By Doog © 2007
The sun peeked through the tinted, slightly misty windows of the house as the door opened in the far wall of the large room. Rose composed herself, and stood up straight in amongst her sisters as Keeper approached carrying a large plastic container. Keeper gently gathered Rose and all of her sisters into the container, securing them snugly. Rose was pleased that there was plenty of water for everyone to drink.
With a slight jostle, the container was lifted and carried toward the door. Rose's heart pounded with anticipation, a strange mix of exhilaration and fear of the unknown coursing through her veins. Keeper opened the door and stepped through into the world outside.
Wow! It sure is bright, Rose thought. And hot, too. Rose took a quick drink of water to slake her thirst, and turned to look at the soft orange hues of the sun rising over the distant desert mountains. The visual spectacle of her first actual sunrise overwhelmed her; along with her sisters, she stood speechless gazing at the beauty of the vista as Keeper carried the container to a small wheeled house, opened the rear door, and gently placed the container inside. The door was closed, and Rose and her sisters breathlessly chatted amongst themselves about that awe-inspiring glimpse of the sunrise. They all wondered what other surprises the day held in store.
A low hum sounded and the wheeled house began vibrating. With a lurch, the house began moving, first slowly, then more quickly, Rose and her sisters jostling in their container. After an period of time, the jostling slowed, and then finally stopped. The door leading to the outside was opened by Keeper, and Rose and her sisters were carried towards a completely different house. Rose again sipped some water, and turned to stare wide-eyed at this new house.
It was huge. It had to have been the biggest house in the world. The towers of the house were etched against the morning sky, the stone exterior bathed in the soft morning light, with long shadows from the pointed tower across the street cast across the courtyard. There was a huge lake in front of the house with water fountains dancing in unison to an unseen rhythm. Rose craned her head to see the rotunda at the upper levels of the house, and saw the name of the house proudly displayed there. She squinted a little to make out the letters – Bellagio. That's a very pretty name, Rose thought.
With a swoosh, Keeper carried Rose and her sisters through an automatic revolving door and into an exquisitely decorated room. It was a very large room, with highly polished floor and well-crafted decorations adorning the walls and ceiling. There was a long counter on one side of the room across which people were chatting, conducting business of some sort. To the other side of the room was an opening to a huge cavern filled with more people than Rose had ever seen intermingled with countless blinking, beeping machines. In the center of the entry room, beneath a breathtaking artistic sculpture suspended from the ceiling, stood a huge display case. Keeper carried Rose and her sisters toward the case and gently placed each of them in their designated place. Again, Rose was pleased to find that there was plenty of water for everyone to drink. All of this excitement had made her thirsty, so she took yet another sip. She saw Keeper sign his name to a piece of paper and turn and walk back out the turning door. Rose was a bit unnerved – surely Keeper would not leave them, would he? He'd never do that, Rose thought to herself. He's always taken care of us – he'll be back in a bit to take us back to our house, I'm sure of it.
Rose turned her attention to her surroundings, particularly the people walking by. Right away she noticed the differences in demeanor of the people walking in opposite directions. Those entering through the turning doors, dragging their wheeled containers behind them, walked with an excited bounce in their step and a gleam in their eye. They impatiently waited in the line to speak with the uniformed people on the other side of the long counter, and when they were done, they rushed off to a hallway labeled Elevators – whatever that meant. However, the people who were walking in the opposite direction with their wheeled containers walked much more slowly, their gazes fixed upon the burnished granite floor as they shuffled toward the rotating exit. This must be a fabulous place, thought Rose, if people are so excited to come here and so sad to leave. What is it about this Bellagio house that so excites the people?
Rose thought that question over for a while, then she though that perhaps the answer lay in the huge hall with all the machines. She began to closely watch the machines and how the people interacted with them. The first thing she noticed were the smiles – all of the people looked so happy! But the closer she looked, the more unnerved she became by the smiles. They just didn't look real! They were fixed in place, as if they had been painted onto each face. Rose began to look closely at the people's eyes. Almost all were fixed in their gaze, almost glassy-eyed, yet deep within their expressions, hidden very deep, Rose glimpsed a manic desperation. It was as if each of them were being inexorably pushed toward the edge of an unseen cliff by an irresistible, invisible hand, but they could not bring themselves to step away from that hand, instead allowing themselves to be pushed over the edge inch by inch, smiling the whole way, pretending to be happy. A new thought struck Rose. Are the departing people sad because they are leaving, or are they sad because they came in the first place?
As she contemplated that question, Rose looked around the display case. Wait a minute, she thought. There were more of us a minute ago. Where did my sisters go? As she set out to search for them, she saw a chilling sight; a person walked up to the display case, seized one of Rose's sisters, and walked away! Worse yet, none of the people were concerned, or doing anything about the kidnapping!
At that moment, the awful truth hit Rose. Keeper wasn't coming back. Rose and her sisters, beautiful as they were, were simply ornamental decoration for this room, and also gifts to any of the people who wanted to take possession. Rose began to watch the passersby much more closely, wondering if there was some way that she could try to escape this fate, hoping that if her destiny was to have a new Keeper that at least it would be a nice Keeper like the last one was.
One person walked up to the case, and Rose shrunk back – he smelled strongly of a mélange of perfume and cigarette smoke and had way too much jewelry on. She didn't think he would be a good keeper. Thankfully, he didn't select Rose, though she felt sorry for the sister that was picked. Another passerby seized one of Rose's sisters, and again Rose was glad that she was not the one picked. That woman made strange, incomprehensible sounds with her mouth. What does 'estas flores son hermosas' mean, anyways? thought Rose.
Suddenly, Rose felt a strong, yet gentle hand seize her and lift her from the case. She was frightened, since she hadn't even seen this person approach – she had no idea what kind of person it was! She peeked behind her and saw a pleasant-looking man with a relaxed expression on his kind face, and she immediately felt better. Not that you can tell just by looking at a face, but somehow she instinctively knew that this was going to be a good Keeper, and that she would be happy. He approached a woman and Rose was passed from His hand to Hers. She was a beautiful woman, her earth-toned clothing accentuating her smooth, dark skin. It was clear that Rose was to be a gift from Him to Her; this pleased Rose very much. She felt the love between her new Keepers, and she was proud to be a part of that love.
Excitedly, Rose looked forward to the next adventure in this already monumental day. Rose's new Keepers meandered through the cavern with all of the machines, though They did not sit down and interact with any of them. This allowed Rose a more detailed examination of the people sitting in front of the machines, and examination which only served to reinforce her earlier impression. These machines had power over these people. Most of the people looked like they wanted to stand up and walk away, to escape from the control of the machines, but just when they most wanted to get up and walk away, their will crumbled and they reached into their pockets for more green paper to feed into the machines. Rose was glad that her Keepers were not slaves of the machines.
As Rose was gently carried through the cavern, He told Her that He wanted to visit a place called the Poker Room. Rose did not know what that meant, but she was excited to find out. They walked to a quiet place in the back of the cavern where people were clustered around tables absently fondling clay discs while another person distributed laminated pieces of paper to each person, and methodically laid more of the laminated pieces of paper on the felt table surface. Rose was not sure what was happening, but she noticed that both He and She were entranced by the proceedings. Every now and then the quiet hum of the area would be broken by a loud exclamation, either of triumph or disgust, usually accompanied by a large pile of clay discs being pushed towards one person. At last, Rose realized that it was a game of some sort, though by looking at the people's faces it was hard to tell if anyone was having any fun. In a few of the eyes she saw the same manic gleam as in the machine-slaves. These people tended to have the fewest of the discs in front of them. Rose wondered if that was a coincidence.
After a while, They left with Rose. Rose could tell that He really wanted to play the game, and so did She to a lesser extent. But He mentioned something about a show, and also something called an anniversary, which Rose assumed to mean that they would not be playing the game right then. Rose wasn't saddened by that, since she wanted to explore more of this marvelous Bellagio house anyways.
As They walked back through the cavern and down a meandering avenue with stores and boutiques on either side, She periodically held Rose to Her face and inhaled deeply, smelling Rose's sweet fragrance. Rose tried hard to open herself to allow Her to smell her sweetness, figuring that it would be best to try to please her new Keepers as much as possible. Her Keeper seemed to appreciate Rose's efforts, so much so that She occasionally caressed Her neck and face with Rose's soft, velvety petals. This Keeper's skin was so very soft, and pleasant to the touch, Rose thought. Rose was very pleased that She seemed to enjoy the feel of Rose on Her skin as well. Rose was getting a bit thirsty though. I wonder when They will give me some water to drink? Rose wondered.
Before long They stepped through a door to the outside. Rose was a bit startled that They would be leaving that marvelous Bellagio house, but by now she trusted her Keepers enough to believe that They would not place her in harm's way. In fact, Rose got excited to think about all of the wonderful new sights and sounds she was sure to experience in all of the other wonderful houses that she saw around.
And see them she did. Rose was carried through several wonderful houses. One was named Paris after a city far away, and another was named Venetian after another distant city where people rode in boats and sang loudly in a strange language. Rose accompanied her Keepers to see a spectacle called Le Rêve, whatever that meant, in a house called Wynn, whatever that meant. The show was enjoyable, featuring all kinds of marvelous sights and sounds, but the whole time Rose was getting thirstier and thirstier. Her Keepers procured something to drink for Themselves; it looked somewhat like water but was a different color and had some ice floating in it and smelled funny. Rose was tempted to taste that liquid, not because she was curious (it really smelled bad) but more due to her increasing thirst. However, They never offered any to Rose, not even a taste. Rose began to feel a little bit tired and worn – surely her Keepers would notice that and get her something to drink. Surely right after the conclusion of the show They would get her some water. Right?
Rose began to worry when, at the conclusion of the show, They immediately headed for the exit of the Wynn house. Why couldn't They just get her some water? It was getting hard to hold her head up high, as her original Keeper had taught her was the most beautiful. Rose wanted so badly to please her new Keepers, but it was proving to be very difficult, as thirsty as she was.
The Keepers left the Wynn house and waited in a line for a small rolling house called a taxi. They got into their taxi house, and Rose became excited when she realized that They were taking her to Their own house. While they were in the taxi, though, Rose was a bit unnerved when She put Rose down on the seat while They commenced touching Their mouths together and clutching Their bodies close together. Rose felt a little bit left out, but she figured that this was a personal ritual between her new Keepers and left it at that. Rose did notice that the driver of the taxi house spent more time looking in the mirror that he did at the path upon which he was directing the taxi, and Rose felt a little bit unsafe. Thankfully the taxi house arrived at Their house without incident.
Rose noticed that this house was not as nice as the Bellagio house or the Venetian house or the Paris house. It was quite a bit smaller, and it was not located directly on the primary thoroughfare where all the rest of the huge houses were. With a supreme effort, Rose fought through her dehydration to lift her head and see the name of the house. At the top of the house in flashing orange lights was the name of the house: Hooters. That's an odd name for a house, Rose thought. I wonder if it's a city somewhere, too?
The cavern of the Hooters house was much smaller than the other caverns, but it too was filled with the same machines and the same slaves sitting in front of the machines with the same resigned yet desperate look in their eyes. To be honest, most of the cavern was a blur, since Rose could only focus on her thirst. All she needed was some water – couldn't her Keepers see that?
Rose was carried to the hallway labeled elevators, where some doors opened to a small room that began to rise when the doors closed. So that's an elevator, Rose thought through her thirst. Rose was certain that when They got to Their room in this house and saw how thirsty Rose was They would give her something to drink right away, and then she would be just fine. Rose was dimly aware of her Keepers again touching mouths and pressing close against each other in the elevator, and she hoped that her Keepers weren't too distracted to remember to give her something to drink.
The elevator room stopped, and the doors opened. Rose was carried down a long corridor lined with numbered doors, and then her Keepers stopped at one of the doors. He put a plastic card into a slot in the door, and after a beep and a flash of a green light They stepped into the room. It was very dim; the only illumination was the outside light that entered the room around the edges of the curtain.
Rose desperately looked around the room for the water, but was shocked when she was dropped onto a table. Her Keepers quickly removed their clothing and climbed into the bed, while Rose's thirst overcame her. Rose's head drooped off the edge of the table, and the room seemed to grow even dimmer as she heard the sounds of rustling sheets and animal moans from the direction of the bed. Rose's petals, usually so lush and velvety, felt dried and withered; Rose gasped in shock as an outer petal detached and fluttered to the floor. Slowly, one by one, more petals fell to the floor like tears, as Rose suffered in thirsty torment.
So this is what it's like, Rose thought. This day started with such promise, such hope. And it almost looked as if I would actually be happy. As if something good would happen to me. Now here I lay, used and discarded, weeping sad tears, lamenting what could have been, what should have been. Now I see that I'm just like them – just like the slaves of the machines. I have no control; I'm powerless over my own destiny. I thought I had a chance with these Keepers, but they're just like all the rest. Just like everybody else in this place – this city called Las Vegas.
Rose wept into the night, and by morning she was no more.
Doog lives in California, is married with two young children, is a complete donk of a poker player while being a kick-ass poker blogger. He's also the most modest, humble person you'll ever meet, should you have the esteemed privilege.
Showing posts with label Doog. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Doog. Show all posts
June 13, 2007
January 03, 2007
The Reunion
By Doog © 2006
Sean Hartman's hand trembled slightly, causing the razor pressed against his neck to scrape off a small piece of flesh. A fleck of blood appeared, and Sean cursed out loud.
"Shit."
Sean tore off a corner of a square of toilet paper, and stuck it to the wound. A red spot of blood appeared in the middle of the makeshift bandage.
Just what I need, he thought to himself. Showing up looking like a pimple-faced teenager.
That thought evoked a short chuckle. Well, I was a pimple-faced teenager the last time I saw these people. At least now they'll recognize me without that awkward name-badge-scanning moment.
As Sean finished shaving, he looked his reflection in the eyes. Why do I really care? he asked himself. I haven't seen any of them since graduation. Hell, I haven't even talked to any of them on the phone – or even tried to look them up, for that matter. So why am I so fucking nervous?
Sean splashed a bit of aftershave on his face and neck too soothe the irritated skin, and winced involuntarily as the liquid burned the nick on his neck. He stepped from the bathroom into the bedroom of his hotel suite and began to get dressed, that unsettling question ringing in his head. He finished getting ready and closed the hotel door behind him, still searching for the answer.
---
Sean checked his watch as he pulled into the parking lot. 5:57 PM. A fastidiously punctual person, he was sure he was one of the very first arrivals. He parked his car and walked into the hotel lobby, looking for the signs directing him to the correct ballroom.
Eschewing the elevators, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor, pleased that he was not even slightly out of breath from the minor exertion. I bet most of these fat-asses would be gasping for air, he smiled to himself.
Any sense of false bravado evaporated as he approached the ballroom entrance. The large sign mounted next to the ceiling-height double doors read:
"Ah, Mr. Hartman, welcome." The disinterested hotel employee scanned the guest list. "You have been assigned to table twelve. You may check your coat over there."
He gestured vaguely with his hand toward a corner of the cavernous ballroom. He flipped through a stack of preprinted sticky-back name tags, selected the correct one, and handed it to Sean.
"Please wear this. Have a good time."
Sean took the proffered name tag, mumbled a polite, "Thank you," and stepped into the room.
The Grand Ballroom was tastefully decorated, the subdued lighting enhancing the casual, elegant feel of the space. Forty-odd large circular tables dominated the floor space; each was covered with linen tablecloths and ten place-settings of decent-quality china. A tall candle was burning in the center of each table, surrounded by an attractive floral arrangement. Along the far right wall, a parquet dance floor was set in front of a slightly raised dais, where a five-piece band was playing soft instrumental melodies. To the left was the coat check, and at the rear of the room stood a buffet table with mounds of appetizers. To the left of the buffet table, in the far corner, was the bar. The room was mostly vacant, a small knot of people gathered between the bar and the appetizers.
Sean checked his coat and searched for his assigned seat. He located table twelve and spotted the folded name card, "S. Hartman." He quickly glanced at the other name cards on the table, and didn't recognize any. He saw three sets of cards with matching last names, and Sean suddenly wished that his wife was there with him. At least there would be one person I'd know here, he thought. What was I thinking when I decided to come by myself?
He and his wife had discussed the issue at length, and in the end they had decided that it would be too hard on Jeff to fly cross-country for just a weekend. He was not quite yet two, after all. Neither was leaving the baby behind with a sitter for a weekend an option, considering his health issues. Sean had wanted to simply dismiss the invitation, but his wife suggested, and then insisted, that he could go on his own. She had eventually persuaded him to go, but a part of him wondered if, deep down, he had wanted to be persuaded to go alone all along.
Now, looking at his solitary name card on the table, the same thought gnawed at him once again. Still unsettled, Sean headed for the bar to find a liquid solution to his disquieting thoughts.
---
After a small plate of hors d'oeuvres, and halfway through his second scotch on the rocks, Sean was feeling much better. He had found two of his old chums, Todd and Billy (who now went by William, under pain of immediate ass-kicking), and the three of them were reliving their high school days.
"You remember physics class?" Todd asked.
"Mr. James!" Sean and William exclaimed in unison.
"Man, I don't know how he didn't kick us out of that class."
"I know. All we ever did was sit at that lab table in the back of the class and play paper football."
"Remember that time you kicked the field goal and it flew all the way to the next table and hit Jimmy Frederick in the face? That was fuckin' hilarious..."
"Yeah, Mr. James was pretty pissed about that one. God, remember we used to play cards all the time in his class too."
Todd looked at Sean. "Dude... you always kicked our ass. It didn't matter what game we played, you always handed us our lunch. Do you still play cards at all?"
Sean shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "Yeah, every now and then," he replied noncommittally.
William interrupted. "Oh shit... remember the bowling ball? Remember? Mr. James was trying to demonstrate wavelength frequency or amplitude or some shit and he hung that bowling ball from the ceiling? And he got that fucker goin', and it broke the ceiling grid bar and went flying across the room and fuckin' destroyed that cabinet? That was some funny fuckin' shit!"
The three of them laughed together at the memory. As Sean took a sip of his drink, over the rim of his glass he spied a woman tentatively walking into the ballroom, looking around nervously. She was dressed in a red, floor-length, strapless evening gown that accentuated every pleasing curve of her body. Her hair was pulled back and upswept, accentuating her long, sensual neck and bare shoulders. Even from across the room, Sean immediately knew who she was. Laura Mitchell.
His throat constricted, Sean had to forcibly swallow his drink, the alcohol searing his esophagus. His hands began to tremble, he became light-headed and he felt his face begin to flush.
"Ex... excuse me guys," he stammered. "I'll be right back... gotta find the little boy's room."
Sean made his way through a side doorway. The restroom was thankfully deserted, and Sean locked himself in a stall and sat down on the toilet seat.
"Get ahold of yourself, man!" he chastised himself. "What's wrong with you?!"
He began some deep-breathing techniques his therapist had taught him. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Experience release through the breath, exhaling all stress and anxiety and disharmony, ridding the body and mind of the negative. The mind is void of all thought, all emotion. Feel the sweet, pure nothingness enter the body and mind with each inhalation.
Once again in control, Sean put his head in his hands, closed his eyes, and gave in to the flood of memories.
It was his junior year, Mrs. Garamond's trig class. Laura Mitchell sat in the seat right in front of him, and every day he thanked God or Buddha or whatever Supreme Being had arranged for him to be so near to her every day. Perfect Laura, with her perfect long, straight, chestnut-brown hair, perfect olive-colored skin that hinted at an exotic ancestral heritage, perfect large coffee-brown doe eyes, and a perfect smile that Sean could feel all the way to his toes. Laura the cheerleader, member of the debate team and student body, universally adored by students and faculty. Sean remembered countless lectures spent leaning forward on his desk, chin in hands, eyes closed, lost in the wonderful smell of her hair.
Jesus, that makes me feel like a pervert, Sean thought. I hope she doesn't talk to me. Like, what do I say? 'Hi, you probably don't remember me, but I'm the guy who sat behind you in math class and sniffed your hair.' Sure, that'll go over well.
Sean took a last deep breath, stood and exited the toilet stall. He splashed some cold water on his face, and examined himself in the mirror. Just go out there, enjoy reminiscing with your friends, and leave, he told himself. Don't think about her. She doesn't even know who you are, anyways. She didn't then, and she doesn't now.
Sean dried his hands, and walked out the door. He made his way down the small hallway and toward the ballroom. As he walked through the open doorway, a figure walking the other way through the doorway ran squarely into him. Sean felt an ice-cold drink spill on his shirt, chilling the left side of his chest.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" the offender blurted out.
Sean's heart again leapt into his throat. Laura!
"Oh, it's okay... it... it's nothing really..." he stammered. "I'll just go clean this up."
Sean wheeled around and walked briskly back to the men's room, feeling his face flush once again.
Laura chased after him. "Oh my God! I'm so, so sorry... I was just heading to the restroom and I wasn't looking where I was going... I'm really sorry!" she lamented.
Sean glanced over his shoulder and mustered a brief smile. "It's okay, really. No problem. Excuse me..."
Sean quickly escaped into the safe haven of the men's room. As the door closed behind him, Sean began to dry off his shirt. Great. Just great, he thought to himself. She must think I'm more of a klutz than I was in high school.
When he was finished drying his shirt, Sean again scrutinized his reflection. Satisfied that everything was in place, and that the dark spot on his shirt was only barely noticeable, he headed for the door. He was determined not to let his embarrassment show, or remain with him for the rest of the evening. He opened the door, and stopped short. Laura was waiting for him in the hallway.
"Geez, Sean, I am so sorry," she said again, her eyes expressing her anguish.
"No prob...," Sean stopped short.
"You okay?"
"Um... yeah," Sean stammered. "I'm just surprised that you remember me, that's all."
Laura laughed. "Mrs. Garamond's trigonometry class, right?"
Sean nodded assent.
"Do you remember those lectures? God they were boring!"
Sean nodded again. "Yeah, uh, I remember them," he offered weakly.
Laura continued, "God, I'm really sorry about your shirt, Sean. Come on. Let me buy you a drink to make up for it."
"Um... it's an open bar, you don't have to buy drinks," Sean stammered, flustered.
"Okay, I'll tip the bartender for you, then." Laura smiled that perfect smile.
Sean meekly nodded his agreement, and together they made their way to the bar. He ordered his usual, scotch rocks, and Laura ordered a vodka tonic with two limes. She dropped a couple of dollars in the tip jar.
"Thanks, Laura," Sean said with a half smile as he lifted his glass to her slightly. "Well, see you 'round."
Sean turned to go, but Laura grabbed him by the elbow.
"Where do you think you're going?" Laura asked playfully. "I paid for that drink, and that means that I get to keep you until you're finished with it!"
Sean flashed her an embarrassed half-smile. "Sorry, you're right. I just figured that you'd want to catch up with your friends, that's all."
"What makes you think that I have any friends here, anyways?" Laura asked as she guided him to a nearby vacant table. Laura sat Sean in a chair, and pulled a neighboring chair closer.
"Well, I guess because you were always so popular in high school. You know, you were the pretty cheerleader girl that all the guys wanted to go out with."
"Really? All the guys? Even you, Sean?" Laura asked teasingly.
Sean felt himself blush; it was becoming a rather permanent condition. "Well, um, yeah, I guess," Sean stammered. He took a quick sip of his scotch and, knowing he'd regret it the minute he said it, he added, "In fact, I had this huge crush on you all the way through high school. But, you were always hanging out with the football and basketball guys, and..." Sean shrugged.
"And what?"
"Well... I figured that you were way out of my league."
Laura laughed under her breath, and looked away. "Well, I think I was out of my own league back then," she muttered. She turned her gaze back to Sean. "Truth be told, I always liked you too, Sean."
"Come on," Sean replied. "You spill a drink on a guy, you buy him a drink to make up for it. You don't try to stroke his ego by telling him such transparent lies."
"No, seriously," Laura protested. "You were one of the smartest guys in school. And you were always so sweet, and cute." She shrugged. "You were kind of the opposite of the kind of guy that seemed to like me."
"If by that you mean an average-height, skinny kid whose vocabulary was not limited to the monosyllabic, then yeah, that's me – the anti-Roger."
A dark cloud fleetingly crossed her brow. "Yeah, you were definitely not Roger."
"Yup. He was captain of the football team, drove a Camaro to school, homecoming king... definitely not me." A thought occurred to Sean. "Hey, weren't you the homecoming queen?"
Laura flashed a quick, insincere smile. "Um, yeah."
"You two were quite a couple up there. I bet you have fond memories of that time."
Laura sighed. "Actually, Sean... I don't."
Sean looked at her quizzically.
"Well, it's a long story. Nobody here really knows this, but after the homecoming game Roger and I... well... I got pregnant that night."
Sean was shocked. "Wow... I had no idea."
"Nobody did."
"So, you have a kid?"
Another sad frown. "No. I lost the baby at ten weeks."
"Geez, I'm sorry," Sean said, not quite knowing what to say.
"It's okay. It was probably for the best. But, unfortunately by then Roger and I had already gotten married."
"Yeah, I remember that," Sean recalled. "You did marry him right after graduation. But you guys always seemed so happy, I just assumed that you guys were just so madly in love that you just couldn't wait to get married..."
Sean's words trailed off as he realized how naïve he sounded.
"Well, we weren't in love. I mean, when we were first together, we were. At least I think we were. But when I told him about the baby, he was... different. My dad demanded that we get married – he even called Roger's dad and told him why. That's when Roger got kicked out of his house."
"Wow..."
"Yeah. So, Roger got a construction job, we went to the Justice of the Peace, and I became Mrs. Roger Williamson. We moved into an apartment, and he was actually warming up to the idea of being a father and having a family. We went out and bought some clothes, and we bought a crib too... He was getting excited about it. Then, I lost the baby, and... well... everything changed. Everything. I think he blamed me, but I'm not sure."
"Well, that's not fair."
"Roger wasn't interested too much in fair, he was far more concerned with Roger. He started blaming me for the whole situation – for the pregnancy, for the marriage, for the miscarriage, everything. He also blamed me for his having to work a shitty construction job, instead of playing football. He was so sure he was going to be a college all-American, and that he'd go pro. He really wasn't ever that good, except in his own mind." Laura shook her head sadly.
"Well, everyone at school thought he was pretty good."
Laura shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. In any case, after that whole mess his father wouldn't pay for his college, and he had lost out on any scholarship opportunities, so he just kept working... and eventually he crawled into the bottle."
"Oh, he drank?"
"Like a fish. The real question is, when was he ever sober? I can't tell you how many jobs he lost for showing up drunk, or how many times I had to go bail him out of jail after he started a fight in a bar." Her voice took on a hollow, distant tone, and her eyes were seeing beyond the far wall. "The bad nights were when he came home and wasn't through fighting..."
Sean reached out his hand, and laid it on top of hers. "I'm really sorry that you had to go through that."
Laura turned her hand over, and grasped Sean's in hers. "Yeah, well, so was I," she said. "But, after a year and a half, I couldn't stay there any more. So I filed for divorce and moved back in with my parents. I didn't see much of Roger after that."
"Aren't you worried that he'll be here tonight?"
Laura looked at Sean blankly. "Not really. He died four years ago."
"Oh!"
"I bet you can't guess... drunk again, got in his car and introduced himself to a hundred-year-old oak tree at eighty miles per hour. Dumbass wasn't even wearing his seat belt."
Sean recovered. "Well, I guess he won't be here then, will he?" He offered a lame smile.
Laura sighed. "No. But I still wasn't sure if I wanted to come here tonight. You know how people talk, and I wasn't sure if I'd be comfortable, or even welcome here." She smiled and gave his hand a light squeeze. "I'm glad you're here, Sean."
He smiled at her. "Me too."
For the first time, Sean noticed the evidence of years' passage on her face – the small wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, the youthful freshness lost from her skin. She was no longer the perfect girl he remembered from ten years ago, but she was certainly a very beautiful woman.
The crackle of the speakers at the stage interrupted the moment, and the reunion organizer got on the microphone. After an interminable welcome speech, the guests were invited to take their seats for dinner.
Where are you sitting?" Laura asked.
"Table twelve. You?"
"Thirty-six."
Laura sensed Sean's disappointment. "Don't worry, I'll fix it," she said with a mischievous smile. "You just go get our drinks refilled."
Sean smiled and nodded agreement, and headed towards the bar. He was quickly intercepted by Todd and William.
"Look at you go, you stud!" Todd exclaimed, and thumped Sean on the back.
William chimed in, "Dude, that's Laura Fucking Mitchell! You fuckin' rock!"
Sean shrugged and smiled an embarrassed smile. "Well, she remembers me from trig class, and we just got to talking..." To the bartender: "Scotch on the rocks, and vodka tonic with two limes, please."
Todd eyed Sean knowingly, sensing something deeper. "Uh-huh. Look, you're married, dude. I know you liked her in high school, but that was, like, ten years ago. Don't do anything stupid."
Sean shot him an angry look. "Come on. We're just talking. I know I'm married. We're just catching up on old times, that's all."
Todd pursed his lips together. "Old times, huh. Okay, just be careful, okay?"
William repeated, "Yeah, be careful," and began rhythmically pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek and moving his hand near his face to the same rhythm, miming fellatio.
Sean collected the drinks and tipped the tender. "Thanks, real mature, Billy."
William immediately stopped, and stepped toward Sean, looking ready to swing, but Todd stopped him. "Hey, come on William, easy," he said, as they both watched Sean walk away toward his table.
---
Sean and Laura talked all through dinner, sharing the highs and lows of their lives. Sean spoke of his marriage to his college sweetheart five years prior, and of the unbounded joy of the birth of their son almost two years prior. Sean also described his son's chronic health issues and the resulting strain it had placed on the marriage.
Laura shared more of her life of the past ten years; a life full of regrets, wishing that she had made different choices in her younger years. She had finally decided two years ago to go back to school, and began working on her degree at night at the local community college while holding down an administrative job at a local factory during the day.
Later in the evening, Sean and Laura found themselves on the dance floor, swaying slowly to lover's music in the dim light. Laura clung to him and laid her head down on his shoulder, her head facing him. Sean felt her breath on his neck when she whispered, "Do you love her?"
"My wife?"
She nodded imperceptibly.
Sean thought, for too long. "I think so," he said unconvincingly.
She raised her head off his shoulder, and looked at him through moist eyes. "You don't sound exactly positive."
"Well, it's been a rough time since Jeff was born. So much has changed with us, with our relationship." He paused. "There's times that I swear that we only stay together because of Jeff. Because it would totally fuck him up if we split up. Then, sometimes I think it might be better for Jeff if we did split up. Like he'd be better off as a child of divorce where happiness was possible than he would be as part of a family that was together but not really happy at all." Another pause. "And, then there are times when I'm reminded why I married her in the first place. When I'm absolutely sure that I love her, and that all the pain and hardship and sacrifice are all worth it, worth it ten times over, because of this incredible love that we share. And then, that love, it disappears again. Snuffed out by a mountain of bills and doctor visits and sleepless nights with Jeff and all the other bullshit that comes with my life, with any life, I guess."
Laura was silent for a while. Then she whispered, "You know, whatever happens between you two, you'll always be Jeff's father. Nothing can change that."
"I know. But... it's all so confusing, sometimes."
Laura returned her head to his shoulder, and nestled her face into his neck. Sean breathed deeply, smelling her hair.
And this isn't helping, he thought.
---
The clock showed 11:30. Sean and Laura stood at the coat check and waited for the hotel staff to return with their overcoats.
Laura turned to Sean with a hesitant look on her face. "I came here in a taxi..." she said. "Um... do you think you could... give me a ride back to my hotel?"
Sean was taken aback, as he was already mentally rehearsing the words of goodbye that he was expecting to deliver at the curb outside. "Sure, no problem," he managed.
The staff brought their coats, and Sean helped Laura into her coat. They left the ballroom and exited the hotel. Sean led her to his rental car and opened the passenger door for her. She got in, and he closed the door and hurried around to the driver's side. He got in and started the car.
"Chevy Malibu, huh. Big spender," Laura teased.
Sean laughed. "It's all they had left. No big deal."
"It's nicer than my car," Laura replied. "What do you drive?"
Sean shifted in his seat. "Uh, I have a Mercedes."
Laura's eyes got bigger. "Really? That's nice... you know, I never found out what you do for work."
That's because I never told you, he thought. His reply was a nonchalant, "Um... I play games."
"Games? What kind of games?" she asked, intrigued.
"Well, card games. Poker mostly."
"Wait. You play cards for a living? You mean like, gambling?"
A short laugh. "Yeah. Like gambling."
"You mean, like those guys on TV? That looks so interesting!"
"Well, it's not quite like what you see on TV. It actually takes a lot of time, and a lot of dedication, and a lot of skill, to be able to make it. A lot of people try, and not many succeed."
"Well, you must be pretty good, if you drive a Mercedes."
Another laugh. "I do all right. I just have a very good ability to read other people, to really crawl inside their heads and see what they're thinking." Yeah, Sean thought. It's inside my own head that I have the biggest problems.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
Sean shrugged. "I don't really like to tell people. They hear that I'm a professional gambler, and they either look at me like I'm the devil or they expect me to pull out a six-shooter and start a gunfight at the saloon. It's really just a job like any other… one that I'm pretty good at, and that I really enjoy."
Laura seemed content to dwell on the romantic stereotype of a professional gambler. The rest of the ride to her hotel was passed in silence, Laura lost in her thoughts with a wistful smile on her face.
Sean pulled the car into the circle in front of the hotel doors and put the car in park. He opened his mouth to speak, but Laura spoke first.
"You know what, I bet the bar inside is still open. Would you like to come inside for a drink? My treat..."
Sean clearly understood the invitation in her eyes. He took a deep breath and looked straight ahead through the windshield. His mind was blank. He did not know what to say, or to do, or to think. Then, his eyes focused on the moonlight glinting off the wedding band on his left hand, the same hand that was gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.
He stared at the ring for what felt like forever.
Then he swallowed, and replied as if in a dream, "Thanks, but I really can't."
Laura nodded, understanding. "I understand. Well, thanks for the ride," she said, and reached for the door handle.
Sean put his hand on her knee. "Wait."
Her hand stopped, trembling in midair.
Sean turned to her in the driver's seat. "Thank you," he said.
"For what?" she asked, surprised.
Sean shrugged, struggling to find the words. "For being you," he finally replied. He took her chin in his hand and kissed her on the lips, a lingering, tender kiss. A goodbye kiss.
Laura got out of the car, and walked toward the hotel door. Sean put the car in gear and drove slowly away. At the door, Laura turned around and watched the taillights fade into the distance. "Goodbye, Sean," she whispered as a tear fell down her cheek.
---
Sean drove for a couple of blocks before he pulled over. He pulled out his cell phone and called his wife.
"Hey, honey... yeah, it was nice... yeah, I got to see a lot of friends. It was really good... listen, something's come up, and I need to make a change to my flight... yeah, everything's okay, but listen... no really, I'm okay... look, I'm just gonna change my flight to tonight, I'll take the redeye... yeah, I just wanted to ask you to leave the porch light on... okay, I'll see you then... I love you too."
Sean smiled to himself as he drove into the dark city night.
Doog lives in California, is married with two young children, is a complete donk of a poker player while being a kick-ass poker blogger. He's also the most modest, humble person you'll ever meet, should you have the esteemed privilege.
Sean Hartman's hand trembled slightly, causing the razor pressed against his neck to scrape off a small piece of flesh. A fleck of blood appeared, and Sean cursed out loud.
"Shit."
Sean tore off a corner of a square of toilet paper, and stuck it to the wound. A red spot of blood appeared in the middle of the makeshift bandage.
Just what I need, he thought to himself. Showing up looking like a pimple-faced teenager.
That thought evoked a short chuckle. Well, I was a pimple-faced teenager the last time I saw these people. At least now they'll recognize me without that awkward name-badge-scanning moment.
As Sean finished shaving, he looked his reflection in the eyes. Why do I really care? he asked himself. I haven't seen any of them since graduation. Hell, I haven't even talked to any of them on the phone – or even tried to look them up, for that matter. So why am I so fucking nervous?
Sean splashed a bit of aftershave on his face and neck too soothe the irritated skin, and winced involuntarily as the liquid burned the nick on his neck. He stepped from the bathroom into the bedroom of his hotel suite and began to get dressed, that unsettling question ringing in his head. He finished getting ready and closed the hotel door behind him, still searching for the answer.
---
Sean checked his watch as he pulled into the parking lot. 5:57 PM. A fastidiously punctual person, he was sure he was one of the very first arrivals. He parked his car and walked into the hotel lobby, looking for the signs directing him to the correct ballroom.
Eschewing the elevators, he took the stairs two at a time to the second floor, pleased that he was not even slightly out of breath from the minor exertion. I bet most of these fat-asses would be gasping for air, he smiled to himself.
Any sense of false bravado evaporated as he approached the ballroom entrance. The large sign mounted next to the ceiling-height double doors read:
Ten Year ReunionSean felt his heart thumping strongly in his chest, and his mouth began to go dry. Stop it! he commanded himself. You have nothing to be nervous about. You have nothing to be afraid of. You will act like the strong, successful man that you are. A small voice in his head chuckled in reply. Yeah, right. Sean forcefully shoved that mocking voice deep into his subconscious, took a deep breath, and handed his invitation to the doorman.
Jefferson High School
Class of 1996
"Ah, Mr. Hartman, welcome." The disinterested hotel employee scanned the guest list. "You have been assigned to table twelve. You may check your coat over there."
He gestured vaguely with his hand toward a corner of the cavernous ballroom. He flipped through a stack of preprinted sticky-back name tags, selected the correct one, and handed it to Sean.
"Please wear this. Have a good time."
Sean took the proffered name tag, mumbled a polite, "Thank you," and stepped into the room.
The Grand Ballroom was tastefully decorated, the subdued lighting enhancing the casual, elegant feel of the space. Forty-odd large circular tables dominated the floor space; each was covered with linen tablecloths and ten place-settings of decent-quality china. A tall candle was burning in the center of each table, surrounded by an attractive floral arrangement. Along the far right wall, a parquet dance floor was set in front of a slightly raised dais, where a five-piece band was playing soft instrumental melodies. To the left was the coat check, and at the rear of the room stood a buffet table with mounds of appetizers. To the left of the buffet table, in the far corner, was the bar. The room was mostly vacant, a small knot of people gathered between the bar and the appetizers.
Sean checked his coat and searched for his assigned seat. He located table twelve and spotted the folded name card, "S. Hartman." He quickly glanced at the other name cards on the table, and didn't recognize any. He saw three sets of cards with matching last names, and Sean suddenly wished that his wife was there with him. At least there would be one person I'd know here, he thought. What was I thinking when I decided to come by myself?
He and his wife had discussed the issue at length, and in the end they had decided that it would be too hard on Jeff to fly cross-country for just a weekend. He was not quite yet two, after all. Neither was leaving the baby behind with a sitter for a weekend an option, considering his health issues. Sean had wanted to simply dismiss the invitation, but his wife suggested, and then insisted, that he could go on his own. She had eventually persuaded him to go, but a part of him wondered if, deep down, he had wanted to be persuaded to go alone all along.
Now, looking at his solitary name card on the table, the same thought gnawed at him once again. Still unsettled, Sean headed for the bar to find a liquid solution to his disquieting thoughts.
---
After a small plate of hors d'oeuvres, and halfway through his second scotch on the rocks, Sean was feeling much better. He had found two of his old chums, Todd and Billy (who now went by William, under pain of immediate ass-kicking), and the three of them were reliving their high school days.
"You remember physics class?" Todd asked.
"Mr. James!" Sean and William exclaimed in unison.
"Man, I don't know how he didn't kick us out of that class."
"I know. All we ever did was sit at that lab table in the back of the class and play paper football."
"Remember that time you kicked the field goal and it flew all the way to the next table and hit Jimmy Frederick in the face? That was fuckin' hilarious..."
"Yeah, Mr. James was pretty pissed about that one. God, remember we used to play cards all the time in his class too."
Todd looked at Sean. "Dude... you always kicked our ass. It didn't matter what game we played, you always handed us our lunch. Do you still play cards at all?"
Sean shifted his weight uneasily from one foot to the other. "Yeah, every now and then," he replied noncommittally.
William interrupted. "Oh shit... remember the bowling ball? Remember? Mr. James was trying to demonstrate wavelength frequency or amplitude or some shit and he hung that bowling ball from the ceiling? And he got that fucker goin', and it broke the ceiling grid bar and went flying across the room and fuckin' destroyed that cabinet? That was some funny fuckin' shit!"
The three of them laughed together at the memory. As Sean took a sip of his drink, over the rim of his glass he spied a woman tentatively walking into the ballroom, looking around nervously. She was dressed in a red, floor-length, strapless evening gown that accentuated every pleasing curve of her body. Her hair was pulled back and upswept, accentuating her long, sensual neck and bare shoulders. Even from across the room, Sean immediately knew who she was. Laura Mitchell.
His throat constricted, Sean had to forcibly swallow his drink, the alcohol searing his esophagus. His hands began to tremble, he became light-headed and he felt his face begin to flush.
"Ex... excuse me guys," he stammered. "I'll be right back... gotta find the little boy's room."
Sean made his way through a side doorway. The restroom was thankfully deserted, and Sean locked himself in a stall and sat down on the toilet seat.
"Get ahold of yourself, man!" he chastised himself. "What's wrong with you?!"
He began some deep-breathing techniques his therapist had taught him. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Experience release through the breath, exhaling all stress and anxiety and disharmony, ridding the body and mind of the negative. The mind is void of all thought, all emotion. Feel the sweet, pure nothingness enter the body and mind with each inhalation.
Once again in control, Sean put his head in his hands, closed his eyes, and gave in to the flood of memories.
It was his junior year, Mrs. Garamond's trig class. Laura Mitchell sat in the seat right in front of him, and every day he thanked God or Buddha or whatever Supreme Being had arranged for him to be so near to her every day. Perfect Laura, with her perfect long, straight, chestnut-brown hair, perfect olive-colored skin that hinted at an exotic ancestral heritage, perfect large coffee-brown doe eyes, and a perfect smile that Sean could feel all the way to his toes. Laura the cheerleader, member of the debate team and student body, universally adored by students and faculty. Sean remembered countless lectures spent leaning forward on his desk, chin in hands, eyes closed, lost in the wonderful smell of her hair.
Jesus, that makes me feel like a pervert, Sean thought. I hope she doesn't talk to me. Like, what do I say? 'Hi, you probably don't remember me, but I'm the guy who sat behind you in math class and sniffed your hair.' Sure, that'll go over well.
Sean took a last deep breath, stood and exited the toilet stall. He splashed some cold water on his face, and examined himself in the mirror. Just go out there, enjoy reminiscing with your friends, and leave, he told himself. Don't think about her. She doesn't even know who you are, anyways. She didn't then, and she doesn't now.
Sean dried his hands, and walked out the door. He made his way down the small hallway and toward the ballroom. As he walked through the open doorway, a figure walking the other way through the doorway ran squarely into him. Sean felt an ice-cold drink spill on his shirt, chilling the left side of his chest.
"Oh! I'm so sorry!" the offender blurted out.
Sean's heart again leapt into his throat. Laura!
"Oh, it's okay... it... it's nothing really..." he stammered. "I'll just go clean this up."
Sean wheeled around and walked briskly back to the men's room, feeling his face flush once again.
Laura chased after him. "Oh my God! I'm so, so sorry... I was just heading to the restroom and I wasn't looking where I was going... I'm really sorry!" she lamented.
Sean glanced over his shoulder and mustered a brief smile. "It's okay, really. No problem. Excuse me..."
Sean quickly escaped into the safe haven of the men's room. As the door closed behind him, Sean began to dry off his shirt. Great. Just great, he thought to himself. She must think I'm more of a klutz than I was in high school.
When he was finished drying his shirt, Sean again scrutinized his reflection. Satisfied that everything was in place, and that the dark spot on his shirt was only barely noticeable, he headed for the door. He was determined not to let his embarrassment show, or remain with him for the rest of the evening. He opened the door, and stopped short. Laura was waiting for him in the hallway.
"Geez, Sean, I am so sorry," she said again, her eyes expressing her anguish.
"No prob...," Sean stopped short.
"You okay?"
"Um... yeah," Sean stammered. "I'm just surprised that you remember me, that's all."
Laura laughed. "Mrs. Garamond's trigonometry class, right?"
Sean nodded assent.
"Do you remember those lectures? God they were boring!"
Sean nodded again. "Yeah, uh, I remember them," he offered weakly.
Laura continued, "God, I'm really sorry about your shirt, Sean. Come on. Let me buy you a drink to make up for it."
"Um... it's an open bar, you don't have to buy drinks," Sean stammered, flustered.
"Okay, I'll tip the bartender for you, then." Laura smiled that perfect smile.
Sean meekly nodded his agreement, and together they made their way to the bar. He ordered his usual, scotch rocks, and Laura ordered a vodka tonic with two limes. She dropped a couple of dollars in the tip jar.
"Thanks, Laura," Sean said with a half smile as he lifted his glass to her slightly. "Well, see you 'round."
Sean turned to go, but Laura grabbed him by the elbow.
"Where do you think you're going?" Laura asked playfully. "I paid for that drink, and that means that I get to keep you until you're finished with it!"
Sean flashed her an embarrassed half-smile. "Sorry, you're right. I just figured that you'd want to catch up with your friends, that's all."
"What makes you think that I have any friends here, anyways?" Laura asked as she guided him to a nearby vacant table. Laura sat Sean in a chair, and pulled a neighboring chair closer.
"Well, I guess because you were always so popular in high school. You know, you were the pretty cheerleader girl that all the guys wanted to go out with."
"Really? All the guys? Even you, Sean?" Laura asked teasingly.
Sean felt himself blush; it was becoming a rather permanent condition. "Well, um, yeah, I guess," Sean stammered. He took a quick sip of his scotch and, knowing he'd regret it the minute he said it, he added, "In fact, I had this huge crush on you all the way through high school. But, you were always hanging out with the football and basketball guys, and..." Sean shrugged.
"And what?"
"Well... I figured that you were way out of my league."
Laura laughed under her breath, and looked away. "Well, I think I was out of my own league back then," she muttered. She turned her gaze back to Sean. "Truth be told, I always liked you too, Sean."
"Come on," Sean replied. "You spill a drink on a guy, you buy him a drink to make up for it. You don't try to stroke his ego by telling him such transparent lies."
"No, seriously," Laura protested. "You were one of the smartest guys in school. And you were always so sweet, and cute." She shrugged. "You were kind of the opposite of the kind of guy that seemed to like me."
"If by that you mean an average-height, skinny kid whose vocabulary was not limited to the monosyllabic, then yeah, that's me – the anti-Roger."
A dark cloud fleetingly crossed her brow. "Yeah, you were definitely not Roger."
"Yup. He was captain of the football team, drove a Camaro to school, homecoming king... definitely not me." A thought occurred to Sean. "Hey, weren't you the homecoming queen?"
Laura flashed a quick, insincere smile. "Um, yeah."
"You two were quite a couple up there. I bet you have fond memories of that time."
Laura sighed. "Actually, Sean... I don't."
Sean looked at her quizzically.
"Well, it's a long story. Nobody here really knows this, but after the homecoming game Roger and I... well... I got pregnant that night."
Sean was shocked. "Wow... I had no idea."
"Nobody did."
"So, you have a kid?"
Another sad frown. "No. I lost the baby at ten weeks."
"Geez, I'm sorry," Sean said, not quite knowing what to say.
"It's okay. It was probably for the best. But, unfortunately by then Roger and I had already gotten married."
"Yeah, I remember that," Sean recalled. "You did marry him right after graduation. But you guys always seemed so happy, I just assumed that you guys were just so madly in love that you just couldn't wait to get married..."
Sean's words trailed off as he realized how naïve he sounded.
"Well, we weren't in love. I mean, when we were first together, we were. At least I think we were. But when I told him about the baby, he was... different. My dad demanded that we get married – he even called Roger's dad and told him why. That's when Roger got kicked out of his house."
"Wow..."
"Yeah. So, Roger got a construction job, we went to the Justice of the Peace, and I became Mrs. Roger Williamson. We moved into an apartment, and he was actually warming up to the idea of being a father and having a family. We went out and bought some clothes, and we bought a crib too... He was getting excited about it. Then, I lost the baby, and... well... everything changed. Everything. I think he blamed me, but I'm not sure."
"Well, that's not fair."
"Roger wasn't interested too much in fair, he was far more concerned with Roger. He started blaming me for the whole situation – for the pregnancy, for the marriage, for the miscarriage, everything. He also blamed me for his having to work a shitty construction job, instead of playing football. He was so sure he was going to be a college all-American, and that he'd go pro. He really wasn't ever that good, except in his own mind." Laura shook her head sadly.
"Well, everyone at school thought he was pretty good."
Laura shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. In any case, after that whole mess his father wouldn't pay for his college, and he had lost out on any scholarship opportunities, so he just kept working... and eventually he crawled into the bottle."
"Oh, he drank?"
"Like a fish. The real question is, when was he ever sober? I can't tell you how many jobs he lost for showing up drunk, or how many times I had to go bail him out of jail after he started a fight in a bar." Her voice took on a hollow, distant tone, and her eyes were seeing beyond the far wall. "The bad nights were when he came home and wasn't through fighting..."
Sean reached out his hand, and laid it on top of hers. "I'm really sorry that you had to go through that."
Laura turned her hand over, and grasped Sean's in hers. "Yeah, well, so was I," she said. "But, after a year and a half, I couldn't stay there any more. So I filed for divorce and moved back in with my parents. I didn't see much of Roger after that."
"Aren't you worried that he'll be here tonight?"
Laura looked at Sean blankly. "Not really. He died four years ago."
"Oh!"
"I bet you can't guess... drunk again, got in his car and introduced himself to a hundred-year-old oak tree at eighty miles per hour. Dumbass wasn't even wearing his seat belt."
Sean recovered. "Well, I guess he won't be here then, will he?" He offered a lame smile.
Laura sighed. "No. But I still wasn't sure if I wanted to come here tonight. You know how people talk, and I wasn't sure if I'd be comfortable, or even welcome here." She smiled and gave his hand a light squeeze. "I'm glad you're here, Sean."
He smiled at her. "Me too."
For the first time, Sean noticed the evidence of years' passage on her face – the small wrinkles around her eyes and mouth, the youthful freshness lost from her skin. She was no longer the perfect girl he remembered from ten years ago, but she was certainly a very beautiful woman.
The crackle of the speakers at the stage interrupted the moment, and the reunion organizer got on the microphone. After an interminable welcome speech, the guests were invited to take their seats for dinner.
Where are you sitting?" Laura asked.
"Table twelve. You?"
"Thirty-six."
Laura sensed Sean's disappointment. "Don't worry, I'll fix it," she said with a mischievous smile. "You just go get our drinks refilled."
Sean smiled and nodded agreement, and headed towards the bar. He was quickly intercepted by Todd and William.
"Look at you go, you stud!" Todd exclaimed, and thumped Sean on the back.
William chimed in, "Dude, that's Laura Fucking Mitchell! You fuckin' rock!"
Sean shrugged and smiled an embarrassed smile. "Well, she remembers me from trig class, and we just got to talking..." To the bartender: "Scotch on the rocks, and vodka tonic with two limes, please."
Todd eyed Sean knowingly, sensing something deeper. "Uh-huh. Look, you're married, dude. I know you liked her in high school, but that was, like, ten years ago. Don't do anything stupid."
Sean shot him an angry look. "Come on. We're just talking. I know I'm married. We're just catching up on old times, that's all."
Todd pursed his lips together. "Old times, huh. Okay, just be careful, okay?"
William repeated, "Yeah, be careful," and began rhythmically pressing his tongue to the inside of his cheek and moving his hand near his face to the same rhythm, miming fellatio.
Sean collected the drinks and tipped the tender. "Thanks, real mature, Billy."
William immediately stopped, and stepped toward Sean, looking ready to swing, but Todd stopped him. "Hey, come on William, easy," he said, as they both watched Sean walk away toward his table.
---
Sean and Laura talked all through dinner, sharing the highs and lows of their lives. Sean spoke of his marriage to his college sweetheart five years prior, and of the unbounded joy of the birth of their son almost two years prior. Sean also described his son's chronic health issues and the resulting strain it had placed on the marriage.
Laura shared more of her life of the past ten years; a life full of regrets, wishing that she had made different choices in her younger years. She had finally decided two years ago to go back to school, and began working on her degree at night at the local community college while holding down an administrative job at a local factory during the day.
Later in the evening, Sean and Laura found themselves on the dance floor, swaying slowly to lover's music in the dim light. Laura clung to him and laid her head down on his shoulder, her head facing him. Sean felt her breath on his neck when she whispered, "Do you love her?"
"My wife?"
She nodded imperceptibly.
Sean thought, for too long. "I think so," he said unconvincingly.
She raised her head off his shoulder, and looked at him through moist eyes. "You don't sound exactly positive."
"Well, it's been a rough time since Jeff was born. So much has changed with us, with our relationship." He paused. "There's times that I swear that we only stay together because of Jeff. Because it would totally fuck him up if we split up. Then, sometimes I think it might be better for Jeff if we did split up. Like he'd be better off as a child of divorce where happiness was possible than he would be as part of a family that was together but not really happy at all." Another pause. "And, then there are times when I'm reminded why I married her in the first place. When I'm absolutely sure that I love her, and that all the pain and hardship and sacrifice are all worth it, worth it ten times over, because of this incredible love that we share. And then, that love, it disappears again. Snuffed out by a mountain of bills and doctor visits and sleepless nights with Jeff and all the other bullshit that comes with my life, with any life, I guess."
Laura was silent for a while. Then she whispered, "You know, whatever happens between you two, you'll always be Jeff's father. Nothing can change that."
"I know. But... it's all so confusing, sometimes."
Laura returned her head to his shoulder, and nestled her face into his neck. Sean breathed deeply, smelling her hair.
And this isn't helping, he thought.
---
The clock showed 11:30. Sean and Laura stood at the coat check and waited for the hotel staff to return with their overcoats.
Laura turned to Sean with a hesitant look on her face. "I came here in a taxi..." she said. "Um... do you think you could... give me a ride back to my hotel?"
Sean was taken aback, as he was already mentally rehearsing the words of goodbye that he was expecting to deliver at the curb outside. "Sure, no problem," he managed.
The staff brought their coats, and Sean helped Laura into her coat. They left the ballroom and exited the hotel. Sean led her to his rental car and opened the passenger door for her. She got in, and he closed the door and hurried around to the driver's side. He got in and started the car.
"Chevy Malibu, huh. Big spender," Laura teased.
Sean laughed. "It's all they had left. No big deal."
"It's nicer than my car," Laura replied. "What do you drive?"
Sean shifted in his seat. "Uh, I have a Mercedes."
Laura's eyes got bigger. "Really? That's nice... you know, I never found out what you do for work."
That's because I never told you, he thought. His reply was a nonchalant, "Um... I play games."
"Games? What kind of games?" she asked, intrigued.
"Well, card games. Poker mostly."
"Wait. You play cards for a living? You mean like, gambling?"
A short laugh. "Yeah. Like gambling."
"You mean, like those guys on TV? That looks so interesting!"
"Well, it's not quite like what you see on TV. It actually takes a lot of time, and a lot of dedication, and a lot of skill, to be able to make it. A lot of people try, and not many succeed."
"Well, you must be pretty good, if you drive a Mercedes."
Another laugh. "I do all right. I just have a very good ability to read other people, to really crawl inside their heads and see what they're thinking." Yeah, Sean thought. It's inside my own head that I have the biggest problems.
"Why didn't you tell me before?"
Sean shrugged. "I don't really like to tell people. They hear that I'm a professional gambler, and they either look at me like I'm the devil or they expect me to pull out a six-shooter and start a gunfight at the saloon. It's really just a job like any other… one that I'm pretty good at, and that I really enjoy."
Laura seemed content to dwell on the romantic stereotype of a professional gambler. The rest of the ride to her hotel was passed in silence, Laura lost in her thoughts with a wistful smile on her face.
Sean pulled the car into the circle in front of the hotel doors and put the car in park. He opened his mouth to speak, but Laura spoke first.
"You know what, I bet the bar inside is still open. Would you like to come inside for a drink? My treat..."
Sean clearly understood the invitation in her eyes. He took a deep breath and looked straight ahead through the windshield. His mind was blank. He did not know what to say, or to do, or to think. Then, his eyes focused on the moonlight glinting off the wedding band on his left hand, the same hand that was gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.
He stared at the ring for what felt like forever.
Then he swallowed, and replied as if in a dream, "Thanks, but I really can't."
Laura nodded, understanding. "I understand. Well, thanks for the ride," she said, and reached for the door handle.
Sean put his hand on her knee. "Wait."
Her hand stopped, trembling in midair.
Sean turned to her in the driver's seat. "Thank you," he said.
"For what?" she asked, surprised.
Sean shrugged, struggling to find the words. "For being you," he finally replied. He took her chin in his hand and kissed her on the lips, a lingering, tender kiss. A goodbye kiss.
Laura got out of the car, and walked toward the hotel door. Sean put the car in gear and drove slowly away. At the door, Laura turned around and watched the taillights fade into the distance. "Goodbye, Sean," she whispered as a tear fell down her cheek.
---
Sean drove for a couple of blocks before he pulled over. He pulled out his cell phone and called his wife.
"Hey, honey... yeah, it was nice... yeah, I got to see a lot of friends. It was really good... listen, something's come up, and I need to make a change to my flight... yeah, everything's okay, but listen... no really, I'm okay... look, I'm just gonna change my flight to tonight, I'll take the redeye... yeah, I just wanted to ask you to leave the porch light on... okay, I'll see you then... I love you too."
Sean smiled to himself as he drove into the dark city night.
Doog lives in California, is married with two young children, is a complete donk of a poker player while being a kick-ass poker blogger. He's also the most modest, humble person you'll ever meet, should you have the esteemed privilege.
November 12, 2006
Roots - Part III
By Doog © 2006
Editor's Note: You can find the first installment here and the second installment here.
If there was one vice that defined Leo G, it was gambling. During his adult life, he made and lost a lot of money. That is to say, he made it by means of various (mostly) successful business ventures - some legal, most not-so-legal - and he lost it in the finest casinos the grand state of Nevada has to offer.
Leo G was, by nature, a high roller. The stakes were never high enough. He would give $5 and $10 chips to his kids to play with around the house because, in his own words, "If there ain't three numbers on it, I ain't gonna play it." As the phrase du jour goes, that's just how he rolled.
The thrill of the game consumed Leo G so much that he would often disappear for weeks at a time, abandoning his wife and three sons in their Napa Valley home with nary a word of goodbye. Grandma Jan would keep some cash salted away inside the house - survival money for the inevitable 'next time.' Growing up, the three boys never realized that their father's disappearing acts were unusual - a testament both to Grandma Jan's patient character and to the frequency of the event. However, they always knew when he had returned - there was a box of field-picked strawberries sitting on the front porch.
One early fall afternoon during one of Leo G's Houdini acts, two unmarked sedans sat in the driveway when the boys got home from school. Following their mother’s terse instructions, the boys packed up a suitcase of clothing and belongings, climbed into the back seat of the cars, and pulled away their childhood home, not realizing that they would not soon return.
It seems Leo G had gotten himself into some trouble.
A couple of weeks earlier, Leo G was in Reno, leaking cash as usual, when a money lender (and his hired muscle) tracked him down and demanded payment. Of sixty thousand dollars. In full. Needless to say, Leo G did not then have, nor did he possess the means to acquire, sixty large to pay back the shark. True to form, he began to negotiate for 'a couple more days, sure, you know I'm good for it, of course, I have it, I just have to go cash out some investments', all the while figuring the quickest escape route from the city.
The shark was having none of it.
"Tell you what," he said, "You do a job for me and my partners, and we'll forget about it. The whole sixty large."
Leo G readily agreed, then received his instructions on what to do.
Two days later, Leo G hopped a plane for Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. At the stipulated place and time, he met up with the woman and the boy, who were to be his 'wife' and 'son' for the next few days. Together, the newly formed family went to the designated junkyard and picked up the truck towing a motorboat on a trailer. That is to say, the motorboat with the false hull stuffed full of narcotics.
The border crossing into Texas was anticlimactic in its normalcy. Leo G dropped off the woman and the boy in Dallas, and continued through New Mexico and Arizona. Traveling westward on I-10, windows rolled down and the radio turned up, the warmth of the Arizona desert blowing through his hair, Leo G felt the entire weight of his gambling debt lifted off his shoulders. A man reborn, his imagination began running wild with plans and possibilities. After all, he realized, his planned route was just a few hours south of Vegas...
Leo G plotted. Then, brimming with self-confidence, Leo G drove into the desert, unloaded the drugs from the boat's false hull, and buried them. Deep. He then drove into Sin City and sold off the truck and the boat, fully expecting to double up within a day or two and continue on his way with a nice tidy profit, nobody being the wiser.
The best laid plans of mice and men... One bad run led to another; soon, a wild-eyed Leo G was betting his last grand against huge odds, desperately trying to get back even. His last dollar gone, shoulders slumped in defeat, Leo G stumbled out of the casino into the garish Nevada heat. Blinking his eyes clear, he ambled up and down the strip, mentally sorting out his next step.
In the end, the decision to call the feds, turn himself in, and go State's Evidence was both very easy and very difficult. It was easy because of the immunity and amnesty he would be granted by the government; it was difficult because it went against his upbringing, his fiber, his very essence. The feds were the enemy, and narcs were vermin fit only for extermination. Now, he was the rat. By choice. With trembling hands, Leo G made the phone call.
After finishing the interrogation, the feds made Leo G an offer. He would report to his 'business associates' sans truck, boat, or drugs, but instead with a body mike and a credible story. If there's one thing that Leo G was good at, it was selling a story. He passionately recounted the harrowing tale of the vicious windstorm in the Arizona desert that flipped over the boat trailer and broke open the false hull, contents spilling out. Panicked, he packed up the drugs in the truck's bed and drove into the desert, where he buried it. He left the wrecked boat on the side of the road, abandoned the truck in the next town, and made his way back to California via Greyhound, where he arrived broke and exhausted, so glad to be back with his friends.
By the end of the recounting, Leo G had his initially suspicious audience hanging on every vivid detail. Even if they didn't entirely believe the whole wild tale, it seemed plausible enough. Packing up their shovels, they journeyed in caravan to the Arizona desert. Once the drugs were found and excavated, and likely just as the bad guys were about to take care of Leo G and dump the body in the same hole, the federal agents stationed about the area swooped in with helicopters and desert vehicles and rounded up the drug ring.
Simultaneously, two unmarked cars were dispatched to Leo G's house in Napa Valley to take his family into protective custody. Later that night, local police responded to a call made from a neighboring house. They found Leo G's house broken into and thoroughly vandalized, jerrycans filled with gasoline suggesting that the police's arrival had just barely prevented the house from being burned to the ground.
For the next couple of years until the conclusion of the trial, Leo G and his family were shipped from location to location, assuming new identities, always looking over their shoulder, spooked by the slightest hint of danger. Once, the drug thugs almost caught up with the family. Two of Leo G's sons were riding their motorcycles through town when they were spotted by some familiar faces from their not-so-distant past. The villains hopped into a car and gave chase, but the boys were able to shake their pursuers on a twisty mountain road. The family left town that same night.
Once Leo G's testimony was made in court and appropriate convictions handed down, the pressure eased somewhat. The feds relocated the family with decreasing frequency, and after a while Leo G, Grandma Jan, and family permanently settled in Sacramento. Partnering with one of his sons, Leo G started a legitimate and successful air conditioning repair business. Years passed, and Leo G, by now a grandfather several times over, had softened into a caring, charismatic, humorous man. The Leo G that I knew.
In myself, I see a lot of the kinder, gentler Leo G. At times, though, the ghost of the Leo G that I never met peeks out from the shadows of my soul. It is the dark side of my soul. The inveterate gambler. The overconfident risk-taker. The fast talking con man. The calculating manipulator. The mobster within.
Fuhgetaboutit.
Doog lives in California, is married with two young children, is a complete donk of a poker player while being a kick-ass poker blogger. He's also the most modest, humble person you'll ever meet, should you have the esteemed privilege.
Editor's Note: You can find the first installment here and the second installment here.
If there was one vice that defined Leo G, it was gambling. During his adult life, he made and lost a lot of money. That is to say, he made it by means of various (mostly) successful business ventures - some legal, most not-so-legal - and he lost it in the finest casinos the grand state of Nevada has to offer.
Leo G was, by nature, a high roller. The stakes were never high enough. He would give $5 and $10 chips to his kids to play with around the house because, in his own words, "If there ain't three numbers on it, I ain't gonna play it." As the phrase du jour goes, that's just how he rolled.
The thrill of the game consumed Leo G so much that he would often disappear for weeks at a time, abandoning his wife and three sons in their Napa Valley home with nary a word of goodbye. Grandma Jan would keep some cash salted away inside the house - survival money for the inevitable 'next time.' Growing up, the three boys never realized that their father's disappearing acts were unusual - a testament both to Grandma Jan's patient character and to the frequency of the event. However, they always knew when he had returned - there was a box of field-picked strawberries sitting on the front porch.
One early fall afternoon during one of Leo G's Houdini acts, two unmarked sedans sat in the driveway when the boys got home from school. Following their mother’s terse instructions, the boys packed up a suitcase of clothing and belongings, climbed into the back seat of the cars, and pulled away their childhood home, not realizing that they would not soon return.
It seems Leo G had gotten himself into some trouble.
A couple of weeks earlier, Leo G was in Reno, leaking cash as usual, when a money lender (and his hired muscle) tracked him down and demanded payment. Of sixty thousand dollars. In full. Needless to say, Leo G did not then have, nor did he possess the means to acquire, sixty large to pay back the shark. True to form, he began to negotiate for 'a couple more days, sure, you know I'm good for it, of course, I have it, I just have to go cash out some investments', all the while figuring the quickest escape route from the city.
The shark was having none of it.
"Tell you what," he said, "You do a job for me and my partners, and we'll forget about it. The whole sixty large."
Leo G readily agreed, then received his instructions on what to do.
Two days later, Leo G hopped a plane for Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. At the stipulated place and time, he met up with the woman and the boy, who were to be his 'wife' and 'son' for the next few days. Together, the newly formed family went to the designated junkyard and picked up the truck towing a motorboat on a trailer. That is to say, the motorboat with the false hull stuffed full of narcotics.
The border crossing into Texas was anticlimactic in its normalcy. Leo G dropped off the woman and the boy in Dallas, and continued through New Mexico and Arizona. Traveling westward on I-10, windows rolled down and the radio turned up, the warmth of the Arizona desert blowing through his hair, Leo G felt the entire weight of his gambling debt lifted off his shoulders. A man reborn, his imagination began running wild with plans and possibilities. After all, he realized, his planned route was just a few hours south of Vegas...
Leo G plotted. Then, brimming with self-confidence, Leo G drove into the desert, unloaded the drugs from the boat's false hull, and buried them. Deep. He then drove into Sin City and sold off the truck and the boat, fully expecting to double up within a day or two and continue on his way with a nice tidy profit, nobody being the wiser.
The best laid plans of mice and men... One bad run led to another; soon, a wild-eyed Leo G was betting his last grand against huge odds, desperately trying to get back even. His last dollar gone, shoulders slumped in defeat, Leo G stumbled out of the casino into the garish Nevada heat. Blinking his eyes clear, he ambled up and down the strip, mentally sorting out his next step.
In the end, the decision to call the feds, turn himself in, and go State's Evidence was both very easy and very difficult. It was easy because of the immunity and amnesty he would be granted by the government; it was difficult because it went against his upbringing, his fiber, his very essence. The feds were the enemy, and narcs were vermin fit only for extermination. Now, he was the rat. By choice. With trembling hands, Leo G made the phone call.
After finishing the interrogation, the feds made Leo G an offer. He would report to his 'business associates' sans truck, boat, or drugs, but instead with a body mike and a credible story. If there's one thing that Leo G was good at, it was selling a story. He passionately recounted the harrowing tale of the vicious windstorm in the Arizona desert that flipped over the boat trailer and broke open the false hull, contents spilling out. Panicked, he packed up the drugs in the truck's bed and drove into the desert, where he buried it. He left the wrecked boat on the side of the road, abandoned the truck in the next town, and made his way back to California via Greyhound, where he arrived broke and exhausted, so glad to be back with his friends.
By the end of the recounting, Leo G had his initially suspicious audience hanging on every vivid detail. Even if they didn't entirely believe the whole wild tale, it seemed plausible enough. Packing up their shovels, they journeyed in caravan to the Arizona desert. Once the drugs were found and excavated, and likely just as the bad guys were about to take care of Leo G and dump the body in the same hole, the federal agents stationed about the area swooped in with helicopters and desert vehicles and rounded up the drug ring.
Simultaneously, two unmarked cars were dispatched to Leo G's house in Napa Valley to take his family into protective custody. Later that night, local police responded to a call made from a neighboring house. They found Leo G's house broken into and thoroughly vandalized, jerrycans filled with gasoline suggesting that the police's arrival had just barely prevented the house from being burned to the ground.
For the next couple of years until the conclusion of the trial, Leo G and his family were shipped from location to location, assuming new identities, always looking over their shoulder, spooked by the slightest hint of danger. Once, the drug thugs almost caught up with the family. Two of Leo G's sons were riding their motorcycles through town when they were spotted by some familiar faces from their not-so-distant past. The villains hopped into a car and gave chase, but the boys were able to shake their pursuers on a twisty mountain road. The family left town that same night.
Once Leo G's testimony was made in court and appropriate convictions handed down, the pressure eased somewhat. The feds relocated the family with decreasing frequency, and after a while Leo G, Grandma Jan, and family permanently settled in Sacramento. Partnering with one of his sons, Leo G started a legitimate and successful air conditioning repair business. Years passed, and Leo G, by now a grandfather several times over, had softened into a caring, charismatic, humorous man. The Leo G that I knew.
In myself, I see a lot of the kinder, gentler Leo G. At times, though, the ghost of the Leo G that I never met peeks out from the shadows of my soul. It is the dark side of my soul. The inveterate gambler. The overconfident risk-taker. The fast talking con man. The calculating manipulator. The mobster within.
Fuhgetaboutit.
Doog lives in California, is married with two young children, is a complete donk of a poker player while being a kick-ass poker blogger. He's also the most modest, humble person you'll ever meet, should you have the esteemed privilege.
October 14, 2006
Roots - Part II
By Doog © 2006
Editor's Note: You can find the first installment here.
It was the summer of 1942, and America was at war. Europe was a bloody mess, the battle for the Pacific raged. Young boys strapped on their helmets, grabbed a carbine, and entered the fray, not nearly prepared for the horror that is war. Those who returned were no longer boys, but physically and emotionally scarred men deified as heroes. Those who did not return were deified as martyrs.
Leo G was neither, for he never went. Not for lack of wanting; in fact, he desperately yearned to sign up. The desire to fight back at the evil Nazi war machine burned bright within his Polish-Jewish heart. Fanning those flames into a burning maelstrom were the tales that trickled through to his parents - tales of friends beaten, family members killed, simply for the crime of being born of a certain ethnicity.
Neither was it for lack of trying that Leo G never went to war. Even though he was not quite of age, he made his way to the recruiting station and was able to talk his way through the initial screening. (Not only was he raised as a gangster, but he was also quite the con man too. Think Frank Abegnale Jr. meets Roy Dillon.) Unluckily for Leo G, a bum hip suffered in a bicycle vs. vehicle accident two or three years before resulted in his being medically disqualified from service in the armed forces.
Leo G was pissed. If there’s one thing that he knew well from growing up with the mob, it was the importance of family. His family was being kicked in the junk in a most brutal way, and he was not allowed to even attempt to kick back.
To soothe the ache deep in his soul, Leo G took solace in the welcoming arms of lovely young nubile chickadees, sometimes several sets of arms at the same time. After all, when you’ve got dashing good looks, a mercury-silver tongue, and the willingness to use the above in a less-than-moral manner, why not? And the fact that many of these lady friends were the wives or girlfriends of servicemen liberating Europe or bleeding in the South Pacific was just Leo G's way of screwing the system that he felt had screwed him.
It was during one of these encounters that Leo G chanced upon a life-changing discovery. His current coquette's husband was home on leave, but reported for a day to a nearby airbase. Keeping perfectly in character, Leo G took the opportunity to re-familiarize himself with this airman's wife during a mid-day romp. When the adulteress stepped out to the grocer, Leo G noticed a uniform hanging in the bedroom closet. A pilot's uniform. Just for shits and grins, he tried it on and examined himself in the mirror. Salad bar on the breast, pilot’s wings sparkling from the collar, an exact fit. Lookin' good, Leo.
Wearing the uniform, he left the house and never returned.
After the novelty of strolling the boulevards of Gotham and receiving uniform-inspired deference wore off, Leo G discovered that Air Force threads combined with just a little smooth talk allowed him access to just about any military installation he chose; the benefits of military life were his for the taking. First on the list were the duty-free stores (mostly for smokes and liquor); next, he discovered the Officer’s Clubs and golf courses. Before long, Leo G was just another Good Old Boy in the American Armed Forces - never mind that he wasn't actually in the service. Leo G was never one to bother himself with such trivialities.
During one such foray to an air base, Leo G saw a parked troop transport plane with a queue leading to the passenger door. Through innocent inquiry, he learned that the plane was flying to San Francisco. Leo G, who had never been to California but had always wanted to go, stepped into line. Arriving at the front of the line, Leo G spun a yarn about being back home on leave, and his girl is in California, and his bags got lost on the hop over the pond, you know how it is, and his bags had all his papers in them, and he's only home for two weeks before heading back to Europe to play peek-a-boo with the Luftwaffe, and he really wants to see his girl, he needs to see his girl, can't you just do a guy a favor?
Once on board, Leo G settled into his seat with visions of sunny beaches and California women dancing through his head. But his anticipation turned sour when, shortly after takeoff, the plane's commander stepped back into the cabin, tapped Leo G on the shoulder, and motioned toward the cockpit. Hesitantly, Leo G made his way forward.
"I saw your wings," the pilot began, "And I really need a favor. Look - me and my left seat really tied one on last night. He wasn't even able to make it to the base today. Me, I'm in no shape to be driving this thing.."
"Okay..." Leo G replied, uncomprehending.
The pilot persisted, "I know you're on leave, and ordinarily I would never ask, but I really need some help. Could you just point the plane west while I get some shuteye in the cabin?"
Leo G looked at the cockpit seats with widening eyes. "Um, sure… no problem."
"Thanks, I really appreciate it."
Regaining his wherewithal, Leo G turned to the pilot, patted him on the shoulder, and compassionately said, "You go get some rest."
And then Leo G sat down at the controls of a military aircraft flying five miles above the ground. Problem was, Leo G sat down in the navigator’s seat, not the pilot’s seat.
Oops.
The commander immediately knew that something was amiss, but he still retreated to the main cabin to sort things out in his head. Five minutes later, he returned to the cockpit to find Leo G still comfortable ensconced in the wrong seat, autopilot still flying the airplane.
"You know," the pilot began, "It's just not right - me asking you to do this when you're on leave. I’ll be okay - you just go on back in the cabin and enjoy the flight."
With feigned reluctance, Leo G agreed, and settled back into the main cabin. When the airplane arrived in California, the disembarking passengers were surprised to see a squad of MP's waiting for them – all except for the plane's commander, that is.
Once the interrogation was complete, and the nation's military was satisfied that Leo G was not a dissident intent on witnessing dreadful harm upon American servicemen or perhaps a German spy stealing military secrets, Leo G was charged with theft of military property and one count of abduction for each passenger on the plane - hundreds of charges, in all.
And that's the story of how Leo G ended up in the Federal Penitentiary.
For the first time, that is.
Doog lives in California, is married with two young children, is a complete donk of a poker player while being a kick-ass poker blogger. He’s also the most modest, humble person you’ll ever meet, should you have the esteemed privilege.
Editor's Note: You can find the first installment here.
It was the summer of 1942, and America was at war. Europe was a bloody mess, the battle for the Pacific raged. Young boys strapped on their helmets, grabbed a carbine, and entered the fray, not nearly prepared for the horror that is war. Those who returned were no longer boys, but physically and emotionally scarred men deified as heroes. Those who did not return were deified as martyrs.
Leo G was neither, for he never went. Not for lack of wanting; in fact, he desperately yearned to sign up. The desire to fight back at the evil Nazi war machine burned bright within his Polish-Jewish heart. Fanning those flames into a burning maelstrom were the tales that trickled through to his parents - tales of friends beaten, family members killed, simply for the crime of being born of a certain ethnicity.
Neither was it for lack of trying that Leo G never went to war. Even though he was not quite of age, he made his way to the recruiting station and was able to talk his way through the initial screening. (Not only was he raised as a gangster, but he was also quite the con man too. Think Frank Abegnale Jr. meets Roy Dillon.) Unluckily for Leo G, a bum hip suffered in a bicycle vs. vehicle accident two or three years before resulted in his being medically disqualified from service in the armed forces.
Leo G was pissed. If there’s one thing that he knew well from growing up with the mob, it was the importance of family. His family was being kicked in the junk in a most brutal way, and he was not allowed to even attempt to kick back.
To soothe the ache deep in his soul, Leo G took solace in the welcoming arms of lovely young nubile chickadees, sometimes several sets of arms at the same time. After all, when you’ve got dashing good looks, a mercury-silver tongue, and the willingness to use the above in a less-than-moral manner, why not? And the fact that many of these lady friends were the wives or girlfriends of servicemen liberating Europe or bleeding in the South Pacific was just Leo G's way of screwing the system that he felt had screwed him.
It was during one of these encounters that Leo G chanced upon a life-changing discovery. His current coquette's husband was home on leave, but reported for a day to a nearby airbase. Keeping perfectly in character, Leo G took the opportunity to re-familiarize himself with this airman's wife during a mid-day romp. When the adulteress stepped out to the grocer, Leo G noticed a uniform hanging in the bedroom closet. A pilot's uniform. Just for shits and grins, he tried it on and examined himself in the mirror. Salad bar on the breast, pilot’s wings sparkling from the collar, an exact fit. Lookin' good, Leo.
Wearing the uniform, he left the house and never returned.
After the novelty of strolling the boulevards of Gotham and receiving uniform-inspired deference wore off, Leo G discovered that Air Force threads combined with just a little smooth talk allowed him access to just about any military installation he chose; the benefits of military life were his for the taking. First on the list were the duty-free stores (mostly for smokes and liquor); next, he discovered the Officer’s Clubs and golf courses. Before long, Leo G was just another Good Old Boy in the American Armed Forces - never mind that he wasn't actually in the service. Leo G was never one to bother himself with such trivialities.
During one such foray to an air base, Leo G saw a parked troop transport plane with a queue leading to the passenger door. Through innocent inquiry, he learned that the plane was flying to San Francisco. Leo G, who had never been to California but had always wanted to go, stepped into line. Arriving at the front of the line, Leo G spun a yarn about being back home on leave, and his girl is in California, and his bags got lost on the hop over the pond, you know how it is, and his bags had all his papers in them, and he's only home for two weeks before heading back to Europe to play peek-a-boo with the Luftwaffe, and he really wants to see his girl, he needs to see his girl, can't you just do a guy a favor?
Once on board, Leo G settled into his seat with visions of sunny beaches and California women dancing through his head. But his anticipation turned sour when, shortly after takeoff, the plane's commander stepped back into the cabin, tapped Leo G on the shoulder, and motioned toward the cockpit. Hesitantly, Leo G made his way forward.
"I saw your wings," the pilot began, "And I really need a favor. Look - me and my left seat really tied one on last night. He wasn't even able to make it to the base today. Me, I'm in no shape to be driving this thing.."
"Okay..." Leo G replied, uncomprehending.
The pilot persisted, "I know you're on leave, and ordinarily I would never ask, but I really need some help. Could you just point the plane west while I get some shuteye in the cabin?"
Leo G looked at the cockpit seats with widening eyes. "Um, sure… no problem."
"Thanks, I really appreciate it."
Regaining his wherewithal, Leo G turned to the pilot, patted him on the shoulder, and compassionately said, "You go get some rest."
And then Leo G sat down at the controls of a military aircraft flying five miles above the ground. Problem was, Leo G sat down in the navigator’s seat, not the pilot’s seat.
Oops.
The commander immediately knew that something was amiss, but he still retreated to the main cabin to sort things out in his head. Five minutes later, he returned to the cockpit to find Leo G still comfortable ensconced in the wrong seat, autopilot still flying the airplane.
"You know," the pilot began, "It's just not right - me asking you to do this when you're on leave. I’ll be okay - you just go on back in the cabin and enjoy the flight."
With feigned reluctance, Leo G agreed, and settled back into the main cabin. When the airplane arrived in California, the disembarking passengers were surprised to see a squad of MP's waiting for them – all except for the plane's commander, that is.
Once the interrogation was complete, and the nation's military was satisfied that Leo G was not a dissident intent on witnessing dreadful harm upon American servicemen or perhaps a German spy stealing military secrets, Leo G was charged with theft of military property and one count of abduction for each passenger on the plane - hundreds of charges, in all.
And that's the story of how Leo G ended up in the Federal Penitentiary.
For the first time, that is.
Doog lives in California, is married with two young children, is a complete donk of a poker player while being a kick-ass poker blogger. He’s also the most modest, humble person you’ll ever meet, should you have the esteemed privilege.
September 19, 2006
Roots - Part I
By Doog © 2006
We never really know who we are until we know where we come from. We all (well, most of us anyways) know our nuclear family very well - usually far better than we'd like to, to be brutally honest. And most people regard their grandparents with the kind of reverence usually reserved for saints or WSOP bracelet winners.
Me, I never really knew my grandparents.
Hell, one of my grandparents is still alive, and I don't really know her, nor do I care to. For almost eight years, I lived within five miles of my maternal grandmother, and I saw her only a handful of times. Even at a tender age, I realized that I didn't really care to expose myself to the vile rantings of a chain-smoking, foul-mouthed, ill-tempered bigot. Especially now that I married into a family hailing from the Caribbean - people whose complexion is a shade darker than mine.
Thanks, I'll pass.
Her dearly departed husband, my maternal grandfather, passed away from a brain tumor in the 1950's, when my mother was still a girl. Mom's vague recollections of her father are of a gentle, caring provider - just the kind of father every little girl needs; truth be told, the kind of father I hope to be for my daughter. I think I would have liked to get to know him.
I probably knew my paternal grandmother the best out of all of my ancestors. She was a British immigrant, a sweet, tender woman who liked her tea and loved her gin (though not usually mixed in the same cup), and she was an avid card player. Cribbage, gin, euchre - you name it, she played it. Even though she lived on the opposite side of the country, we regularly spoke on the phone - as often as twice a week, depending on the direction life's winds were blowing.
She passed away when I was 14. Even though I had spent a cumulative total of a handful of weeks in her physical presence, I loved her dearly. Whenever I serve as a shoulder-to-cry-on when someone close to me is grieving a loss, I always think of my Grandma Jan.
The most colorful character in my family, by far, was my paternal grandfather. Leo G stood over six feet tall, with a barrel chest, Popeye forearms, and a ready grin permanently adorning his face. Extremely generous (some would say overly generous), he wouldn't bat an eye at dropping wads of cash on a complete whim.
As an example - during one summer vacation with Grandpa Lee and Grandma Jan, Leo G heard that my older brother and I had listened to the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack for the for the first time at my uncle's house, and that we really dug it. The very next day, we were winging to LA, where we lodged at the Universal Sheraton, farted around at Universal Studios, had a nice prime rib dinner, and caught the evening showing of the Phantom at the Ahmanson Theater.
That still stands as one of the most memorable experiences of my life.
Leo G died eight months after Grandma Jan did. The official reason was recurrence of prostate cancer, but I know he really died of a broken heart. When you lose your life partner, your soul-mate, your singular joie de vivre, what's the motivation to keep fighting?
When my father and his brothers were going through Leo G's belongings, they came across a satchel containing $25,000 in cash. In the bag was a handwritten note, which read:
**********
It was many years after his death that I first heard the full story of Leo G. I would sometimes catch snippets of conversation between the adults, references to a turbulent past, but I always thought they were overblown exaggerations. The man was, after all, larger than life; I simply figured his legend was growing over time, as legends, fish tales, and bad beat stories always do.
Then came the night. I'll call it the Revelation.
My wife and I hosted a home game that night. It was late in the evening, and everyone had left except for my uncle, the youngest of Leo G's three sons, and the only son who still lives in the area. Over the course of the next two and a half hours of shuffling cards and trading chips, my uncle revealed to me for the first time the true story of Leo G...
Leo G was born in 1925 in New York City, the only child of a Polish Jew who immigrated after World War I. His father, my great-grandfather, was a chef, and soon after arriving in the States began working at a relatively upscale restaurant. This restaurant happened to be a favorite eatery of Joe Masseria, the preeminent mobster in New York City in the 1920's.
One evening, after devouring a particularly scrumptious sampling of my great-grandfather's cuisine, Masseria asked to speak with the chef, whereupon my great-grandfather was offered a job. From that time on, he was the personal chef for the biggest mob boss in Gotham.
It took a while for that to sink in... my heritage, my roots, that from whence I sprang, is the prohibition era mafia.
What. The. Fuck.
The next mental leap was to my grandfather. My memorialized mental image of the big loveable teddy bear, the infectious laugh, that fun-loving free spirit... he was a mobster. Scarface. Capone. Gotti. Paul Vitti in "Analyze This." My grandfather.
Wow.
My uncle continued to tell tales of his father's childhood. Like how Masseria and his goons would gather around my great-grandfather's kitchen table, plotting and scheming while my great-grandparents cooked up a "killer" meal. Then there was the time that my great-grandmother (whom I knew before she passed away some five years ago) put a fresh-from-the-oven pie on the window ledge to cool, and one of the goons who was outside reached up stealthily to grab it from the window, and my great-grandmother grabbed one of those big-ass two-pronged forks that you use when you're carving a turkey and pinned the guy's hand to the window sill.
Good times.
I can say without qualification that that was the single most memorable poker session I've ever experienced. I can't recall a single hand played, though, or even who won. The speed of play was glacial - at times, there were 20-minute breaks between hands as a particularly enrapturing story unfolded. Of course, poker wasn't exactly foremost on anyone's mind that night.
Oh, the stories. Like the time Leo G went to federal prison for stealing a military aircraft. Or the events leading up to his other three stints in the clink. Or the circumstances surrounding the family name being changed due to Leo G's participation in the witness protection program after going State's Evidence on his - ahem - business associates.
But, those are subjects for future posts...
Doog lives in California, is married with two young children, is a complete donk of a poker player while being a kick-ass poker blogger. He’s also the most modest, humble person you’ll ever meet, should you have the esteemed privilege.
We never really know who we are until we know where we come from. We all (well, most of us anyways) know our nuclear family very well - usually far better than we'd like to, to be brutally honest. And most people regard their grandparents with the kind of reverence usually reserved for saints or WSOP bracelet winners.
Me, I never really knew my grandparents.
Hell, one of my grandparents is still alive, and I don't really know her, nor do I care to. For almost eight years, I lived within five miles of my maternal grandmother, and I saw her only a handful of times. Even at a tender age, I realized that I didn't really care to expose myself to the vile rantings of a chain-smoking, foul-mouthed, ill-tempered bigot. Especially now that I married into a family hailing from the Caribbean - people whose complexion is a shade darker than mine.
Thanks, I'll pass.
Her dearly departed husband, my maternal grandfather, passed away from a brain tumor in the 1950's, when my mother was still a girl. Mom's vague recollections of her father are of a gentle, caring provider - just the kind of father every little girl needs; truth be told, the kind of father I hope to be for my daughter. I think I would have liked to get to know him.
I probably knew my paternal grandmother the best out of all of my ancestors. She was a British immigrant, a sweet, tender woman who liked her tea and loved her gin (though not usually mixed in the same cup), and she was an avid card player. Cribbage, gin, euchre - you name it, she played it. Even though she lived on the opposite side of the country, we regularly spoke on the phone - as often as twice a week, depending on the direction life's winds were blowing.
She passed away when I was 14. Even though I had spent a cumulative total of a handful of weeks in her physical presence, I loved her dearly. Whenever I serve as a shoulder-to-cry-on when someone close to me is grieving a loss, I always think of my Grandma Jan.
The most colorful character in my family, by far, was my paternal grandfather. Leo G stood over six feet tall, with a barrel chest, Popeye forearms, and a ready grin permanently adorning his face. Extremely generous (some would say overly generous), he wouldn't bat an eye at dropping wads of cash on a complete whim.
As an example - during one summer vacation with Grandpa Lee and Grandma Jan, Leo G heard that my older brother and I had listened to the Phantom of the Opera soundtrack for the for the first time at my uncle's house, and that we really dug it. The very next day, we were winging to LA, where we lodged at the Universal Sheraton, farted around at Universal Studios, had a nice prime rib dinner, and caught the evening showing of the Phantom at the Ahmanson Theater.
That still stands as one of the most memorable experiences of my life.
Leo G died eight months after Grandma Jan did. The official reason was recurrence of prostate cancer, but I know he really died of a broken heart. When you lose your life partner, your soul-mate, your singular joie de vivre, what's the motivation to keep fighting?
When my father and his brothers were going through Leo G's belongings, they came across a satchel containing $25,000 in cash. In the bag was a handwritten note, which read:
This is not to be used for bills. This is not to be used to buy 'things'. This is for fun. Take your families to Disney World, or Hawaii, or Europe. Rent the most expensive car, stay in the nicest hotel, and drink the most expensive wine, and remember me the whole time.Grandpa Lee, you're impossible to forget.
**********
It was many years after his death that I first heard the full story of Leo G. I would sometimes catch snippets of conversation between the adults, references to a turbulent past, but I always thought they were overblown exaggerations. The man was, after all, larger than life; I simply figured his legend was growing over time, as legends, fish tales, and bad beat stories always do.
Then came the night. I'll call it the Revelation.
My wife and I hosted a home game that night. It was late in the evening, and everyone had left except for my uncle, the youngest of Leo G's three sons, and the only son who still lives in the area. Over the course of the next two and a half hours of shuffling cards and trading chips, my uncle revealed to me for the first time the true story of Leo G...
Leo G was born in 1925 in New York City, the only child of a Polish Jew who immigrated after World War I. His father, my great-grandfather, was a chef, and soon after arriving in the States began working at a relatively upscale restaurant. This restaurant happened to be a favorite eatery of Joe Masseria, the preeminent mobster in New York City in the 1920's.
One evening, after devouring a particularly scrumptious sampling of my great-grandfather's cuisine, Masseria asked to speak with the chef, whereupon my great-grandfather was offered a job. From that time on, he was the personal chef for the biggest mob boss in Gotham.
It took a while for that to sink in... my heritage, my roots, that from whence I sprang, is the prohibition era mafia.
What. The. Fuck.
The next mental leap was to my grandfather. My memorialized mental image of the big loveable teddy bear, the infectious laugh, that fun-loving free spirit... he was a mobster. Scarface. Capone. Gotti. Paul Vitti in "Analyze This." My grandfather.
Wow.
My uncle continued to tell tales of his father's childhood. Like how Masseria and his goons would gather around my great-grandfather's kitchen table, plotting and scheming while my great-grandparents cooked up a "killer" meal. Then there was the time that my great-grandmother (whom I knew before she passed away some five years ago) put a fresh-from-the-oven pie on the window ledge to cool, and one of the goons who was outside reached up stealthily to grab it from the window, and my great-grandmother grabbed one of those big-ass two-pronged forks that you use when you're carving a turkey and pinned the guy's hand to the window sill.
Good times.
I can say without qualification that that was the single most memorable poker session I've ever experienced. I can't recall a single hand played, though, or even who won. The speed of play was glacial - at times, there were 20-minute breaks between hands as a particularly enrapturing story unfolded. Of course, poker wasn't exactly foremost on anyone's mind that night.
Oh, the stories. Like the time Leo G went to federal prison for stealing a military aircraft. Or the events leading up to his other three stints in the clink. Or the circumstances surrounding the family name being changed due to Leo G's participation in the witness protection program after going State's Evidence on his - ahem - business associates.
But, those are subjects for future posts...
Doog lives in California, is married with two young children, is a complete donk of a poker player while being a kick-ass poker blogger. He’s also the most modest, humble person you’ll ever meet, should you have the esteemed privilege.
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