it with big stacks ranging from €700 to over two thousand. A couple of them openly snorted in derision when Joe removed a single €50 note from his wallet and meekly requested chips from Adriana. Joe stacked his puny amount of chips and commenced to peeping at Adriana over his glasses. He didn't find any hands to play, and with the regulars straddling every hand and routinely making big pre-flop raises, it would cost him all his chips to see a single flop.
A big pot then began to brew between two regulars, there was a raising war on the flop between them and all their chips went in, creating a pot of almost fifteen hundred euro on a 853 rainbow flop. Andy, an uncouth taxi driver, revealed his hole cards with a smirk - 88 for top set, making him a strong favourite. With a sigh, his opponent revealed pocket fives, leaving him drawing to a single card. Andy began showboating for the table, requesting Adriana for "no funny stuff there love". Joe could feel his hackles begin to rise as this sort of behaviour was the antithesis of his own, low-key demeanour at the tables. Adriana just smiled and revealed the turn card - another three. She then slowly burned and turned the river and the whole table gasped as it was flipped over - the case five.
Andy's smile turned instantly to a pained grimace and he snatched up his cards and flung them at Adriana. "Fucking Polish bitch" he spat out. The regulars looked down at their hands, either unable or unwilling to intervene, and a solitary tear rolled down Adriana's cheek. At that point, Joe could take no more. He sprang out of his seat with clenched fists and held them in front of Andy's reddened face. "You apologise for that, you bastard!" he demanded. It was a comical sight as Andy was easily six inches taller than Joe and probably a hundred pounds heavier but the fury in Joe's eyes made the bigger man back down. He stammered out an apology and retreated from the room. As soon as the door had closed behind him, the other players burst into a round of applause. "I've been waiting for someone to do that for years" one of the regulars said to Joe but he wasn't listening. His eyes were fixed on Adriana who was openly staring at him.
"Thank you", she whispered with a little smile that went straight to Joe's heart.
The dealers were rotated soon after that and Adriana went on break. Joe soon lost his chips, pushing in pre-flop with pocket nines only to be called by Ace-King and losing the race. He looked around the room again for Adriana but, not seeing any sign of her, sighed to himself and descended the stairs to the street. Outside it was raining furiously, Joe looked up and down the street for a taxi and, seeing none, resigned himself to a soaking on the way home. Just as he was about to step out of the doorway, he heard a familiar voice behind him; "would you like to go for a drink?" It was Adriana.
Joe nearly fell out of his shoes with excitement and , not trusting himself to speak, frantically nodded his assent. He and Adriana walked together under the shelter of her umbrella to the nearest pub. Once inside, he covered his embarrassment by asking her what she would like. "A screwdriver please", she responded in her beguiling accent. Joe had no idea what that was but he could tell that this woman was a lot more sophisticated than the handful of female acquaintances that he possessed. The little bit of common sense that he owned told him that ordering his usual pint of Guinness would not impress this particular lady. "Two screwdrivers please" he requested from the barman and tried not to choke when the bill came. Once they had sipped on their drinks, Adriana looked over her drink at him.
"I wanted to thank you for standing up for me back there", she said, "it was very brave of you". Joe turned beetroot red and spluttered into his drink. "Not at all" he managed to reply, "that Andy is a very ignorant man". "I know" replied Adriana with a mischievous grin that nearly caused Joe's heart to jump out of its chest, "that is why I deal that river card".
Joe couldn't believe what he had just heard and sat there, mouth agape, staring at Adriana. "What?" he eventually asked, sure that he had misheard her. "He is an asshole", laughed Adriana, rolling her s's in a way that made Joe lick his lips involuntarily, "so I deal the five on the river. Is no big deal. I can deal whatever I want". Joe boggled at her and downed half his screwdriver at one gulp. "Tell me Joe", continued Adriana, leaning in close enough that he could smell her perfume, "how much money did you make playing the poker last year?" Joe blushed (for he was a losing player last year and every year).
Adriana nodded her head. "Is what I thought", she said, "you play too weak, you not raise enough, you never bluff, you make it easy for the other players". Joe smiled self-deprecatingly at the accuracy of this description.
"Joe", said Adriana, assessing him with her cool gaze, "do you want to win? You like to be winning player, yes?" "Er, of course", replied Joe. "Then we do it", said Adriana, "tomorrow night, you come to my apartment and I teach you. I teach you to win". Joe, completely befuddled by this turn of events, could only nod speechlessly. "Is good", decided Adriana, scribbling down her address and handing it to Joe, "you come tomorrow night, yes?" Joe could only nod his head and clutch the precious address tightly. In one swift movement, Adriana gathered up her things, stood and kissed him on the cheek. "I see you tomorrow Joe", she smiled, "bring wine". Joe lifted a shaky hand in farewell and looked in amazement at the closing door. "See you tomorrow", he repeated to no-one in particular.
Following a sleepless night and an unending day at work, Joe went to his local off-licence and, having sought the advice of the owner as to a suitable wine 'for a lady', purchased an expensive bottle of Chablis. He then returned to his flat where he showered and shaved very carefully. He was too nervous to eat dinner and paced his kitchen for an hour while waiting for the clock to tick around to the appointed hour. Finally the time had come and he took a bus into the city and found himself at Adriana's apartment complex. He inhaled a deep breath and pressed the digits for Adriana's apartment. Her voice came through the speaker "Hi Joe!" "Hi", said Joe. "It's me", he added somewhat unneccessarily. "Come on up", trilled Adriana and the door buzzed open.
Joe, by now awash with sweaty anticipation, took the lift to Adriana's floor, knocked on the door and was greeted by the sight of Adriana. She was dressed in tight jeans and a cut-off top that left little to the imagination. She beamed her gorgeous smile at Joe, kissed him on the cheek again and pulled him into the apartment. Joe stammered a greeting, presented her with the wine and was directed to the sofa. Adriana opened the wine and poured two glasses, handing one to Joe. In his nervousness, he immediately drank half the glass, wincing as the unfamiliar beverage passed down his throat. "So Joe", said Adriana, arranging herself seductively on the sofa, "you still like to be the winning player, yes?" "Er, yes. Of course", blurted out Joe. "And you will do whatever it takes to be winning player, yes?" continued Adriana, leaning closer into Joe, who manfully resisted the temptation to look down her top. "Yes, yes" stuttered Joe, who by now would have agreed to donate both his kidneys to Adriana on the spot.
"So", stated Adriana decisively, placing a deck of cards on the coffee table, "we begin your education, yes? I make you winning player now, yes?". What could Joe do at this point except nod his agreement? The lesson began and Adriana proved to be an extraordinarily gifted teacher. She dealt out dozens of hands and pressed Joe for an explanation of his actions at every stage of each hand, detailing his reasons for each one. Joe's fuzzy understanding of poker theory was whipped into shape within the space of about two hours - "you no call, you raise, yes?", "you no limp, you fold that shit cards, yes?", "you no check there, you bet, yes?" - and each time Adriana would explain to him the optimal course of action. Joe was excited, this beautiful woman was showing him how to win and he could feel a determination building in him to put these lessons into practice. Soon the bottle of wine was finished and Adriana went into the kitchen to get some more drinks. She re-emerged with a large green bottle and two shot glasses.
"What's that?" queried Joe, already feeling pleasantly intoxicated, both on the strength of the wine and the very presence of Adriana. "Is Becherovka", said Adriana, "Czech drink. Is very good, yes? You drink shot and then we say 'Nazdravi', it is same as 'cheers' in English". Joe poured the shot down his neck, it burned slightly on the way down, tasting faintly of herbs and forest. He proclaimed the unfamiliar word and looked into Adriana's eyes once more. "Now Joe", continued Adriana, "I tell you exactly how we going to win, yes?" Joe vaguely registered the 'we'.
"You no play the tournaments any more, tournaments are shit, yes?. Now you play the cash games, yes? You buy in for one thousand euro and you will win". Joe's old familiar self-doubt rose to the surface, "how can you be so sure that I'll win?" he queried. Adriana's smile broadened. "Two reasons", she said, "The first - you now good player. I teach you well, yes?" Joe nodded. "And the second?" he asked. "The second reason Joe", Adriana paused for a second, "the second reason is that we cheat, yes?"
Joe flopped backwards in shock. "C-c-cheat?" he stammered. "Of course", beamed Adriana, "how else you win, guaranteed? This how it work. One hand per night, I give you signal, yes? Then I deal you up great hand. I give other player hand that is almost as good. You win big pot." "Jesus", breathed Joe, "I don't know Adriana, I'm not sure I like this". "Is OK Joe"', purred Adriana, now stroking his arm seductively, "we only cheat assholes, yes? Like bastard Andy. We cheat assholes and you win lots of money. We split winnings, yes? Also, I like you Joe. You gentleman, not like these other assholes. Maybe we become more than friends, yes?" Following this speech, she leaned in to Joe and gave him a long, slow kiss on the lips. The deal was sealed in that moment. Adriana gave Joe his final instructions and he floated out of her apartment, lost in a blissful state of total euphoria.
The following night, Joe arrived at the Grafton. His hands were shaking with nerves but, once he caught sight of Adriana dealing at a tournament table, his resolve was stiffened and he marched straight up to the poker desk, produced a thousand euro and demanded a seat in the cash game. Once seated, he took a deep breath and began trying to apply the lessons that Adriana had taught him the previous evening. His mind was cluttered with doubts and fear however and he quickly lost €300 of his stack by meekly folding an overpair on a ten-high board, only to be shown a stone-cold bluff by Niall, a mouthy regular. Confused and panicky, Joe was on the verge of snatching up his chips and running out of the casino when the dealers were changed and Adriana sat into the dealer's chair. As she swept up the cards and shuffled, unnoticed by the rest of the table, she gave Joe a tiny smile out of the corner of her mouth. This was all it took to bring Joe back down to earth and he snatched up his hole cards, ready for battle once more.
Determined to show Adriana that he was worthy of her trust, Joe began to play like a man possessed and swiftly began to run over the table, running several huge bluffs, value betting his good hands and dominating his clearly-frustrated opponents. Then, Adriana touched the side of her neck twice before commencing to deal. The Signal! Joe peeked down at his cards, saw two queens and stuck in a raise to €20. Mouthy Niall re-raised from the button to €70, all the others folded and Joe called. Both players easily had €1,500 behind them at this stage. Adriana dealt out the flop, a seemingly harmless 9 7 2 with no flush draw. Joe bet out €100, confident that the plan was in train. Niall raised to €350 and Joe again called. Adriana slowly flipped the turn card - a queen. Joe tried to stay still as he checked to Niall. Without hesitation, Niall separated out 5 €100 chips from his stack and pushed them into the middle. Joe pretended to think for a moment and then declared 'all-in'. Niall grimaced mightily but had no alternative but to call at this juncture. The cards were revealed and Joe's set of Queens was good against Niall's pocket Aces. The €3,000 pot was pushed over to Joe and Niall left the casino, noisily berating Joe's fishy play.
Adriana was soon rotated out of her seat and Joe cashed out soon after, almost €2,000 in profit for the evening. As he left the cardroom, he could hear the regulars discussing his performance in awed tones. He liked that. Straight after work the following day, Joe went to Adriana's apartment. He was greeted enthusiastically by a laughing Adriana who pulled him inside her apartment door and bestowed another deep kiss on him. Joe pulled €1,000 from his pocket and tried to press it on Adriana as her share of the winnings but she waved it away and directed him to sit down. She then outlined her plan; Joe was to play a few times a week from now on and she would engineer another massive hand for him each evening. He was to hold all of the money until he had accumulated €50,000 in winnings. At that point, explained Adriana, "we fly to Las Vegas, yes? And there Joe, we make love for first time, yes? A celebration!"
Joe, dazzled by the promise of their shared future, was in no shape to demur to this plan and, over the next few weeks, he went on a winning streak the likes of which the Grafton had never seen before. Adriana stayed true to her word and allowed him to bust one asshole each night and the pile of banknotes hidden in Joe's bookcase grew ever higher, until, one glorious Saturday night, he returned from the cardroom, totted up his winnings and discovered that his stash had now topped €50,000. He hardly slept that night, the eager anticipation of what was to come was almost too much for him.
The following lunchtime, he almost ran to Adriana's apartment. Once inside, he blurted out the good news. Adriana was delighted, jumping into his arms and giving him many passionate kisses. Once she had calmed down (this was not an option for Joe), she began issuing instructions. Joe was to book them on a flight to Las Vegas, leaving that evening. And he was to bring the €50,000 with him. Joe complied and raced back to his flat to pack. The flights took no time at all or so it seemed to Joe who was by now lost in a mixture of fevered anticipation and performance anxiety. This mood was only heightened by Adriana who kept referring to him as 'darling' and also by the envious looks that Joe had intercepted from several male passengers.
Once their flight had landed at McCarron airport and they had cleared customs, Joe and Adriana clambered into a taxi and the driver demanded "where to buddy?" Joe started in shock, he had no idea where he was going, having never done anything so impulsive in his life before as to arrive without accomodation booked. Adriana laughed. "Bellagio please", she instructed the driver before turning to Joe, "I already book suite in your name, I ask for honeymoon treatment". Joe smiled back at her, relishing this moment with this beautiful creature who he was now allowing himself to think of as his own. The cab whizzed down the freeways and the Strip, decanting them at the Bellagio within moments. Joe's eyes nearly popped out of his head when he saw the opulent interior and Adriana giggled again, pulling him by his arm to the check-in counter.
Once checked in, they took the lift to their floor and discovered their room. Joe removed the pile of high denomination euro notes from his pocket with a relieved sigh and separated it into two piles, handing one to Adriana. "Your cut", he said with a nervous snicker, hoping she had not forgotten her end of the bargain. Adriana casually pushed away the wad of notes. "We have more important business to take care of first Joe", she said, blinking her eyelashes seductively at him,"now I take the bath to relax myself. You go for walk around casino while I take bath. Lady needs her privacy, no? Come back in half of hour". Joe exited the room and took a lift to the ground floor. Once there, he wandered around the casino floor, staring in amazement at the sheer scale of the place and checking his watch every two minutes.
As soon as the half hour had gone by, he rushed back to the room. He eagerly pushed open the door and was met by the sight of...nothing. Adriana's bags were gone and there was no sign of her presence, save for the lingering scent of her perfume. The piles of euro banknotes were also nowhere to be seen. The only new item in the room was an envelope laid on a pillow. Joe, by now ashen-faced and trembling, collapsed onto the oversized bed and opened the envelope. A single sheet of paper was contained within and Joe drew it out slowly and read these words:
'Joe. You good man but you very stupid, yes? Use my lessons well on the poker table, they my present to you. Ciao, Adriana. xx'
Joe lay flat on his back, staring at the ceiling and the overhead fan rotating slowly. Many minutes passed and then he began to laugh, slowly at first but then increasingly hysterically. Eventually his laughter ceased and he swung his legs off the bed and walked to the wardrobe. He pulled out his suitcase and removed a false bottom. From within, he pulled out a stack of euro notes - fifty thousand worth. The investment in the crude fakes had been repaid many times, despite the rebuke of his romantic heart to his cynical head.
'Ciao', he repeated softly to himself, 'Ciao indeed my darling'.
el S
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Redemption
I had a friend was a big baseball player back in high school
He could throw that speedball by you
Make you look like a fool boy
Saw him the other night at this roadside bar
I was walking in, he was walking out
We went back inside sat down, had a few drinks
but all he kept talking about was
Glory days well they'll pass you by
Glory days in the wink of a young girl's eye
Glory days, glory days
(Bruce Springsteen)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jim awoke from his dream. It was the same one as always, he was seventeen again and playing in the State Championship football final. The best quarterback in the state and colleges falling over themselves to offer him scholarships. The American Dream, so close he could taste it. He was a living god in his High School, the guys all wanted to be him and the girls, well, the girls would do just about anything for him.
He took the snap, fell back into position and picked out his wide receiver. He never saw the pass completed as he was buried by 200 pounds of sheer aggression called Leroy Smith. He felt the pain in his knee though and knew immediately the transience of fame and adulation.
Jim never threw a ball again after that night. The doctors told him he was lucky to be able to limp around. The gold bauble of his winner's medal? He dropped that in the river the day he got home again, out of hospital after eight weeks of intensive rehab. The colleges that had promised him fame, women, money - they all vanished like the cheap whores they were. Hell, he didn't even have an education to show for his days in High School - why would he bother to study when the teachers were willing to turn a blind eye to non-attendance, undone homework, even failed tests? They marked up his pathetic test scores as honours grades, as much starstruck fans as the lowest first grader.
No, all that Jim had when he came home from the hospital was his memories of football and a sense that the world owed him. That, and a bun in the oven. Stacey, the cutest of the cheerleaders, came to see him that evening and announced she was pregnant with his child. In Jim's family, you stood up to your responsibilities and the two children were duly married two months later, barely knowing each other and certainly knowing nothing of the big, bad world that was out there waiting for them.
Now it was ten years on. Stacey was no longer the cutest cheerleader in school and, come to think of it, Jim wasn't too cute himself these days, weighing in thirty pounds overweight with rapidly receding temples. The bun in the oven had become four kids and Jim drove a truck for a living, a job given to him by an ex-teammate. Jim was never sure whether to be thankful or resentful for this act of charity but, with money tight and hungry kids to feed, he usually erred on the side of thankful.
He bumped into old friends from school all the time around town but they mostly just exchanged inane pleasantries, being too embarrassed to mention gridiron in front of Jim. After a while he started avoiding anyone who knew him from his High School days, the pity in their eyes being more than he could handle. He put on a good act of being a dutiful father and husband, even going to church every Sunday with the kids while Stacey, numbed with valium, caught up on her sleep. Life wasn't quite as he had imagined it turning out to be.
Jim's father had died when Jim was twelve, broken from a life toiling in the coal mines but something he had said to Jim one day still resonated with him: "son, there's nothing more unmanly than a man who cries. Promise me son, you'll be a man always." Jim couldn't get this piece of advice out of his head and diligently kept all his frustrations tightly bottled up inside, just like a man his dimly-remembered Daddy would have been proud of. While continuing with the charade of his daily life though, he continuously allowed himself to dream of recapturing the ecstatic glory of his football days when the world itself seemed to be his, there for the taking.
Once a month however, Jim was able to get close to that euphoric feeling again. Payday was poker day for Jim and he headed 60 miles down the road to play in an underground game, his own home town not being the kind of place that tolerated such ungodly activity. He had negotiated with Stacey that this was his one source of fun each month and he was allocated one hundred bucks a month out of the household budget to gamble at the tables. Jim was not a good poker player but he generally got what he was looking for out of the game - which was to make a big play, drag in a big pot, tip the dealer and have the other players make 'well played sir' noises at him. The emotions that Jim felt at that moment were akin to those school days under the football helmet. He looked forward to those poker nights with an almost painful intensity and, although he invariably lost, he once (in an unguarded moment) described these losses to Stacey as "an investment in happiness".
The feelings of euphoria were never quite enough for Jim though, just a small taste of his former glory, and he often looked up from the action at his $1 table to the Big Game, where all manner of spivs, hustlers and rich fish played for stacks of thousands apiece. He secretly fancied himself at the Big Game, raking in massive pots of thousands of dollars with the railbirds gazing lovingly at him in the same manner as the football fans once did.
Last Friday, Jim made his way to the underground game (for poker was illegal in his god-fearing state) in his usual pre-game state of nervy excitement. He stopped at his usual ATM to withdraw his usual $100 and that's when the flash of enlightenment hit him. This was His Day. His chance for redemption, the day when he would make his mark and make up for all the shit he had been handed over the last ten years. His chance to once again be the godlike quarterback of his gilded youth. He put the card in the machine and punched in the numbers.
Two. Thousand. Dollars.
His entire paycheck for the month. The machine whirred and buzzed and eventually spat out the stack of $100 bills. His path to Glory.
Jim buzzed at the door of the game and the grill panel of the steel door slid back. His face was recognised and the door was opened. He strolled down the murky corridor and into the converted warehouse that housed the game. He wandered over to the brush, a beatific smile playing about his lips. The brush gave him a cursory nod and reached for his chalk. "The usual Jim?" he queried, just about to scrawl Jim's name on the wait list for the $1 game. "Naw", replied Jim, "The Big Game please". The brush looked at him in astonishment, "you know that's a two grand minimum buy-in?" Jim simply pulled out his wad of hundered-dollar bills and handed them over. "The Big Game" he repeated.
The brush exchanged the bills for a rack full of chips and Jim, still shining with the premonition of his glory, took his seat at the Big Game. As luck would have it, he came in on the big blind and, without waiting to see what the other players were up to (he was still a genuinely bad player), peeked down at his hole cards. An ace - glory. And another ace - proof irreversible that this was His Day. He came out of his trance to find the dealer politely repeating "action's on you sir".
There had been a raise and a re-raise from the initial 25/50 blinds and it was a thousand dollars just to call. Jim closed his eyes in supplication, pushed his all of his chips forward and didn't open his eyes again until the dealer said "show 'em please gentlemen". Pocket Aces for Jim and Kings for both of the other unfortunate participants. A treble-up on the first hand and Jim was flying.
From that point on, Jim could do no wrong. He even began to play poker as though born to it, picking up uncontested pots with ease, manoeuvring players off marginal holdings with aggression, slow playing monster hands to perfection and always, always playing with the naturalistic grace of one destined to play this game. Time flew by and soon Jim and Fat Freddy Chavez , a mobster reputed to run half of the rackets in the State, owned all of the chips on the table and the other players had retired to lick their wounds. With a hundred thousand dollars in front apiece and the sun rising, Jim and Fat Freddy played on.
An hour into their heads-up duel and Jim was dealt pocket sevens on the button. He made a standard raise and Fat Freddy, his corpulent body stinking of unwashed sweat, made the call. The flop came down Eight-Seven-Three and Fat Freddy led out for ten thousand dollars. Jim, still playing with the unnatural aura that had surrounded him all night, raised another twenty thousand. Fat Freddy covered his face with his jewellry-encrusted hands and mumbled through stubby fingers, "All-in". Jim called instantly and turned over his cards. Fat Freddy smiled a horribly satisfied smirk and revealed his own holding. Pocket Eights.
The remaining gamblers crowded around the Big Game table for the dénouement of by far the biggest pot ever to be played in the history of that miserable warehouse on the outskirts of town. Amid a hushed silence, the dealer burned and revealed the turn card - an irrelevant Ace. Jim looked to the heavens and then into the eyes of Fat Freddy as the river card was slowly turned. He didn't need to look down to the felt to know that the case seven had hit, he knew even before the card had been flipped.
Redemption. He heard once more the cheering of the crowd and knew again the limitless boundaries of life's possibilitites. He was once more the golden god, standing alone and victorious in his perfection on the field of play.
After all of the back-slapping and hollering had died down and Jim had politely refused 'loans' to several degenerates who had previously been his compatriots at the bottom table, he went to the cash desk and received his two hundred thousand dollars in large denomination bills. He then headed outside into the chill air of dawn. As he reached his car, he looked into the orange-lit horizon, smiled and felt himself reborn, a man anew.
He never felt the shot that killed him. Never felt the rough hands frantically searching his jacket pocket and extracting the winnings. Never heard the screech of tires as the killer sped away.
Those that attended his funeral and saw him in his casket remarked universally on one thing - he no longer looked like the beaten-down Jim of his latter years but once again resembled perfectly the teenage deity of his High School days, perfect once more. Redeemed.
el S
He could throw that speedball by you
Make you look like a fool boy
Saw him the other night at this roadside bar
I was walking in, he was walking out
We went back inside sat down, had a few drinks
but all he kept talking about was
Glory days well they'll pass you by
Glory days in the wink of a young girl's eye
Glory days, glory days
(Bruce Springsteen)
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Jim awoke from his dream. It was the same one as always, he was seventeen again and playing in the State Championship football final. The best quarterback in the state and colleges falling over themselves to offer him scholarships. The American Dream, so close he could taste it. He was a living god in his High School, the guys all wanted to be him and the girls, well, the girls would do just about anything for him.
He took the snap, fell back into position and picked out his wide receiver. He never saw the pass completed as he was buried by 200 pounds of sheer aggression called Leroy Smith. He felt the pain in his knee though and knew immediately the transience of fame and adulation.
Jim never threw a ball again after that night. The doctors told him he was lucky to be able to limp around. The gold bauble of his winner's medal? He dropped that in the river the day he got home again, out of hospital after eight weeks of intensive rehab. The colleges that had promised him fame, women, money - they all vanished like the cheap whores they were. Hell, he didn't even have an education to show for his days in High School - why would he bother to study when the teachers were willing to turn a blind eye to non-attendance, undone homework, even failed tests? They marked up his pathetic test scores as honours grades, as much starstruck fans as the lowest first grader.
No, all that Jim had when he came home from the hospital was his memories of football and a sense that the world owed him. That, and a bun in the oven. Stacey, the cutest of the cheerleaders, came to see him that evening and announced she was pregnant with his child. In Jim's family, you stood up to your responsibilities and the two children were duly married two months later, barely knowing each other and certainly knowing nothing of the big, bad world that was out there waiting for them.
Now it was ten years on. Stacey was no longer the cutest cheerleader in school and, come to think of it, Jim wasn't too cute himself these days, weighing in thirty pounds overweight with rapidly receding temples. The bun in the oven had become four kids and Jim drove a truck for a living, a job given to him by an ex-teammate. Jim was never sure whether to be thankful or resentful for this act of charity but, with money tight and hungry kids to feed, he usually erred on the side of thankful.
He bumped into old friends from school all the time around town but they mostly just exchanged inane pleasantries, being too embarrassed to mention gridiron in front of Jim. After a while he started avoiding anyone who knew him from his High School days, the pity in their eyes being more than he could handle. He put on a good act of being a dutiful father and husband, even going to church every Sunday with the kids while Stacey, numbed with valium, caught up on her sleep. Life wasn't quite as he had imagined it turning out to be.
Jim's father had died when Jim was twelve, broken from a life toiling in the coal mines but something he had said to Jim one day still resonated with him: "son, there's nothing more unmanly than a man who cries. Promise me son, you'll be a man always." Jim couldn't get this piece of advice out of his head and diligently kept all his frustrations tightly bottled up inside, just like a man his dimly-remembered Daddy would have been proud of. While continuing with the charade of his daily life though, he continuously allowed himself to dream of recapturing the ecstatic glory of his football days when the world itself seemed to be his, there for the taking.
Once a month however, Jim was able to get close to that euphoric feeling again. Payday was poker day for Jim and he headed 60 miles down the road to play in an underground game, his own home town not being the kind of place that tolerated such ungodly activity. He had negotiated with Stacey that this was his one source of fun each month and he was allocated one hundred bucks a month out of the household budget to gamble at the tables. Jim was not a good poker player but he generally got what he was looking for out of the game - which was to make a big play, drag in a big pot, tip the dealer and have the other players make 'well played sir' noises at him. The emotions that Jim felt at that moment were akin to those school days under the football helmet. He looked forward to those poker nights with an almost painful intensity and, although he invariably lost, he once (in an unguarded moment) described these losses to Stacey as "an investment in happiness".
The feelings of euphoria were never quite enough for Jim though, just a small taste of his former glory, and he often looked up from the action at his $1 table to the Big Game, where all manner of spivs, hustlers and rich fish played for stacks of thousands apiece. He secretly fancied himself at the Big Game, raking in massive pots of thousands of dollars with the railbirds gazing lovingly at him in the same manner as the football fans once did.
Last Friday, Jim made his way to the underground game (for poker was illegal in his god-fearing state) in his usual pre-game state of nervy excitement. He stopped at his usual ATM to withdraw his usual $100 and that's when the flash of enlightenment hit him. This was His Day. His chance for redemption, the day when he would make his mark and make up for all the shit he had been handed over the last ten years. His chance to once again be the godlike quarterback of his gilded youth. He put the card in the machine and punched in the numbers.
Two. Thousand. Dollars.
His entire paycheck for the month. The machine whirred and buzzed and eventually spat out the stack of $100 bills. His path to Glory.
Jim buzzed at the door of the game and the grill panel of the steel door slid back. His face was recognised and the door was opened. He strolled down the murky corridor and into the converted warehouse that housed the game. He wandered over to the brush, a beatific smile playing about his lips. The brush gave him a cursory nod and reached for his chalk. "The usual Jim?" he queried, just about to scrawl Jim's name on the wait list for the $1 game. "Naw", replied Jim, "The Big Game please". The brush looked at him in astonishment, "you know that's a two grand minimum buy-in?" Jim simply pulled out his wad of hundered-dollar bills and handed them over. "The Big Game" he repeated.
The brush exchanged the bills for a rack full of chips and Jim, still shining with the premonition of his glory, took his seat at the Big Game. As luck would have it, he came in on the big blind and, without waiting to see what the other players were up to (he was still a genuinely bad player), peeked down at his hole cards. An ace - glory. And another ace - proof irreversible that this was His Day. He came out of his trance to find the dealer politely repeating "action's on you sir".
There had been a raise and a re-raise from the initial 25/50 blinds and it was a thousand dollars just to call. Jim closed his eyes in supplication, pushed his all of his chips forward and didn't open his eyes again until the dealer said "show 'em please gentlemen". Pocket Aces for Jim and Kings for both of the other unfortunate participants. A treble-up on the first hand and Jim was flying.
From that point on, Jim could do no wrong. He even began to play poker as though born to it, picking up uncontested pots with ease, manoeuvring players off marginal holdings with aggression, slow playing monster hands to perfection and always, always playing with the naturalistic grace of one destined to play this game. Time flew by and soon Jim and Fat Freddy Chavez , a mobster reputed to run half of the rackets in the State, owned all of the chips on the table and the other players had retired to lick their wounds. With a hundred thousand dollars in front apiece and the sun rising, Jim and Fat Freddy played on.
An hour into their heads-up duel and Jim was dealt pocket sevens on the button. He made a standard raise and Fat Freddy, his corpulent body stinking of unwashed sweat, made the call. The flop came down Eight-Seven-Three and Fat Freddy led out for ten thousand dollars. Jim, still playing with the unnatural aura that had surrounded him all night, raised another twenty thousand. Fat Freddy covered his face with his jewellry-encrusted hands and mumbled through stubby fingers, "All-in". Jim called instantly and turned over his cards. Fat Freddy smiled a horribly satisfied smirk and revealed his own holding. Pocket Eights.
The remaining gamblers crowded around the Big Game table for the dénouement of by far the biggest pot ever to be played in the history of that miserable warehouse on the outskirts of town. Amid a hushed silence, the dealer burned and revealed the turn card - an irrelevant Ace. Jim looked to the heavens and then into the eyes of Fat Freddy as the river card was slowly turned. He didn't need to look down to the felt to know that the case seven had hit, he knew even before the card had been flipped.
Redemption. He heard once more the cheering of the crowd and knew again the limitless boundaries of life's possibilitites. He was once more the golden god, standing alone and victorious in his perfection on the field of play.
After all of the back-slapping and hollering had died down and Jim had politely refused 'loans' to several degenerates who had previously been his compatriots at the bottom table, he went to the cash desk and received his two hundred thousand dollars in large denomination bills. He then headed outside into the chill air of dawn. As he reached his car, he looked into the orange-lit horizon, smiled and felt himself reborn, a man anew.
He never felt the shot that killed him. Never felt the rough hands frantically searching his jacket pocket and extracting the winnings. Never heard the screech of tires as the killer sped away.
Those that attended his funeral and saw him in his casket remarked universally on one thing - he no longer looked like the beaten-down Jim of his latter years but once again resembled perfectly the teenage deity of his High School days, perfect once more. Redeemed.
el S
Trip report - The Doc (part 3)
so I started to write about three different endings to this story but it ain't really going anywhere in a hurry. Here's my first paragraph of the last installment.
"With a large percentage of The Doc's formidable array of psychotropic substances dispensed amongst the rocks, the stage was set for an interesting evening of poker. The Doc and I decided to sit tight and wait for the sherbert to kick in, folding most of our hands and observing our opponents with greater than usual interest. We didn't have to wait long. About twenty minutes in and after another round of 'sherbert', one of the rocks began to exhibit signs of becoming unbalanced. This guy's nickname amongst the regulars is 'Splinter'. The origins of this monicker had puzzled me for many months so I queried its provenance one day with a dealer. "He's called Splinter" he said, pausing for effect, "because he's a pain in the arse". I had to admit that the nickname was well deserved as Splinter was undoubtedly a prick of the highest order, taking great delight in slow-rolling his opponents and keeping up a constant stream of unpleasant trash-talk."
I seem to have mislaid my Muse so here, without further ado, is El Stuntman's first-ever Reader's Contest!!!!
Yes, if you can write a suitable ending to this damn story, I will publish it here and give you a case of the finest beer known to man. It's the Tripel Westmalle down near the end. Get cracking etc...
el S
"With a large percentage of The Doc's formidable array of psychotropic substances dispensed amongst the rocks, the stage was set for an interesting evening of poker. The Doc and I decided to sit tight and wait for the sherbert to kick in, folding most of our hands and observing our opponents with greater than usual interest. We didn't have to wait long. About twenty minutes in and after another round of 'sherbert', one of the rocks began to exhibit signs of becoming unbalanced. This guy's nickname amongst the regulars is 'Splinter'. The origins of this monicker had puzzled me for many months so I queried its provenance one day with a dealer. "He's called Splinter" he said, pausing for effect, "because he's a pain in the arse". I had to admit that the nickname was well deserved as Splinter was undoubtedly a prick of the highest order, taking great delight in slow-rolling his opponents and keeping up a constant stream of unpleasant trash-talk."
I seem to have mislaid my Muse so here, without further ado, is El Stuntman's first-ever Reader's Contest!!!!
Yes, if you can write a suitable ending to this damn story, I will publish it here and give you a case of the finest beer known to man. It's the Tripel Westmalle down near the end. Get cracking etc...
el S
Trip report - The Doc (part 2)
The Doc and I stumbled outside the Cellar Bar and put our shades on. We then discovered it was pitch dark. Fuck. Shades off again. We decided that we would need some further liquid funds for our cardplay and raided an ATM. This provided some brief hilarity for those in the queue behind us as The Doc managed to forget his PIN number repeatedly and then assaulted the ATM machine in a frenzy of drug-fuelled psychotic rage. I took charge of the situation, slapping him across the face until he calmed down. I may even have shouted "get a hold of yourself man". I've always wanted to say that. I withdrew a massive wad of €50 notes from the machine, stuffed half into the Doc's hand and steered him in the direction of the Macao.
Just before we got to the doors, The Doc waved me into a gap between two cars. He then proceeded to empty the contents of his impressively large drug collection into a single envelope. He handed this to me and issued an order "jump on this". I looked at him in wonderment, I had never known The Doc to knowingly waste illicit substances before. "Are you sure this is good stuff we're taking Doc?", I queried. He tapped his nose in a knowing manner. "I know what I'm doing", he said, "just do as I tell you". Somehow, this struck me as possibly the least reassuring thing I had ever heard. Still, The Doc is a professional after all. I complied and jumped up and down on the envelope until the stash had dissolved into a single compacted powder.
The Doc stuck his finger in the envelope and then licked it. He smacked his lips like an epicurean after a good meal and sighed in satisfaction. "Excellent work", he proclaimed, "let the games commence". We marched into the Macao, past the suspicious gaze of Tiny, the bouncer. Tiny,as you may have guessed, is somewhat ironically named being as he is twenty-two stones and six-foot four of pure muscle. He doesn't like me much and he likes The Doc even less after some amphetamine-induced craziness that saw him play for forty-four hours straight before collapsing dramatically into the dealer's highly impressive bosoms. I still think he knew what he was doing. The one thing he didn't know was that the dealer was Tiny's wife.
Before approaching the poker desk, I pulled The Doc aside into a quiet corner. "So Doc", I said, "what's the plan?". "Sow fear and confusion in our enemies", he promptly replied, "and, by the way, tonight we are playing big. We're playing the Top Table". "Jesus. The Top Table. Doc? Are you sure?" I heard the desperation and the doubt in my own voice. The Doc glared at me impatiently, "be a man for once you snivelling little sissy. We are going to take our money to that Top Table and we are going to run all over that fucking game like wildebeest across the fucking Serengeti. You dig it?" I didn't have the heart to point out to The Doc that it was my money we were risking. "I dig, I dig", I grumbled. "Anyway", said the Doc, perking up noticeably, "we have a chemical advantage. That shit we just dropped - the KGB developed it for Soviet astronauts".
Unwilling to allow this conversation to progress further into the realms of communist cosmonauts, I wheeled The Doc in the direction of the poker desk. We staggered to a halt in front of Dec, the sour-faced manager. He looked us up and down. It may have been the booze, the drugs or the gracious living, but I could swear his nostrils curved upwards slightly at the sight of us. I was reassured that this wasn't a paranoid delusion when he spoke; "what do you two fuckheads want?". "Charmed as ever", The Doc airily greeted Dec, "two seats at the Top Table please my good man. My companion and I would also like two mint juleps". As windups went, this was pushing it somewhat but I let it slide. Dec clearly felt likewise. "Money", he roughly demanded.
The Doc and I emptied our pockets onto the poker desk. We had twenty-one hundred euro between us, just enough for two minimum buy-ins at the Top Table. I felt a bit ill seeing such a large proportion of my worldly wealth spread across the counter. I felt more ill when it was exchanged for chips and we were, in the exact words of Dec, told to "fuck off to the Top Table and don't come back crying here when you go broke". We did as we were bidden and took our seats. I noticed as I sat down that The Doc's acid hadn't inculcated any undue effects in me. 'Just another in a long line of bad beats', I thought to myself, glancing around the table. My negative mood wasn't lightened as I looked around me; the table was a veritable rock garden. All seven of the other players were known tough customers, tight and non-spewy. Great, just great.
The Doc had landed in Seat 1 and was in the Big Blind. There had been a raise and a re-raise and the action was now on him. He, however, did not appear to be concentrating on the game at hand and was instead wrestling with his envelope. The Dealer rapped on the table to get his attention.
"Action's on you sir", he said. The Doc raised his head, "what's that?" The dealer patiently repeated himself. "I'm very sorry, you'll have to forgive me", responded The Doc, mucking his cards, "I was totally distracted by the taste of this wonderful sherbert". He then proceeded to take a large pinch of powder out of the envelope and licked it off his fingers, slurping it down with appreciative noises. This outlandish display managed to distract the rocks from the game and all heads were turned towards The Doc. "Like a taste?" he innocently queried the player sitting beside him.
The two seat took the envelope with some trepidation and sniffed the contents dubiously. "Just try a little pinch", wheedled The Doc, "I've never tasted anything like it". Seat Two cautiously ladled out a small amount onto the back of his hand. "Go on", encouraged The Doc. Seat Two took a lick of the powder and I put my head in my hands, foreseeing a future behind bars. Then something unexpected happened. A broad smile broke out across Seat Two's features and he laughed. "This stuff is pretty good", he chortled, passing the envelope around to his neighbour, "give it a lash!" The envelope made the rounds of the table to great approval. As Seat Nine imbibed his share of the mixture, I looked up and caught The Doc giving me the slyest wink I have ever seen. "Ship that sherbert back over here!" he hollered. The now doped-up rocks thought this was the funniest thing they had ever heard. For the remainder of the evening, 'ship the sherbert' became the battlecry of the Top Table.
(to be continued)
el S
Just before we got to the doors, The Doc waved me into a gap between two cars. He then proceeded to empty the contents of his impressively large drug collection into a single envelope. He handed this to me and issued an order "jump on this". I looked at him in wonderment, I had never known The Doc to knowingly waste illicit substances before. "Are you sure this is good stuff we're taking Doc?", I queried. He tapped his nose in a knowing manner. "I know what I'm doing", he said, "just do as I tell you". Somehow, this struck me as possibly the least reassuring thing I had ever heard. Still, The Doc is a professional after all. I complied and jumped up and down on the envelope until the stash had dissolved into a single compacted powder.
The Doc stuck his finger in the envelope and then licked it. He smacked his lips like an epicurean after a good meal and sighed in satisfaction. "Excellent work", he proclaimed, "let the games commence". We marched into the Macao, past the suspicious gaze of Tiny, the bouncer. Tiny,as you may have guessed, is somewhat ironically named being as he is twenty-two stones and six-foot four of pure muscle. He doesn't like me much and he likes The Doc even less after some amphetamine-induced craziness that saw him play for forty-four hours straight before collapsing dramatically into the dealer's highly impressive bosoms. I still think he knew what he was doing. The one thing he didn't know was that the dealer was Tiny's wife.
Before approaching the poker desk, I pulled The Doc aside into a quiet corner. "So Doc", I said, "what's the plan?". "Sow fear and confusion in our enemies", he promptly replied, "and, by the way, tonight we are playing big. We're playing the Top Table". "Jesus. The Top Table. Doc? Are you sure?" I heard the desperation and the doubt in my own voice. The Doc glared at me impatiently, "be a man for once you snivelling little sissy. We are going to take our money to that Top Table and we are going to run all over that fucking game like wildebeest across the fucking Serengeti. You dig it?" I didn't have the heart to point out to The Doc that it was my money we were risking. "I dig, I dig", I grumbled. "Anyway", said the Doc, perking up noticeably, "we have a chemical advantage. That shit we just dropped - the KGB developed it for Soviet astronauts".
Unwilling to allow this conversation to progress further into the realms of communist cosmonauts, I wheeled The Doc in the direction of the poker desk. We staggered to a halt in front of Dec, the sour-faced manager. He looked us up and down. It may have been the booze, the drugs or the gracious living, but I could swear his nostrils curved upwards slightly at the sight of us. I was reassured that this wasn't a paranoid delusion when he spoke; "what do you two fuckheads want?". "Charmed as ever", The Doc airily greeted Dec, "two seats at the Top Table please my good man. My companion and I would also like two mint juleps". As windups went, this was pushing it somewhat but I let it slide. Dec clearly felt likewise. "Money", he roughly demanded.
The Doc and I emptied our pockets onto the poker desk. We had twenty-one hundred euro between us, just enough for two minimum buy-ins at the Top Table. I felt a bit ill seeing such a large proportion of my worldly wealth spread across the counter. I felt more ill when it was exchanged for chips and we were, in the exact words of Dec, told to "fuck off to the Top Table and don't come back crying here when you go broke". We did as we were bidden and took our seats. I noticed as I sat down that The Doc's acid hadn't inculcated any undue effects in me. 'Just another in a long line of bad beats', I thought to myself, glancing around the table. My negative mood wasn't lightened as I looked around me; the table was a veritable rock garden. All seven of the other players were known tough customers, tight and non-spewy. Great, just great.
The Doc had landed in Seat 1 and was in the Big Blind. There had been a raise and a re-raise and the action was now on him. He, however, did not appear to be concentrating on the game at hand and was instead wrestling with his envelope. The Dealer rapped on the table to get his attention.
"Action's on you sir", he said. The Doc raised his head, "what's that?" The dealer patiently repeated himself. "I'm very sorry, you'll have to forgive me", responded The Doc, mucking his cards, "I was totally distracted by the taste of this wonderful sherbert". He then proceeded to take a large pinch of powder out of the envelope and licked it off his fingers, slurping it down with appreciative noises. This outlandish display managed to distract the rocks from the game and all heads were turned towards The Doc. "Like a taste?" he innocently queried the player sitting beside him.
The two seat took the envelope with some trepidation and sniffed the contents dubiously. "Just try a little pinch", wheedled The Doc, "I've never tasted anything like it". Seat Two cautiously ladled out a small amount onto the back of his hand. "Go on", encouraged The Doc. Seat Two took a lick of the powder and I put my head in my hands, foreseeing a future behind bars. Then something unexpected happened. A broad smile broke out across Seat Two's features and he laughed. "This stuff is pretty good", he chortled, passing the envelope around to his neighbour, "give it a lash!" The envelope made the rounds of the table to great approval. As Seat Nine imbibed his share of the mixture, I looked up and caught The Doc giving me the slyest wink I have ever seen. "Ship that sherbert back over here!" he hollered. The now doped-up rocks thought this was the funniest thing they had ever heard. For the remainder of the evening, 'ship the sherbert' became the battlecry of the Top Table.
(to be continued)
el S
Trip report - The Doc (part 1)
The Doc and I were drinking in The Cellar Bar one morning. It's the kind of joint you can go when you feel like a little bit of gritty urban edginess to spice things up. By 'edginess', I mean that its clientele is primarily made up of hookers, pimps, drug dealers, alcoholics, off-duty cops and other such pillars of society. It never closes. The windows are blanked out with black masking tape, the toilets have last been cleaned around the fall of the Berlin Wall and you don't look sideways at its habitues, especially the women. We like it and often frequent it after our lengthy poker sessions in the Macao, an underground poker room around the corner.
After dropping the guts of a thousand euro apiece to some kimchi-bespattered Korean chefs, we repaired to the Cellar for some necessary lubrication. It was 7.30am on a Friday and the place was packed as per usual. The Doc wormed his way to the bar and screamed an order at the tattooed and shaven-headed barman. Eventually he returned triumphantly to our seat with two pints of Guinness in his paws and two shot glasses protruding from his shirt pocket. He slammed the beverages on the table and then produced an envelope from the depths of his coat, looking furtively around him. Having satisfied himself that no-one was paying him undue attention, he extracted two large blue pills from the envelope and held one out to me.
"What the fuck is this?" was my somewhat intemperate response. The Doc sniggered. "Horse tranquilisers", he said, "wash 'em down with this tequila and you'll be flying baby." I eyed him doubtfully. I had experienced chemical adventures with The Doc before and was unsure if I was ready for a repeat session. Irritated by my reluctance, The Doc dropped his own pill in his shot glass, saluted me with it and downed the contents in one gulp. "Trust me", he said, leaning forward and fixing me with a sincere gaze, "I'm a doctor". The reassurance of a professional is a powerful force. I reached for my glass and put myself outside its contents. I chased down the evil mixture with half a pint of Guinness, sat back and waited for the Doc's concoction to do its work.
"How long have we got Doc?" I queried, idly watching a gaggle of shrieking drag queens at the bar. He assumed a medical demeanour. "I'd say about one hour. My advice to you is to consume as much liquids as you can now. You're going to need it". I took this on board, The Doc may be a crazed pill-popper but you don't wilfully ignore the advice of your personal physican. I lurched to the bar, shoving through the drag queens. I noticed that I was already starting to perspire heavily. "Give me twelve pints of Guinness, two bottles of Bushmills and a box of Romeo y Juliettas" I demanded. The barman didn't blink an eyelid. "I'll drop 'em over to you" he said. Money exchanged hands and I was free to return to my seat.
The booze arrived shortly after and The Doc and I set to work. We each sparked up a fat cigar and set to work on rehydrating ourselves with the pints. The whiskey was retained in case of emergency. Appropriately enough, the background music was courtesy of The Pogues. Shane McGowan's early work flittered through my brain, further destabilising its fragile balance. The phrase 'the drugged up psychos with death in their eyes' struck a deep chord with me. I looked over at The Doc and suddenly felt myself floating free of my body, my brain exploding like a shower of liquid sparks. The next twelve hours are somewhat of a hazy memory.
I awoke with my head resting in a pool of liquid. Upon further investigation, it transpired to be Bushmills. I sat up and immediately bumped my head off the table that I was lying under. This caused shock waves of excruciating pain to shoot through my cranium. Working on the scientific theory of displacement (The Doc had long ago convinced me of its efficacy), I smashed my knee off the table leg. The resulting pain cleared my head for long enough to note that The Doc was lying face down across from me. I kicked him in the arse. He didn't stir. "Good", I thought, "hopefully the crazy bastard is dead". This momentary hope was dispelled as he rolled over onto his back and began gulping for air.
Once he had recovered his composure, he sat upright and looked about him owlishly. He registered my presence and gave an oddly formal nod of the head. Ever a man for dealing with the necessities of life, he located his bottle of Bushmills, raised it to his lips and drank off about half a pints worth. Apparently revived by this, a broad grin spread across his features. "Some trip eh?" he said. "I wouldn't know", I truthfully responded. He giggled, "I'll tell you all about it later. Now is time for poker".
I looked at him in disbelief. "Doc", I said, "where exactly did you obtain your medical degree?" The Doc smiled. "I studied overseas for many years, in many institutes of higher learning". I was starting to suspect that 'higher' might be more accurate than he let on. "My final qualification was in Advanced Pharmacology. I studied this in Amsterdam for over five years but my research was very practically orientated". "Kindly explain what the fuck you are talking about", I said, in as acidic a tone as I could muster. The Doc looked embarrassed for the first time that I could ever recall. "Er, I mixed batches of acid and ecstacy in a warehouse", he eventually admitted. We sat in silence for a while as I digested this information.
I wasn't suprised that The Doc was a phoney. Hell, who isn't? In any case, it wouldn't do any harm to let him stew for a while. We both sat on the floor of The Cellar for a while, meditating silently and consuming slugs of whiskey. After some time, I glanced over at The Doc. He was smiling in the direction of a couple of mini-skirted hookers at the bar. "You said something about poker?" I queried. His smile broadened. "We are indeed going to play poker" he stated, "but we are not going to play poker as it has ever been played before". He pulled a sheet of what looked like cardboard squares from his pocket. "Oh Jesus", I said. "We won't be needing him", replied The Doc, "I got this recently from an old colleague in Amsterdam and my professional opinion on it is that it's pure gold. Two tabs and you'll be playing poker like a cross between Stuey Ungar and Johnny Moss. You'll be able to read every player like an open book, you'll play like a god".
I stared at his outstretched hand, the two tabs of acid profferred to me. My bankroll had got dangerously low over the last two months (coinciding with the arrival of The Doc into my life) and it was in urgent need of revival. "Fuck it", I said, "what harm can it do?" I reached for the tabs, swallowed them down and chased them with a mouthful of Bushmills. The Doc did likewise. We both rearranged our limbs and manoevured ourselves to a standing position. I looked him in the eye.
"Doc", I said, "let's go play poker".
(to be continued)
el S
After dropping the guts of a thousand euro apiece to some kimchi-bespattered Korean chefs, we repaired to the Cellar for some necessary lubrication. It was 7.30am on a Friday and the place was packed as per usual. The Doc wormed his way to the bar and screamed an order at the tattooed and shaven-headed barman. Eventually he returned triumphantly to our seat with two pints of Guinness in his paws and two shot glasses protruding from his shirt pocket. He slammed the beverages on the table and then produced an envelope from the depths of his coat, looking furtively around him. Having satisfied himself that no-one was paying him undue attention, he extracted two large blue pills from the envelope and held one out to me.
"What the fuck is this?" was my somewhat intemperate response. The Doc sniggered. "Horse tranquilisers", he said, "wash 'em down with this tequila and you'll be flying baby." I eyed him doubtfully. I had experienced chemical adventures with The Doc before and was unsure if I was ready for a repeat session. Irritated by my reluctance, The Doc dropped his own pill in his shot glass, saluted me with it and downed the contents in one gulp. "Trust me", he said, leaning forward and fixing me with a sincere gaze, "I'm a doctor". The reassurance of a professional is a powerful force. I reached for my glass and put myself outside its contents. I chased down the evil mixture with half a pint of Guinness, sat back and waited for the Doc's concoction to do its work.
"How long have we got Doc?" I queried, idly watching a gaggle of shrieking drag queens at the bar. He assumed a medical demeanour. "I'd say about one hour. My advice to you is to consume as much liquids as you can now. You're going to need it". I took this on board, The Doc may be a crazed pill-popper but you don't wilfully ignore the advice of your personal physican. I lurched to the bar, shoving through the drag queens. I noticed that I was already starting to perspire heavily. "Give me twelve pints of Guinness, two bottles of Bushmills and a box of Romeo y Juliettas" I demanded. The barman didn't blink an eyelid. "I'll drop 'em over to you" he said. Money exchanged hands and I was free to return to my seat.
The booze arrived shortly after and The Doc and I set to work. We each sparked up a fat cigar and set to work on rehydrating ourselves with the pints. The whiskey was retained in case of emergency. Appropriately enough, the background music was courtesy of The Pogues. Shane McGowan's early work flittered through my brain, further destabilising its fragile balance. The phrase 'the drugged up psychos with death in their eyes' struck a deep chord with me. I looked over at The Doc and suddenly felt myself floating free of my body, my brain exploding like a shower of liquid sparks. The next twelve hours are somewhat of a hazy memory.
I awoke with my head resting in a pool of liquid. Upon further investigation, it transpired to be Bushmills. I sat up and immediately bumped my head off the table that I was lying under. This caused shock waves of excruciating pain to shoot through my cranium. Working on the scientific theory of displacement (The Doc had long ago convinced me of its efficacy), I smashed my knee off the table leg. The resulting pain cleared my head for long enough to note that The Doc was lying face down across from me. I kicked him in the arse. He didn't stir. "Good", I thought, "hopefully the crazy bastard is dead". This momentary hope was dispelled as he rolled over onto his back and began gulping for air.
Once he had recovered his composure, he sat upright and looked about him owlishly. He registered my presence and gave an oddly formal nod of the head. Ever a man for dealing with the necessities of life, he located his bottle of Bushmills, raised it to his lips and drank off about half a pints worth. Apparently revived by this, a broad grin spread across his features. "Some trip eh?" he said. "I wouldn't know", I truthfully responded. He giggled, "I'll tell you all about it later. Now is time for poker".
I looked at him in disbelief. "Doc", I said, "where exactly did you obtain your medical degree?" The Doc smiled. "I studied overseas for many years, in many institutes of higher learning". I was starting to suspect that 'higher' might be more accurate than he let on. "My final qualification was in Advanced Pharmacology. I studied this in Amsterdam for over five years but my research was very practically orientated". "Kindly explain what the fuck you are talking about", I said, in as acidic a tone as I could muster. The Doc looked embarrassed for the first time that I could ever recall. "Er, I mixed batches of acid and ecstacy in a warehouse", he eventually admitted. We sat in silence for a while as I digested this information.
I wasn't suprised that The Doc was a phoney. Hell, who isn't? In any case, it wouldn't do any harm to let him stew for a while. We both sat on the floor of The Cellar for a while, meditating silently and consuming slugs of whiskey. After some time, I glanced over at The Doc. He was smiling in the direction of a couple of mini-skirted hookers at the bar. "You said something about poker?" I queried. His smile broadened. "We are indeed going to play poker" he stated, "but we are not going to play poker as it has ever been played before". He pulled a sheet of what looked like cardboard squares from his pocket. "Oh Jesus", I said. "We won't be needing him", replied The Doc, "I got this recently from an old colleague in Amsterdam and my professional opinion on it is that it's pure gold. Two tabs and you'll be playing poker like a cross between Stuey Ungar and Johnny Moss. You'll be able to read every player like an open book, you'll play like a god".
I stared at his outstretched hand, the two tabs of acid profferred to me. My bankroll had got dangerously low over the last two months (coinciding with the arrival of The Doc into my life) and it was in urgent need of revival. "Fuck it", I said, "what harm can it do?" I reached for the tabs, swallowed them down and chased them with a mouthful of Bushmills. The Doc did likewise. We both rearranged our limbs and manoevured ourselves to a standing position. I looked him in the eye.
"Doc", I said, "let's go play poker".
(to be continued)
el S
The Big Spiel
"Son, we've chosen a hard road in this life. But given that you've now made your choice to follow in my footsteps, sit on down there and let me tell you a few things"
"Sure Dad"
"The life of a poker player is not a normal one. You'll go weeks without seeing daylight. Your friends won't be able to comprehend the choices you've made and will look upon you as, at best, some kind of eccentric lunatic. At worst they'll see you as some kind of degenerate freak and will actively seek to distance themselves from you. Women will come and go but, being naturally domestic creatures, there will inevitably come a day when they ask you to make a choice between them and the game. Remember your mother son? I don't"
"I remember she was pretty Dad, real pretty"
"She sure was son. Friendship is another thing that you'll have to forego. You'll meet many fine people at the felt son but always remember they would step over your corpse to get their hands on your bankroll. And I wouldn't have it any other way son. Never stake another player, never let them hold your roll. You can't trust a man who routinely lies for a living"
"Yes sir"
"I once played against Doyle Brunson son, did I ever tell you that? And at the end of the game, he shook my hand and commended me on my discipline. I wasn't anywhere near the best player at that table but I still walked away a big winner. And you know why? I held my discipline, I waited my time and, when my moment came, I made the most of it. That's what being a poker player is all about"
"I hear you Dad"
"Yup, discipline is the key. I've seen too many great players go broke through giving in to their worst inner impulses - craps, sports betting, drugs. Just look at poor Stuey Ungar, greatest player I ever saw - died face down in his own vomit and all because he had no discipline. We don't want that son, do we?"
"No sir"
"Yeah, when you become a poker player, you become truly your own man. You don't have to answer to nobody, you don't pay no taxes, you don't say 'sir' to no man, you go where you want, when you want. You are a modern day cowboy. You like the sound of that son?"
"I sure do Dad, I sure do"
"Well OK then, let's get started. Are you ready for it son? You ready for Vegas?"
"I sure am Dad"
"Good boy. You never looked like you belonged in that Junior Infants class anyways"
el S
"Sure Dad"
"The life of a poker player is not a normal one. You'll go weeks without seeing daylight. Your friends won't be able to comprehend the choices you've made and will look upon you as, at best, some kind of eccentric lunatic. At worst they'll see you as some kind of degenerate freak and will actively seek to distance themselves from you. Women will come and go but, being naturally domestic creatures, there will inevitably come a day when they ask you to make a choice between them and the game. Remember your mother son? I don't"
"I remember she was pretty Dad, real pretty"
"She sure was son. Friendship is another thing that you'll have to forego. You'll meet many fine people at the felt son but always remember they would step over your corpse to get their hands on your bankroll. And I wouldn't have it any other way son. Never stake another player, never let them hold your roll. You can't trust a man who routinely lies for a living"
"Yes sir"
"I once played against Doyle Brunson son, did I ever tell you that? And at the end of the game, he shook my hand and commended me on my discipline. I wasn't anywhere near the best player at that table but I still walked away a big winner. And you know why? I held my discipline, I waited my time and, when my moment came, I made the most of it. That's what being a poker player is all about"
"I hear you Dad"
"Yup, discipline is the key. I've seen too many great players go broke through giving in to their worst inner impulses - craps, sports betting, drugs. Just look at poor Stuey Ungar, greatest player I ever saw - died face down in his own vomit and all because he had no discipline. We don't want that son, do we?"
"No sir"
"Yeah, when you become a poker player, you become truly your own man. You don't have to answer to nobody, you don't pay no taxes, you don't say 'sir' to no man, you go where you want, when you want. You are a modern day cowboy. You like the sound of that son?"
"I sure do Dad, I sure do"
"Well OK then, let's get started. Are you ready for it son? You ready for Vegas?"
"I sure am Dad"
"Good boy. You never looked like you belonged in that Junior Infants class anyways"
el S
The Small Man - Part V
Following my last confrontation with the small man, I had fallen into a period of prolonged depression where I simply stayed in bed all day, refusing all my family's attempts at communication and barely taking enough sustenance on board to keep myself alive. Numerous psychologists, psychotherapists and other assorted quacks were sent to interview me but I rebuffed them all. I wanted no part of a world that allowed the small man to exist in it and, by blocking out the world, I was able to gain some relief from the nightmarish memories of the small man and his fiendish tales.
One day however, a person of a different hue came to see me. His name was Brother Michael and he was a Buddhist monk in a Tibetan cliff-top monastery. Quite how or why my despairing family had come across him I did not know but, once he entered my life, I felt a deep calm fall across my soul and the evil visions of the small man ceased to violate my mind. After many long conversations of a spiritual nature, Brother Michael convinced me that my life could once again be worth living and that I should emerge from my malaise and re-enter the world. I agreed and booked myself on an expedition to Alaska. I had long wanted to visit this magnificent land and felt that the combination of spectacular scenery and solitude would provide the tonic that I required.
The travel arrangments proceeded satisfactorily and I soon found myself in Anchorage, eager to explore the unspoiled wilderness that stretched Northwards for many hundreds of miles. I rented a cabin on the banks of the Porcupine river and settled in for a week of salmon fishing and contemplation. As the week unfolded by that beautiful river I felt my fears recede from me like a tide and, with just one night left of my sojourn, I was fully prepared to return to my former life. I sat happily by the mighty river as dusk fell and cast my line into its waters for the last time. Just as my fly hit the pallid blue depths, there was a disturbance in the water right in front of where I sat. As I looked on perplexed, a shape gradually emerged from the waters. I blinked in puzzlement, shaded my eyes from the sun and focused again. When my eyes adjusted, the first thing that I saw was the devilish grin of the small man, somewhat hidden by his breathing apparatus. The next thing I noticed was the deadly-looking speargun which he was pointing directly at my torso.
I sat frozen in terror as the small man clambered out of the river and removed his aqualung, all the time keeping his speargun carefully trained on me. I knew what was about to transpire but was powerless to prevent it. The small man eased himself into a comfortable position and began to speak:
"A wondrous country this and not one that you would consider a fertile hunting ground for my stories. I met a man last week however who challenged this preconception. His grandfather had been a famous fisherman in these parts and, for many years, he had set sail from Anchorage to harvest the seas. He told me the following story. The fishermen had only six months of the year to make their living as the cruel weather conditions would not allow them to put to sea in the long winters. Thus, they spent their entire winters in port - drinking, whoring and of course gambling.
The favourite form of gambling in this frontier land was naturally poker and the stakes would often get elevated to crazy levels as the fishermen tried to release the frustration of being land-bound. The most famous poker player in Anchorage was Captain Larsson, a cunning Swede who owned his own trawler. He had the reputation of being the tightest player in the State and was a man who never willingly put a cent into a pot unless he was sure he was ahead. He was renowned throughout Alaska as a man who had never knowingly bluffed an opponent off a pot. His mortal enemy was Captain Ryan, a man who was Larsson's opposite in every way - a drinker, a fighter and a degenerate gambler who relied on pure aggression to win at the poker tables. He too owned his own trawler.
The game was invariably hosted in the main cabin of Larsson's boat, a spartan space which boasted no decoration save for Larsson's most prized posession; a display case containing a champion sole which he had hooked many years before as a young man. After decades reposing in the display case, the sole's skin had turned a reflective silver colour, almost mirrorlike. Larsson's customary place at the poker table was to sit with his champion sole at his back, from which position he would slowly grind down his rivals with his tight, measured play.
On the night in question, the game had already been in progress for two days straight and Larsson and Ryan were the two big winners in it, each sitting with a massive stack of bills in front of them and facing each other across the felt. All the other trawler captains had retired from the game, leaving a large chunk of their earnings behind and were congregated around the table, drinking and watching the confrontation of these two diammetrically different rivals.
As they watched, a large pot began to develop. Ryan raised to three thousand dollars pre-flop and Larsson simply called. The flop came down with two kings and a jack and Larsson checked to his opponent. Ryan uncharacteristically checked behind, perhaps sensing a trap. The turn card was a deuce and Larsson, as was his wont, snatched up his cards and held them close to his face. Ryan, seemingly disinterested, just stared at the giant sole in the display case behind Larsson's head. Eventually Larsson placed his cards back on the felt and threw ten thousand dollars out into the middle - an enormous bet. The idle chatter around the table ceased as the railbirds leaned in close to see how Ryan would react.
Ryan scratched his beard and contemplated the situation. After a considerable pause, he raised the bet to thirty thousand dollars. Larsson leaned forward in his chair and stared hard at Ryan. "You're bluffing" he stated out loud, "I raise one hundred thousand dollars plus my trawler". The other trawlermen gasped in amazement - surely Ryan had been caught out and would now have to fold his hand. A long, slow smile spread across Ryan's face. "I'm not the one who's bluffing here" he grinned, "I call". The blood drained from Larsson's face and he sat white-faced in shock as Ryan slowly revealed his cards - 72 - for two pair. The river was dealt - an innocuous three - and Larsson threw his hand in the muck. His bluff had failed and now his trawler was gone.
"How?" he asked, his voice cracking with emotion, "how on earth did you make that call? You know I've never bluffed before in my life".
"It was an easy call," replied Ryan, "I just read your sole".
el S
One day however, a person of a different hue came to see me. His name was Brother Michael and he was a Buddhist monk in a Tibetan cliff-top monastery. Quite how or why my despairing family had come across him I did not know but, once he entered my life, I felt a deep calm fall across my soul and the evil visions of the small man ceased to violate my mind. After many long conversations of a spiritual nature, Brother Michael convinced me that my life could once again be worth living and that I should emerge from my malaise and re-enter the world. I agreed and booked myself on an expedition to Alaska. I had long wanted to visit this magnificent land and felt that the combination of spectacular scenery and solitude would provide the tonic that I required.
The travel arrangments proceeded satisfactorily and I soon found myself in Anchorage, eager to explore the unspoiled wilderness that stretched Northwards for many hundreds of miles. I rented a cabin on the banks of the Porcupine river and settled in for a week of salmon fishing and contemplation. As the week unfolded by that beautiful river I felt my fears recede from me like a tide and, with just one night left of my sojourn, I was fully prepared to return to my former life. I sat happily by the mighty river as dusk fell and cast my line into its waters for the last time. Just as my fly hit the pallid blue depths, there was a disturbance in the water right in front of where I sat. As I looked on perplexed, a shape gradually emerged from the waters. I blinked in puzzlement, shaded my eyes from the sun and focused again. When my eyes adjusted, the first thing that I saw was the devilish grin of the small man, somewhat hidden by his breathing apparatus. The next thing I noticed was the deadly-looking speargun which he was pointing directly at my torso.
I sat frozen in terror as the small man clambered out of the river and removed his aqualung, all the time keeping his speargun carefully trained on me. I knew what was about to transpire but was powerless to prevent it. The small man eased himself into a comfortable position and began to speak:
"A wondrous country this and not one that you would consider a fertile hunting ground for my stories. I met a man last week however who challenged this preconception. His grandfather had been a famous fisherman in these parts and, for many years, he had set sail from Anchorage to harvest the seas. He told me the following story. The fishermen had only six months of the year to make their living as the cruel weather conditions would not allow them to put to sea in the long winters. Thus, they spent their entire winters in port - drinking, whoring and of course gambling.
The favourite form of gambling in this frontier land was naturally poker and the stakes would often get elevated to crazy levels as the fishermen tried to release the frustration of being land-bound. The most famous poker player in Anchorage was Captain Larsson, a cunning Swede who owned his own trawler. He had the reputation of being the tightest player in the State and was a man who never willingly put a cent into a pot unless he was sure he was ahead. He was renowned throughout Alaska as a man who had never knowingly bluffed an opponent off a pot. His mortal enemy was Captain Ryan, a man who was Larsson's opposite in every way - a drinker, a fighter and a degenerate gambler who relied on pure aggression to win at the poker tables. He too owned his own trawler.
The game was invariably hosted in the main cabin of Larsson's boat, a spartan space which boasted no decoration save for Larsson's most prized posession; a display case containing a champion sole which he had hooked many years before as a young man. After decades reposing in the display case, the sole's skin had turned a reflective silver colour, almost mirrorlike. Larsson's customary place at the poker table was to sit with his champion sole at his back, from which position he would slowly grind down his rivals with his tight, measured play.
On the night in question, the game had already been in progress for two days straight and Larsson and Ryan were the two big winners in it, each sitting with a massive stack of bills in front of them and facing each other across the felt. All the other trawler captains had retired from the game, leaving a large chunk of their earnings behind and were congregated around the table, drinking and watching the confrontation of these two diammetrically different rivals.
As they watched, a large pot began to develop. Ryan raised to three thousand dollars pre-flop and Larsson simply called. The flop came down with two kings and a jack and Larsson checked to his opponent. Ryan uncharacteristically checked behind, perhaps sensing a trap. The turn card was a deuce and Larsson, as was his wont, snatched up his cards and held them close to his face. Ryan, seemingly disinterested, just stared at the giant sole in the display case behind Larsson's head. Eventually Larsson placed his cards back on the felt and threw ten thousand dollars out into the middle - an enormous bet. The idle chatter around the table ceased as the railbirds leaned in close to see how Ryan would react.
Ryan scratched his beard and contemplated the situation. After a considerable pause, he raised the bet to thirty thousand dollars. Larsson leaned forward in his chair and stared hard at Ryan. "You're bluffing" he stated out loud, "I raise one hundred thousand dollars plus my trawler". The other trawlermen gasped in amazement - surely Ryan had been caught out and would now have to fold his hand. A long, slow smile spread across Ryan's face. "I'm not the one who's bluffing here" he grinned, "I call". The blood drained from Larsson's face and he sat white-faced in shock as Ryan slowly revealed his cards - 72 - for two pair. The river was dealt - an innocuous three - and Larsson threw his hand in the muck. His bluff had failed and now his trawler was gone.
"How?" he asked, his voice cracking with emotion, "how on earth did you make that call? You know I've never bluffed before in my life".
"It was an easy call," replied Ryan, "I just read your sole".
el S
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