Dead Man’s Hand

We took drags off Marlboro Lights out on the basketball court before the next round of Texas Hold ‘Em started. Ken looked at me blankly and said, “So what would you do if I fucked Alli?”

“I would fucking kill you. That’s what I would do,” I said.

“Okay, but if she was the one that was interested in me and you are such a courtly love motherfucker, wouldn’t it be hypocritical for you to deny her happiness?”

“Go fuck yourself, Ken,” I said, and we went inside to play poker. One thing I knew for sure is that Ken would never break code and make a move on Alli. He knew I was in love with her. Ken was a gamer, but he was no scoundrel.

Ken was dealing to his left doling out two hold cards to each of us. Erik and Cochen anted up the blinds. “You’re bet, Duke,” Ken said. My name is Doug, but back then everyone called me Duke. I drew double sixes. I raised. Christian folded. Four of us were left. But it always came down to Ken and me. Ken raised again. Ken was holding paint.

The three of us all called. Cigarette smoke hung to the roof of Ken’s garage and mixed with the smell of grease on his father’s workbench. Metallica was playing loudly and rattling the wrenches on the workbench.

No one could convince us that the bonds that held us so tightly to each other would unravel in just a few years or that each of us would betray the others in some way or another. Truth be told, we were tale-telling snitches, double-dealing opportunists, and manipulative tricksters one and all. But we saw no hypocrisy in our certainty that we deserved the happy endings we were all sure were waiting for us just around the bend. We were the good ones. Life was going to work out. We were betting on it.

Ken dealt the flop. Three, four, six. I was holding the Devil’s Hand—6-6-6—and looking at a possible straight. Some called it the Dead Man’s Hand after old Wild Bill, who met his demise after picking up a pot on trip-sixes back in the wild west days. But I wasn’t superstitious.

Ken and I met in AP Physics. But Ken was born with low expectations. He worked at the meat counter at Murphy’s Supermarket along with Erik, Cochen, and Christian, and very well might still be there in five years. Erik was a cashier, Cochen stocked shelves, and Christian was in the seafood department. It was a small fraternity. Ken was their leader. But there was something else going on too, something dark, as if Ken knew he had committed a crime and could be caught any time—like every day was just borrowed time.

Then came Fourth Street. An Ace. Tricky. If anyone was holding bullets or ducks, they could be looking at a straight. That would beat three of a kind, but not a full house. I decided to bet on picking up some high society off the river. No problem. It was the bet that I’d been making my whole life. I knew Ken was holding paint. Probably jacks or queens. I wasn’t sure if they were paired or split. Erik and Cochen were scenery at this point. Sorry boys.

“All-in,” I said. Erik and Cochen immediately tossed their cards in the burn pile, theatrically voicing their frustration and lighting up stogies.

“You sure you don’t want to see the river,” Ken said.

“Don’t need to,” I said, lying.

“Call,” Ken said.

Then he flipped the river. Three of hearts. Isn’t it always?

“Don’t tell me,” Ken said. “Full House.”

“Sixes over threes,” I said, turning over my cards.

“You dirty fucking river rat,” Ken said. “Let’s take a break.”

“Aren’t you forgetting something,” I said.

Ken started throwing cash at me a few crumpled bills at a time.

* * *

Beginner’s luck. You know that feeling. When you have the hot hand, and everything is coming up aces? You just run with it. It’s easy to believe you’re just that good. That’s how they get their hooks into you. Every addict knows that feeling.

That’s how it started with Alli.

There she was, randomly assigned to the seat right in front of mine in AP Physics. This angel-faced, taut-bodied, bohemian princess. Her curly blonde hair framed a set of pale blue eyes electrified with a joie de vivre. She wore jeans overalls over top of a baggie white long-sleeve shirt. The irises of her pale blue eyes flamed out like exploding fractals of pure hydrogen.

“Hey, Duke?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m not really following this whole inertia versus entropy thing.”

“Really. Remember the lecture last semester on fugacity? How gases tend to flee when the pressure gradient isn’t holding them in place. Like how hot air rises to areas of lower pressure. Entropy is kind of like that. The whole universe is dissipating. Frittering away.”

“Okay, Einstein. You think we could meet up after school and you could help me with these practice problems?”

“Sure. I’ve got to take my brother to the mall. Want to tag along and we’ll discuss it on the way? We can stop at the diner and do some practice problems after?”

“It’s a date,” Alli said.

Beginner’s luck. I thought Alli gave a shit about physics practice problem sets. I never guessed she was just putting herself in my orbit. Alli was always being caught up in the winds of some high adventure or dramatic pursuit. A real hopeless romantic. She had an addict’s heart.

I only ever kissed Alli once. It was a few days after our first date. We were back at the diner “doing homework.” Alli was pining after some junior in college. She said all the things girls say. How she was done with dating, wanted a nice guy, who treated her right, blah, blah, blah. And I didn’t know any better. I believed her.

In my infinite 20-year-old wisdom, I took this opening as a chance to try to impress her with my knowledge of ancient philosophy and metaphysics. I know. I know. But, hey, I had the hot hand. After all, inertia is inert.

“I’ve got an idea, let’s consult the I Ching.”

“The what?”

“The Chinese Book of Changes. I’ve been reading it lately, and you can use it for fortune-telling. All you need is to flip a few coins.”

I came around and sat next to Alli in the booth and pulled three pennies out of my pocket.

“What do I do?” Alli asked.

“You’ve got to ask a question, then you are going to throw these three pennies, and we will see what it says. Three for heads, two for tails. Six tosses.”

Tails, Heads, Tails (young yang line)

Heads, Tails, Heads (young yin line)

Tails, Tails, Tails, (old yin line)

Heads, Tails, Tails (young yang line)

Tails, Heads, Heads (young yin line)

Heads, Tails, Heads (young yin line)

____ ____

____ ____

_________

____ ____

____ ____

_________

I started reading from Hexagram 51, Jolt: “One hears thunder unexpectedly… the shock can be disorienting like a falling tree that lands in your path and startles you… courage lies in following the signs and taking the unexpected path… all the world is changing and all inside you is changing…”

Alli looked up and met my eyes. Jolt received. I heard the thunderclap. I felt the felled tree in my path. I leaned in and kissed her. And she kissed me back.

As I pulled back and looked at her, her cheeks flushed, and she pursed her lips as if tasting the kiss all over again.

“That was unexpected,” she said.

I am fucked, I thought.

And I was—good and fucked.

* * *

Ken and Alli were taking me to Bally’s in Atlantic City for my 21st birthday. There’s the problem right there. “Ken and Alli.” What was my best friend doing talking to the girl I’ve been chasing, about me, without me in the middle of the conversation? Even if it was for my benefit. The idea was to blow off some steam, crush it on the poker tables, get good and sloppy on my first night of legal drinking age, and make it a night to remember.

Walking into Bally’s casino, everything flashed, glowed, beeped, or chirped. The slot machines rang with jangly music, spinning reels, loud beeps, and chimes. Old and ailing bodies slumped and slouched over slot machines with plastic chip buckets close at hand. Bent heads and curved necks were glued to screens. Different colors of electronic lights reflected from their cheeks and foreheads. Bucket hats, sports caps, baggy Hawaiian shirts, huge-framed readers, tacky sunglasses, and canes were popular accessories at the slots.

Ken and Alli were doting on me like two proud parents, and Ken kept looking over at Alli and saying things like, “Our boy is all grown up” or “Let’s keep a close eye on our boy.” He kept annoyingly ruffling my hair and I kept punching him back in response. “Quit it, fucker.” And Alli was giggling like all of Ken’s jokes were funny. It was weird.

When Alli eyed up some handbags in the window of a store, Ken called her a “label whore” and when an older man came up and complimented her eyes, he called her a “gold digger.” This sudden condescending and dismissive tone was pissing me off. I didn’t think much of it, but maybe Ken and Alli were playing cards, and I just wasn’t paying attention.

There are no clocks in Bally’s. You can win or lose at any time. Without warning. On the casino floor, the blinking and blaring of lights continued unceasingly. No windows either. Time and nature existed outside the hard rectangular walls. In here, there were only zero-sum games, and you had no choice but to give the devil his due.

I should have been happy to be with two of my favorite people, out for a crazy, wild night. Making memories. But I wasn’t. If I had graduated to manhood, I guess some things were going to change. But, at that moment, walking into the casino like Ken and I had so many nights before—it no longer felt like our thing. I remembered all the nights celebrating at the Carousel Bar and quoting lines from Rounders, imagining Ken as the “Worm” to my McDermott. I thought of all the time I’d spent with Alli being strung along. I thought of all their giggling on the drive up and as we made our way to the tables, I started getting a little bit queasy.

Winners had retired to the Carousel Bar where they clinked glasses and counted their money. Well-dressed young players just back from a night at the club and zombified grinders in hoodies with dark circles occupied the craps, baccarat, roulette, poker, and blackjack tables.

The green, black, red, and blue felt gave the impression of something clean and safe. And the pit bosses in their tidy suits oozed a feeling of order and consistency. But they looked tired and indifferent as if they were aging fates whose graying hairs and furrowed brows had left them disinterested in the outcome of the sweepstakes of life. The roulette wheel glistened and spun and gave a crisp rhythmic clicking sound as the announcer barked instructions. “The odds are ever in your favor,” the dealer joked. Ha! Not even close.

Ken and I sat down at the $100 Texas Hold ‘Em table. The two of us started amassing chips while Alli cheered the two of us on. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her put a hand on Ken’s shoulder. Ken was getting the best of it, but I was up about $2,000, which wasn’t bad for an hour of work. Ken nodded at me, and we closed out. Both of us were up big. As we always did, we retired to the Carousel Bar, strutting in like two warring kings who came home owning entire countrysides, with more bounty than we knew what to do with.

Sitting at the bar, the big-breasted waitress with the push-up bra and sized-down black button-down to complete the look started us off with a round of kamikaze shooters for the occasion and followed that up with a second round. Before long, Alli was laughing and telling stories in her husky voice that oozed with a sultry, delicious unspoken pledge that she could fulfill your desires. Instead of plucking the harp strings of my heart, the affectation suddenly grated something inside of me and made me want to be far away from her.

Alli came up and put her arm around me and kissed me on the cheek.

“Happy Birthday! How does it feel, tiger?” she asked.

“Winning, you mean?”

“No, silly. Being a man. Of drinking age.”

“Oh, that. I mean, it’s great, but I’ve been drinking at bars for years, so it’s old hat, really.”

“Okay, big man.”

“Hey, where did Ken go?”

“He’s going to check in to take our bags up. I’m actually going up with him, you want to come with?”

“I’m going to go to the cage and cash out my chips. Meet you back here in twenty?”

“Sure thing, baby,” Alli said, striding off like she was floating.

* * *

After cashing out, I ordered another kamikaze and drank alone. Then ordered up a straight vodka shooter to speed things up. It sliced my throat like a glass full of knives.

21-years-old. And living the dream. I began to think that Ken and Alli had been gone for a while. The bitter vodka and sour lime stung my lips. Sitting next to me was a woman in a black dress with bright red lipstick.

“You come here often,” she said.

“First time.”

“Oh, wow. I didn’t think I recognized you.”

“Yeah, I’m just about to go look for my friends.”

She turned her head, matched my gaze, and put a hand on my thigh.

“Well, love. If you want some company, come, and find me. I’ll be here all night.”

I looked back at her, drinking a martini by herself, and thought that it was strange for her to be so upfront. It only dawned on me later that she was working.

* * *

The thing about having the nuts is you’ve got to convince the other players you don’t have the nuts. Zero-sum games are like that. There’s one winner and a bunch of schmucks. You are rewarded for subterfuge, deceit, and sharp tactics. It’s the law of the jungle. When you have the nuts, you slit throats and you don’t apologize. Hell, they’d slit yours with a smile on their face and laugh at your misfortune.

Miss your chance and it’s a good bet you’ll be dealt deadwood for the rest of the shoe. And then you’re fucked. Spending the whole time regretting not having the balls to take what you wanted. And that’s how it goes with the nuts. They are fickle and coquettish and like to make the rounds. What a fucking shitty god to live for? Right?

I swiped the key card for the room and opened the door slowly. I heard giggling.

“Ken, Alli,” I said.

The two of them shot up in the far bed and Ken banged his head on the headboard and fell off the side of the bed, catching his weight with his right leg. At least he was clothed, I thought, noticing he had his jeans on.

“For fuck’s sake, are you serious?” I said.

“Duke,” Alli called after me. But I was halfway down the hall.

My head was spinning like the slots. My best friend and my best gal. On my birthday. Busted and drawing deadwood. I’m out.

I bought a few mini-shooters at the store, got a glass of ice on the casino floor, and went into the bathroom. I took a look at myself in the mirror. What the fuck was wrong with me?

I poured the Vodka over the ice and gulped it down. The rush of hot air hit my head. A blinding wave of fugacity. My nose started bleeding and I let some of it go right into my glass, muddying the vodka in dark red swirls. Then held my nose, applied some pressure, and finished off the vodka.

I made my way back to the Carousel Bar.

“What’s your name,” I asked.

“Stella.”

I just leaned in and kissed her. She didn’t move. She just kissed me back softly and seductively, pulling slightly away as I pushed into her.

“You want to buy me a drink?”

“What’s in it for me?” I asked.

“I guess you’ll have to find out.”

After she drank a few sips of her cocktail, I took her hand and we walked to the elevator. She told me to push the top floor. She led me into a giant room, a suite with a living room, a piano, a round jacuzzi, and a bar.

“You got money, hunny?”

“I’m tapped out.”

“This one’s on the house,” she said.

“Wait… you’re…”

“Yeah baby, I’m an escort.”

“Oh no, I’m out,” I said, walking out the door.

“Don’t get sore, baby. We’re all for sale.”

I walked out on the boardwalk. A blast of cold March air hit me in the face.

I started walking toward the bus terminal by the outlets.

We were all addicts. I guess everyone is. I’d known that. Ken was a gamer. Letting it ride. Asking for that bad beat. And Alli was a hopeless romantic. Chasing those sweeping tides.

And I was playing a Dead Man’s Hand. You might take the pot if you were lucky. Like old Wild Bill. But you’d be left with deadwood all the way home.

It was time to sober up.