The
Poker Report
"All
In The Family Since 2001"
6/17/02
Well,
it's been six days already since we played
poker. My brother was in town and Andy
Miller came over early to drink the last
of my beers before anybody else got a
crack at them. He was on his way to a
big hullabaloo at Edinburgh Castle, he
had a woman to impress, time only to hurry.
Quickly Quickly! The BEERS, he cried.
And we cracked a couple and sat down,
him and I and young William only thirteen,
ten dollars a piece in chips between us.
William
insisted he had played before, his cherubic
face, big red innocent cheeks. He and
his buddies played poker all the time.
What kinds of kids were these? Andy took
us both for a ride. Andy said he'd been
playing suckers and sharks and was getting
pretty deep into the weeds himself. He's
got a hairline like the devil, that Andy
Miller, but before he left he gave William
back all of the money he won from him,
and then some, seven dollars, and left,
a small hero, in this small town of San
Francisco, with its docks and islands,
sometimes ruined by business and stocks
and impossible rents forcing the artists
and the writers from their beds.
Then
Erik showed up and Ben and Abby. We played
for a few hours, telling Jon Berry stories.
Abby won a tremendous game of Clue, taking
nearly ten dollars from the pot she pulled
all three books on the last go round,
and she smiled, and she told everybody
how sexy she is. She said, "Look at all
my money, I'm sexy." And it was true enough,
the more chips she had in front of her
the happier she was and the better she
looked.
William
outplayed Erik and finished the night
two dollars ahead, thanks to his donation.
He said, "That guy Erik, he doesn't know
when to fold." "That's why he's always
welcome," I explained to young William.
"What good is money if you can't buy friends?"
William
stayed until Friday and we played games,
soccer, basketball, chess. I taught him
important life lessons, like when to tell
blowjob jokes, and to whom. We went rock
climbing and we went for walks. I tried
to tire him out so that he would sleep
late and I would have the mornings to
myself to write my disgusting novel about
a woman who abuses her man, and how terrible
it is, and how he likes it, he can't get
enough of his girl, he loves her so. And
then on Friday morning we were up at four
and heading to Ben's house to watch the
soccer game on the big TV. William had
to meet the Fox sisters and Karina and
Wendy one more time so he would know as
he grew old there is goodness in this
world. Yahhss! this is what life is about!
And San Francisco with its checkered hills,
and all of America with the cool empty
streets in the dark morning and all across
this country there's always people in
bars waiting for the next day but then
sleeping too late and missing it all.
Oh well.
And
then William was gone and it was the weekend.
Megan split to Seattle to see her family.
She says I don't listen, I keep forgetting
her sisters are older than her, and they
are twins. She gives me a hard time, it's
like dating a quiz show. "You never listen,"
she says. "You'd be surprised what I hear,"
I tell her. So for Saturday I went down
to the farm to be with my friends Otis
and Krista who were having a barbecue.
And the two Toms were there and Lysley,
and I had borrowed my neighbors car and
we set up tents in the pasture near big
steaming piles of horseshit. WoW! what
a time we had. We fried up a whole fish!
And at one point the peacock jumped onto
the grill and burned its stupid feet going
for an ear of corn and then screaming
on the ground the dogs tore into it, ripping
its blue feathers from its back. We had
to kick the mutts off of the stupid bird.
And late that night, while drinking Knob
Creek out by the Airstream, the peacocks
painful cries, before heading to sleep,
we played some poker. Penny ante only.
It was a small stakes night, a five card
draw night, deuces wild. What a sky this
country has when the air is clear. And
what a farm. Finally the Toms left and
Tom's wife Sheryl. And all of the other
writers. It was all writers out on the
farm, talking about our books and our
publications and how we never have time
for anything, struggling as we always
are with our words. They're so difficult,
they're terrible, these words, and there's
so little time, we only have our whole
life to write something brilliant, and
what if we fail? What then? And we should
get together more often, yes we should.
But no, we have to write, there's work
to be done. There's going to be trouble!
I finished the game eight pennies ahead
and slept the night in a small camouflage
dew soaked tent and in the morning we
went to the cafe at the local airport
and then I drove back into the city.
© Stephen Elliott 2002
Stephen's
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