Tell Me a Story

TW: the mention of alcohol use, some profanity, and implications of child abuse but it is never explicitly stated or mentioned in any way.

Despite the dim lighting, the air of the casino was bustling and lively; it smelled sickeningly sweet and filled with foggy choices. There was a maddening ringing that could be from every inch of the shaggy, red carpet, followed by cheers and yells; others looked on with careful glares. The bartenders polished glasses and gave half-hearted sentiments to those drowning their loses in the sweet nectar of the gods they failed to pray to. Tables for various card games held themselves with self-assured stability, carrying people feeling right the same. 

Underneath a flickering, faux-fluorescent light, lay a high stakes poker game two men did not expect themselves to be in. Neither considered themselves particularly good at gambling, but instead, felt a just love for the incessant improbability of success. 

Both were also losing horribly. They stared with intense, poorly grins at their opponents as they laid the worst hands of the table with overwhelming, unseemly confidence. They would simply laugh and bet higher.

Before now, they had vaguely introduced themselves as “Mat” and “June”, and subsequently decided the other was their partner of the night. 

Mat was a tall, thinly man with dark, curly hair and a pallor that greatly contrasted the moles on the dorsal side of his hand and skin. He bore a pair of small, black, round sunglasses that never seemed to leave his face. He wore a colorful suit to contrast—with bright pinks, yellows, and oranges like he had stepped out of a Pop Art era painting of a sunset. June had none of that. He was a dark-skinned man with patches along his body that carried the melanin away from his figure; he was of average height with a blocky stature, carrying dancing rings upon his fingers as he played with his unbridled, Dallas-esque mustache. He covered himself in a gunslinger’s outfit of sorts. It was light and colorful, bringing patterns and joy from the tanned outlines.

They had busied themselves with awkward introductions and a continuous stream of drinks—slowly and gradually working themselves to a borderline stupor.

As many could see, they were just so teetering on drunkenness, but kept steady in their tipsy delight.

“Tell me a story!” June yelled, throwing his hands up and around Mat’s shoulders. 

Mat thought for a minute, staring at both the hand connected to his arm and the hand that laid before him ready to break and crumble his financial stability, “Ok. What do you want to hear?”

“You, yes? Tell me of you, dear friend,” he laughed. “Dearest above all else.”

“Me? Well, no one wants to hear about that. It may wrench sympathy from your bones—a whole-hearted crunch of dilapidated care.”

June laid his head on the green felt with a sneer-like smile; much to the dismay and irregardlessness of the other players and dealer, respectively, “You use too many words for me.”

Mat laughed, “Then why do you want a story?”

“Boredom leaves me…well, bored,” he said, obviously.

Mat gives a strange, little smile. “Fine then. Let me set the scene,” he places his cards face down to use his hands for emphasis. “Back in the old country, about 1999,” he sighs, “a mid-wealth man lived with his dear sister and parents in a sorely rundown apartment in the middle of loving Prague,” he moves to call. “Now, this man worked in his father’s footsteps as a mortician. He worked long, arduous hours—comforting families, planning funerals and arrangements, stressing over said funerals and arrangements, and designing simple, pine-based coffins. He hated it. He was an intelligent man and knew as such, and as a young man of 19 years, he expected a higher education than that of the deceased. Still, he never complained, a great quality in a world such as ours, no?” His eyes sober as he looks around the table, at jovial tells and disgraced folds. His own cards aren’t great but he moves further still. “One day, I think late Saturday afternoon, he decides, ‘Hey, why not flit around the city for a bit?’ No work and no play and all that. So, he goes into the square and sees this group dancing. They’re beautiful—filled with grace and prowess and everything a man could dream of from a performance,” he places his cards down to show his hand, more of his essentially imaginary money moves to the pot.

Mat looks to June to ensure he’s still paying attention—he is, quite intently in fact. Mat, himself, was never particularly interested in it, but he found great joy in recounting.

So, he continues, “One dancer in particular catches his eye. And oh, do sparks fly between them when their eyes meet. Figurative fireworks and stars flit and fancy around them as they stare, oh, so lovingly into the other’s soul. She comes up to him,” he makes his voice slightly higher to impersonate the woman. “‘I caught a look of you staring,’ she says. He, of course, has no idea what she is saying. For two reasons: one, he is flustered beyond all means of communication and cannot bring himself to speak nor hear, and two, her mother tongue is much different than his own.” He takes a glance at his hand and raises the pot. He sighs, “I don’t remember how they compromise, but they do. They go on a swell walk around the city and, as you know, it’s love at first sight. How could they ever separate now? They don’t, really. Another man comes into the picture to court the man’s sister but other than that, they are happy. The two marry and have a child shortly after, his sister following suit.” His voice becomes fatigued and slightly bored. “They move to the United States on account of the sister’s husband’s job prospects—I’ll never understand why they followed, but they did—to New Jersey,” he turns to face June. “Now, I hate New Jersey. I moved away as soon as I could, there was no point for me there. And yet, I still go back every so often to check up, you know? I have no family there, but I…I feel this sort of…warmth. It envelops me like a cake in an oven—a flower in the desert with no chance of rain—a boy without a blanket on a hot summer’s night,” he stops to pick at the felt on the table. “And still, I go back,” he chuckles a little and gestures at himself. “As you can see.”

“I can,” June replies, sipping at a newly brought drink—one neither cares the name or taste of.

He pushes it towards Mat, making a motion with his head. 

Mat refuses with a wave, “No, I should finish my ‘tale’ of sorts.”

“Yeah, you do that.”

“You were interested before.”

“Yeah, then you started ranting about Jersey. How am I supposed to live with that?”

“Cope, dickhead, I’m going to finish.”

June snickers and shows his hand, “‘Finish’.”

Mat rolls his eyes and reveals his hand in turn. The river has graced neither of them. Someone else takes their chips and leaves. No new people join.

“So, these five live in Jersey—a little town near Waldwick—for a while. The man’s sister has a son as well. A real, native-born American—praise. The boy they had isn’t learning English like he should, but they’re okay with that as long as he has a translator. Sidebar: the kid knows English, he just hates it.”

“Telling.”

“Shut up and play the game,” he adjusts his position. “When the kid’s maybe…eight? I think it was eight. Something…happens and he’s living with his aunt—the man’s sister—uncle, and cousin.”

June calls and leans over to take one of Mat’s chips. Mat checks his phone, calls, and tries to carry on. 

He thinks of the rest of the story. He knows it well, by heart even. But he can’t bring himself to imagine it. Let alone, speak of it.

He stays silent for a few minutes, just sniffling every so often. June turns to look at him in the dim light of the overhead.

“I thought you said you were going to finish.”

Mat laughs and takes his sunglasses off to wipe his eyes, “Nah, the ending is too depressing, I don’t want to ruin the mood.”

“Let me do one then,” June places a hand on Mat’s shoulder in an attempt at comfort. “I’ll tell a story.”

“What, like you could do better?” Mat jokes and dries his eyes with his sleeves.

He pats him on the back, “You didn’t raise much of a bar.”

“I passed it, so who’s to say.”

“Wait, you’re a lawyer?” June asks. Mat gives a short nod. “Aw, man. That’s gonna be really helpful.”

“I live to serve,” Mat glances at his cards and folds. “Fold your cards. I have a feeling you can’t multitask.”

June frowns and grumbles, “I can multitask,” before folding his hand.

“Now, what are you going to tell me about?”

“Hm…Ooh! Ok,” he faces Mat and gestures for the latter to do the same. “Once upon a…three hours ago, I was hangin’ around the Jersey area, right?” Mat smirks a little and nods. “Right, so, backstory: in my younger days, I had a penchant for betting, gambling, and all kinds of card games, y’know? I was, like, really good. ‘Made bank. I haven’t played in awhile though, y’know, that one bad bet does a lot to your ego-”

“And your bank account.”

“Right! And your bank account. So, I’m like, ‘Aw, I shouldn’t go into this casino, it’ll ruin me.’ But, then I see this guy,” he taps Mat’s arm with the back of his hand. “And I decide, ‘hey, what’s the worst that can happen? One game won’t kill me.’ So, I follow him in, right? I start talking him up, he’s pretty cool, y’know, considering. And we start playing poker, right? He’s like- mega bad at it. Which sucks ‘cus I want to make him feel good about himself,” June pouted. “He looked so dour and sad.”

“I’m sure he didn’t look that forlorn,” Mat laughed.

“He did! You should’ve seen ‘im, Mat. Like a kicked puppy,” June nodded along to his own words. “Anyways, we’re playing and playing and I’m like, ‘Wow, this guy sucks at poker.’ So, I tell him, ‘hey, gimme a story.’ To see if he’s good at anything else.”

Mat huffs a gust of air out of his nose, “And is he?”

“Eh, he was pretty good in the first part. He started losing his prose after a while.”

“Understandable.”

“Yeah,” he folds his cards again, “After that, I dunno. Just needed to give ‘im something, y’know?”

“Yeah, I know,” he calls the previous bet. “Thanks, man.”

“No problem, guy,” June smiles and taps him on the shoulder with his knuckles.

They stay in a small, comforting silence for an indeterminate amount of time. Simply sitting at the table with the dealer and playing a losing game over and over. The rest of the players have left, taking their winnings and losses with them. All that is left is two men and their dwindling supply of chips.

Mat taps his cards against the table, flitting his eyes up to vaguely meet June’s, “I don’t think guy is that bad at poker, by the way.”

“Really?” June shows his hand off.

“Really,” Mat supplies, showing his own as well. “I think he just wanted the other guy to feel good about playing too. I think he just wanted to hang out.”

“Well,” June leans his body against Mat’s, “maybe they should hang out where they don’t lose a bunch of money.”

“Maybe,” Mat leans his head on June’s and closes his eyes. “How long will you be around?”

“As long as I want.”

“Wanna get out of here?”

June smiles and takes Mat’s hand in his, “Yeah.”

They get up, Mat grabbing the few chips they have left and stops by the front desk to exchange them, June waits expectantly outside the front doors.

“How much didja get?” he asks, petting his mustache thoughtlessly.

“Like,” he flips through the small stack, “twelve bucks.”

June takes six dollars from the stack and tucks it into the inside of Mat’s suit, giving it a pat, “Your share.”

Mat crinkles his nose and smiles with an eye roll, “What can we do with 12 dollars on a Thursday night at…” he checks the time on his phone, “3:17 a.m.?”

“I know a great Walmart we can loiter,” June says, holding his hand out to Mat.

Mat takes it and bows, “What a gentleman.”

June smiles and wanders with the other in tow. He looks into Mat’s eyes, baring into the reflective lenses of the sunglasses he continues to wear. “Those people in your story…what were their names–? Their– their son’s name.”

Mat lifts the sunglasses atop his head, the dark brown of his eyes sparkle against the lights of the barely open casino, “His name was Vít. Vít Pohřby, if you’re asking for a lawyer.”

“Vít,” June repeats. “I think I like that better than Mat.”

Vít chuckles and rubs the back of his neck, he looks at June, “What about your guy? That first-person character?”

“Eh,” June swats the question away. “His name is too long. June is easier for people.”

“Ah, c’mon, give me a taste,” Vít leans into him, “I’ve been told I can be quite acquireable to these things.”

June scrunches his nose and relents, “Fine,” he laments. “The full name is Talib Efraim Shahzad Binyomin Haris Mattityahu Basim Elchanan Al-Hashim, Jr.”

“A real mouthful. How’d you come up with it?”

“Got indecisive, I guess.”

“I like it,” Vít determines. “It fits you.”

“Really?”

“Really. Now, c’mon, let’s walk around the city.”

Talib smiles, and grasps Vít’s hand a little tighter, “Cool.”