The Short Version

The Nets

I didn’t know what I was doing, but I didn’t give a shit, it wasn’t my money. It’s strange how situations can snowball like that. I was scraping my way through 1-2 penny games eight weeks ago, and now I’m sitting down at a table with 25 grand in front of me.

The felt looks greener than it normally does, like quasi-fluorescent astroturf, like my room when I was a kid. My heart is hammering in my chest, I’m afraid if I made any sudden movements it’s going to pop out. That would put a damper on things. It certainly would be one way to delay this.

Stan shoots me a look and walks over. He’s wearing those stupid sunglasses that make him look like a secret service wannabe. He’s got the suit to match. “You remember what to do, right?” He can see how nervous I am, I know it, I must be sweating. Shit. I nod.

I met Stan three months ago, through a mutual friend. I’m sorry I ever had. Stan is one of those cock-sure assholes that sounds like he always knows what he is talking about. He’s useful in some ways. I found that out pretty quick. Ever seen a man successfully haggle for a bottle of wine in a restaurant? I have.

That night, he talked me into doing this shit. He said it was nothing, that he had done it a few times already with other guys. He schmoozed me, and now he’s going to fuck me. Or rather, going to use me to fuck someone else. I guess that makes me a strap-on.

I am an accountant by profession. Just a moronic, number counting dildo. What the fuck am I doing here? Not that I don’t know how to play, it’s just, here? Now? With this?

“We ready gentlemen? Oh, and lady? Apologies.” The man holding the cards is shitting his pants too. Is that supposed to make me feel better or worse?

There was a quarter million dollars on the table. NO! I’m not ready. Everybody nods.

“Right, we are playing hold ‘em. Blinds are 125 and 250 to start, big bet is 8,000. High card gets the button.”

Thirty hands in and I’m still alive. Can’t say the same for everybody. Stan looks nauseatingly contented. I’m not the only one playing tight. The lady, Hawaiian shirt, and ray bans are employing the same tactic.

Button is on me, time to make a play. Ace seven. “I raise.” God, the chips feel good. Numbers always relax me.

“500 to call.” He’s gotten more comfortable too.

Three in for the flop. Me, the lady, and cowboy hat. Ace seven deuce.

Check. Check. “1,000.”

Cowboy throws it away. I start reaching.

“I call.” The voice is grating. It’s the woman. No. God damn it. Not on this hand. River is a seven, but it doesn’t matter. I know what’s coming. Arms folded; she taps her finger on her elbow. “500.” What a dumb fucking bet. Does she know how to play? Of course she does. She knows what she is doing, she is torturing me, and she is enjoying it. I shove the cards away. Stan shows me his teeth. Yeah, fuck you too, guy.

“Boy she got you on that one, didn’t she?”

“I guess she did. Where you from? Texas?”

“What gave it away, the hat?” He’s got the same dumb smile Stan has. “I’m from a cozy little town named Freeport. Ever been?”

“Can’t say I’ve had the pleasure.” It’s one of the meditative things about poker. No matter what just happened the cards keep coming.

“Ever been shrimpin’? Freeport has got great shrimpin’.”

“I have had the pleasure.”

“Have you? Well, that is just wonderful to hear. I love shrimpin’. I got an 18-foot pontoon, myself.”

“18 feet? For shrimping?”

Jack four. Into the muck.

“I know, it’s a little small, but it does the job, and it runs true.”

“If you want to call 18 small, you go right on ahead.” Where the fuck did that come from?

“You got a boat?”

“I don’t. Never could stomach the cost. A buddy of mine has the boat.”

“You guys use a cast net or trawl?”

“Trawl.”

“Mhmm.”

“You use a cast?”

“I do.”

“Don’t catch as much with cast, right?” Eight Five. Garbage cards.

“Very true.”

“So why the cast?”

“I once killed a baby turtle with a trawl. That was the day I gave it up.”

King jack off-suit. What am I supposed to say to that? “I call.”

Eight four three. Two hearts. Nobody hit this board. Check. Check. “1,000. What do you do down in Freeport?”

“Own a few car dealerships. Two Ford and a Buick/GMC. It’s not much but it’s an honest living.”

Course you do. “Sliced out a little bit of the American dream, huh? Got a better half?”

“I do. Mary-Anne, with whom I have three beautiful children.” Fold. “All of ‘em livin’ in the great state of Texas. One, the younger boy, is working with me.” Elbow tap. FUCK. She’s grinning at me again. Just get it over with. “The other two are working for the church. Community outreach and event organization.”

“I’ll raise the gentleman. 2,000.” Perfect.

“Freeport, mazel tov.” He looks affronted. At least I can take solace in that. “Madame, enjoy that grand.” She, less so.

“You know, it’s poor form to chat while a hand is being played.” Like nails on a chalkboard.

I can hear the cowboy gulping. “I beg your apologies, ma’a…”

“Doesn’t seem to have affected you at all. Gloating is poor form too. I need a smoke. Cover the blinds if they get around.” The dealer nods. “Thanks.”

This fucking place. When did card rooms stop smelling like stale cigarettes and preparation H? Now it’s sea breezes and lavender. Trying to put up a façade of respectability. Make it smell like baking bread and rosemary for all I care. Doesn’t change what you are doing.

I know that smell. He must be within 30 feet. “You following me, Stan? I have to warn you, I haven’t showered today, and I’ve never been good in public settings, too much pressure.”

“Fuckin’ guy. Just wanted to see how my man is holding up. Let me snag one?”

“Yeah, fine.”

“13% bet into the biggest pot you have sniffed all night. What’d you have?”

“A boat. What the fuck was that? She just fuckin’ with me?”

Those pearly whites again. “No, no. I don’t think she realized what she was doing.”

“Are you kidding me? You set this up with someone who doesn’t know how to play? Stop

fucking laughing.”

He can barely get the words out. “I’m sorry, man.”

“Ok. So now it’s you fucking with me? Seriously?”

“She wanted to do it.”

“Why the hell does that matter? You couldn’t have switched us?”

“She said she wanted to win. I didn’t see any harm in it.”

“No harm in it? She doesn’t know what she is doing, Stan. You think people aren’t going to catch on? These people have actual money on the table. Their money. I know the guy in the ray bans and the guy with the Hawaiian shirt. They play. They read other people for a living. They know I play. You don’t think they are going to think it’s odd when I’m folding on obvious calls or obvious bluffs? Try thinking with your brain instead of your cock.”

“Hey! Remember who you are talking to. Who pulled you out of that shithole up on 5th ,huh? Who gave you a job? Who puts food in your mouth? I did. And I do. So shut the fuck up, stop complaining, go back in there, and do your fucking job. Ungrateful little shit.”

“Whatever.”

“Excuse me? What was that?”

“I said, ‘Alright.’”

“No. You didn’t. Tell me what you said.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Not yet, you aren’t. Tell me.”

“Stan, I’m sorry.”

His knuckles feel harder than usual. He just dislocated my jaw. That’s the third time. “Stan, please.” The blood is warm.

“You piece of shit. I should have left you up at 5th. Tell me what you said.”

The pavement is digging into my side. I try to roll over. The blood is making it hard to breathe.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t know a good thing when it happens to you. I’m the best thing that ever happened to you, you pathetic little worm. You should be worshipping the ground I stand on.”

His shoes are worse than his hands.

“Pompous.” Kick. “Pitiful.” Kick. “Nobody.”

That’s the way it always happened. He’d tire himself out after a little. Good thing he smokes. I can hear him slide down the wall to sit beside me. “I’m sorry, Stan.”

“I know, baby, I know.” He’s stroking my hair. “I need you to get back in there and finish it.”

“Whatever you want, Stan.”

“Let’s get you cleaned up first.”

“Okay…Stan?”

“Yeah?”

“Let’s use a cast net next time we go out on the boat.”

Ernest

I was introduced to Ernest at a birthday party-my birthday party.

“This is Ernest; he’s a solipsist.”

What the hell is someone supposed to say to that? “Hello Ernest, I’m Chuck. Or I’m you, I guess.”

Ernest laughed. “You are what you are.”

How does someone get that voice? Like Leonard Cohen, when he was young. “Sure. Well, I should mingle, it is my birthday after all. But please, make yourself comfortable. Glasses are in the kitchen. There’s beer in the fridge and assorted liquor, well, everywhere. Nice to meet you, Ernest. Enjoy.”

I hate birthday parties. I don’t even know why I have them. One year closer to 62. Here I come. Familial clockwork. “The 62 Hendricks club” doesn’t quite have the same ring as “The 27 club.” Why do I have parties? Well, David likes them. I’m glad he’s having a good time. I need a drink. And a smoke.

Speak of the man, himself. “Chucky boy! The man of the hour! Are you enjoying yourself this evening?”

Two actual friends and enough filler people to make it look less depressing. Actually, to have a decent party. “Of course, of course. This was very thoughtful of you, thank you.”

“You like the cake?”

“Cake was great.”

“Layered lemon pound interior and blackberry buttercream.”

Always with the need to have his ego stroked, this one. We’re too similar. “One of the best cakes I’ve ever eaten. I’m going for a smoke. Want to join?”

“Yeah, but give me a minute. You seen Sadie yet? She’s supposed to be getting here around now.”

“She just walked in a few minutes ago. Check the living room; I saw her talking to a solipsist in there.”

“A what?”

“A solipsist.”

“Who’s a solipsist?”

“Ernest.”

“Who’s Ernest?”

“A solipsist.”

“Oh, thank you, very helpful. Go up and have your cigarette, I’ll join you in a minute.”

Gladly. But first, a stop by the kitchen. A highball full of gin will do nicely.

Sadie joined me on the roof before David.

“Where’s the lime slice? You always have a lime slice.”

Of course, she’d notice that. Am I smiling? “I’m flattered you take such an interest. Couldn’t find any, unfortunately.”

“That’s odd, I brought over a whole bunch, like a dozen.”

“It’s a big party. People are drinking. Maybe someone really like margaritas. Is David coming up?”

“I don’t know, I passed him off to the person I was talking to.”

“Ernest. A solipsist.”

“Nice guy.”

“Haven’t really spoken to him.”

“Mind if I bum one?”

“Sadie, darling, must you ask? Don’t you know that, if I could, I would give you the world.”

“In times so stricken with apathy and disaffection, I’m comforted knowing I have a hero to whom I can turn and say, ‘A cigarette’ll work.’”

“The Disney eyes are unfair. And you know it. How do you do that?”

David arrived with Ernest behind him. Ernest intrigued me, and I wanted to know more.

“So, Ernest, you being new to the smoking circle, please, if you would, tell us about yourself.”

“What would you like to know?”

Leonard Cohen’s voice, I swear. “What do you do? Where you from? Got a family? Your life story as an elevator pitch, go.” I get a little demanding when I’m tipsy.

“Not much to tell. I was born into a middle-class family in Iowa. Mom was a librarian and dad was as a biologist working for Cargill. I’d say I had a happy upbringing. Went to college in Wichita. Graduated, got married, and divorced. No kids. Now, I’m retired. I don’t do much of anything.”

“Sounds nice-not having anything to do.”

“I get bored.”

“What does a biologist for Cargill do?”

“He experimented with the metabolic rate of chickens. Essentially, it was his job to test out what kinds of different stimuli would cause chickens to grow faster and larger. And he was good at it. He was able to create a serum that accelerated growth rate so effectively that every major producer uses it now.”

“And what was in the serum? Do you know?”

“Sure, I do. It’s mostly lime juice.”