Seven Stud by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 7
When I got in I immediately turned on my companion education module. My good fortune continued when a morning celebrity talk show came on. The hosts and guests attempted witty, cutting edge commentaries about things of no importance to anyone. The sound was pleasant company and the conversation did not require any of my attention.
I went into the kitchen to get some coffee and breakfast.
The coffee did its job and jolted me into the reality of the new day. To resume my get rich quick scheme, the best thing I could do today, was to pay a visit to Frank Happle. But, first I called Butch.
He answered; “Hello.”
I jokingly said; “Are you awake yet?”
“What does it sound like?”
“You know what I mean. I guess you’re wide awake enough to be cranky. Listen; is everything okay between the four of us?”
“Alice and I are fine. How about you and Acheron?”
“Fine. So, we’re all still friends?”
“Sure. Alice is used to Acheron acting out. It’s one of her attractive features.” He paused and then continued; “So, did you get laid?”
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I didn’t know the right response, so I said; “Do I ask you about getting laid with Alice?”
“So, you didn’t, huh.”
“Think what you like. I just wanted to make sure that everything was all right. I’m going to see Frank Happle today.”
“Do your best, but don’t cut me out, partner.”
“Not a chance.” I hung up.
I killed some time at the house, not wanting to greet Frank at some heathenly early hour and appearing overly anxious. I dismissed thinking of Acheron for no good reason, except that I wanted to consider the right approach to Frank and his most likely to me. If one analyzes the situation in a businesslike manner, Frank will be getting a return on investment that the stock market can’t do in a good year. And I get to do all the work. Most people think that playing cards is fun. I’m really glad that they’re having such a good time, but I sincerely hope that they have their fun playing rummy or fish. I find it work.
No matter, let’s get back to Frank. He’s a sporting gentleman.
Another guy losing that much money would start crying foul or accuse me of cheating of some sort and probably have everyone there on his side. He didn’t, of course, do that. He stood there and took the punch like a man who’s given and received a few. I could deal with him fairly and perhaps trust him when necessary.
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Enough time had elapsed and enough thought had been given.
I drove to his house. When I got there I made more note of the plantings interspaced graciously in the front and side of the cut stone beauty. I parked on the gravel driveway, walked up to the door and used the knocker. Frank opened the door in about two seconds.
“Ed, hi, glad you could make it.” He extended his right hand. I shook it, smiling at him.
I said, “I hope I’m not too early.”
“No, no, you’re fine. I’m a morning person, so I’ve been up a while. I don’t like anything more than watching a new sunrise.”
Thinking of Acheron, I said; “I’m a little unsure about that, but I think it’s high on my list.”
“Good, good. Come on in.” He turned away, walking through the center hall to a room at the far right. I closed the front door and followed him to what was overwhelmingly a pool room with the walls done in dark paneling, floor to ceiling. The wood was of the vertically hung tongue in groove variety. It looked a lot like a floor turned on its side.
Frank took a cue from a wall cabinet and said; “Do you play?”
“A little,” I answered. “I never was much good at it,” but I didn’t have to add that. He would see for himself soon
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enough. I went to the same cabinet and took a cue for myself.
He started to rack the balls and said; “Eight ball?”
“Good choice,” I said, thankful that he didn’t pick a higher skill game, like straight pool. He put two cue balls at the edge facing the rack. He took the right side and I the left, simultaneously, stroking our cue balls off the opposite bunker, hard and soft enough to bring them back to the bunker we shot from. Whoever was closest got to break. Oddly, mine fit the bill. I put my cue ball at its appropriate spot and hit it as hard as I could. This was always one of my game’s weak points and I performed the usual less than mediocre shot, getting nothing.
He said; “You don’t want to bet on this, do you?”
I laughed; “Not a chance.”
He smiled and succeeded at sinking the three ball and then the five. He must have realized that he didn’t have to concentrate to beat me, so he started talking.
“I know of a game in Bedminster at 6 o'clock on Friday nights, with a minimum, I believe, of $60,000. There are some very good players there and some Wall Street types who don't know what else to do with their bonuses. I’d like to back you in that game.”
He missed his next shot at the seven and I said; “What if I lose?”
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“Then it’s my loss.”
“And if I win?”
“We split it in half.”
“Sounds like a good deal to me. How many times have you done this before?”
“Quite a few. I’ve had winners and losers.”
“Any weaponry.”
“Probably, but I’ve never heard of it being used.”
“Do you carry?”
He laughed; “Of course, I’m a country boy.”
I laughed, too and said; “I’m glad that I’ll be with a country boy.”
I took a shot at the eleven, making it. He said; “Then I’ll pick you up Friday at 5:15?”
“Sounds good. What rules do they play by?” I took a shot at the ten and missed.
“Same as us basically.” He went after the one, making it.
He added; “Of course, the numbers are different. $60,000 to play, $500 ante and a maximum of $5,000 per card.” He again missed the seven.
I said, “Why me? You must know a number of other card players with more experience than me.”
“Simple. I’m betting that you’re walking around lucky.”
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I sank the twelve and missed the fifteen. He proceeded to sink the two, four, six and seven in succession. He had a difficult shot at the eight and eyed the table for about 15
seconds and then said; “I’m going to have to bank it,” and proceeded to. He said; “Sometimes people don’t play their best.”
He put his cue stick down on the table and I followed suit.
I also followed him back to the front door. He opened it, stepping outside and said; “Friday at 5:15.”
I said; “I’ll be here.”
He corrected me saying; “No, I’ll pick you up.” He went back inside and I returned to my car and drove home. The day was still very young and when I got there I wondered if I might be able to find something to do more interesting than looking for evidence of my past life. I wanted to call Acheron, but first I thought I should check in with Butch, tell him what happened and see if he had any problems with the deal.
“Hello,” he brightly answered.
“Butch. I got a deal with Frank and I just want to run it by you.”
“Go ahead.”
“He completely stakes me. Any losses are his and we split any profits 50-50.”
“Where do I come in?”
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“Same as usual, except Frank gets half my profit. The law of averages says that because of the “I bluff, you call”
routine, you’ll wind up winning more than me.”
“I don’t think that’s fair to Frank.”
“It’s business. He’ll be there. If he doesn’t like my bluffing, he can tell me about it and I’ll stop.”
“Then we’ll lose our advantage.”
“We’ll lose one of our advantages. If he tells me to stop, you can quit and I’ll just play with Frank’s money.”
“Sounds good. If I think of anything later, I’ll call.
Hey, one thing I just thought of. I don’t think I’ve got enough money to get in the game.”
“Right,” I laughed, because I too had forgotten that detail. Thinking out loud, I said, “Well, since I’ll be playing with Frank’s money, I can give you my $22,000 and then you’ll have $44,000. They say you need $60,000, though.”
“Well, what then?”
“Borrow it from your parents.”
“Fat chance. They know me better than anybody.”
“Well, I don’t have it, either. Tell you what; go to the game with the $44,000 and tell everyone up front. If they say no, you say ‘Fuck it,’ and don’t play.”
“All right. Hey, quit yakking at me all day. I have some things to straighten out with Alice.”
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“Have fun,” and I hung up, immediately calling Acheron.
She answered saying; “Is this anyone with good news or money?”
“Right on both counts. You obviously can leave work early and I’ll pay for a picnic,” I said thinking that she would recognize my voice by now.
She giggled and said; “Hi.”
“Would you have hung up on me if I didn’t have good news or money?”
“If it’s you that satisfies the good news requirement. If it was anyone else lacking the necessary ingredients, yes, I would hang up.”
“I like that one. I’m going to try that sometime. All I need is for somebody to call me.”
“Before we get any further, there’s something I’d like to tell you and I don’t want you getting upset.”
“Well, now I am. What?”
“Don’t be upset. It’s not a bad thing. I just want you to know that I don’t want to make any babies...”
I cut her off; “Good, neither do I.”
“I’m not finished. I’m not looking for a perpetual room-mate, either.”
“I haven’t yet volunteered to be one.”
“I’m glad. Keep it that way. What I want is a very special non-resident friend.”
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“You always put your best foot forward, don’t you? I love it. Let me give it a big kiss at today’s picnic. It’s not even one o’clock yet. I could pick up some food and wine and be at your house in half an hour.”
“Oh, good, I’m happy you’re not upset. I’ll be ready.”
She hung up.
I put down the phone and stared at the trees through my front window for a minute. I thought that I may have detected a delectable pattern to our conversations. When they start I am expecting some kind of normality, then she starts talking about something I’d never have thought of, pushing us to some type of abnormality, to which I respond with something bizarre. I like her a lot. Anything was possible.
I drove to town to pick up some heroes, pickles and wine.
I brought an old Easter basket with me and put the bonanza in it. I parked in front of her condo and knocked at the door.
Butch was having his own weird day with Alice. He went to see her at the bowling alley. The crux of the conversation revolved around a few key sentences.
Alice would say something like; “You’ve got to stop drinking, gambling and acting irrationally.”
Butch would say something like; “You like Acheron’s irrationality, but won’t tolerate it in me?”
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Alice would say; “Acheron’s female. I don’t think you are.”
Butch would say; “Men are supposed to always be rational?”
Alice would say; “YES.”
Butch would end the conversation by saying; “That’s no fun.” Then he would take her hand, pull her gently toward him and hug her.
Acheron answered the door by knocking on it herself from the inside. I said; “I can’t open it from this side, or can I?”
Her silly voice said; “You’ll only find out if you try.”
I tried to push the door open, but couldn’t. I put the basket on the concrete ground to use a little more effort, but to no avail. I said; “Acheron, I’m totally incompetent, but I did get a basket of goodies.”
She opened the door smiling exuberantly and said; “Come in and let me see the goodies.” She seized the basket from my hand and carried it to the kitchen table for inspection. “Good, good, good,” she said, paused, then added; “Let’s walk to the river. If we get totally wrecked we won’t have to worry about driving home.”
Trying to insert something spacey in the conversation, I asked; “Where’s home?”
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“Right here, today, silly. What a stupid question.” I noticed a very outgoing, confident mannerism, covered by her tight blue jeans and white peasant blouse. She again took the basket and carried it to the door leading me out. I finally was able to get along-side her and noted the seemingly identical townhouses strung along the 300 foot long, eight foot, concrete path, culminating in the sighting of the famous “Last Chance Groceries” store. We silently walked past it and I hoped no one would run out and try to get Acheron to go back to work.
As we passed through the willow woods and approached the river I said; “Do you believe in last chances?”
“Of course not. Well, not unless you plan on dying imminently.”
We reached a clear spot fifty feet from the river. She sat on the ground and I joined her. I then realized that we didn’t bring any blankets, glasses, or wine bottle openers and said so, offering to walk back to the house to get the items. She said;
“Don’t bother. There aren’t many ants here and I can probably get the cap off the bottle myself. I’ve got some experience.”
She successfully completed her task, took a swap directly from the bottle and then handed it to me. I took a big gulp, handed it back to her and took out one of the heroes. We proceeded to get sloppy drunk and full. It didn’t look like either of us had a good meal recently. We passed the sunny
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afternoon watching the river flow, the birds and an occasional squirrel in absolute silence, perhaps not wanting to add any impediment to Mother Nature’s serenity. When we finished we sloppily walked back to her place, often bumping into each other in our state of inebriation.
When I woke up the next morning, I was on her couch watching her blaring box. I was glad to see that she had a different channel on. It was apparently PBS and a pleasant white bearded fellow was trying to teach me how to paint. I intently watched, but soon realized that he was too advanced for me and that to get anywhere I’d have to go back and see the first few episodes. Nonetheless I concentrated on the show, not moving for about fifteen minutes. When Acheron came out of her open bedroom door. I said; “Do you paint?”
She answered; “Yeah, sometimes.”
“Did you ever sell anything?”
“No. I’ve given a few away though.”
“Let me see what you still have.”
“Some other time. I’m on my way to work. Some of us need to do bullshit to get by.”
“Well, another option is to get a brain tumor.”
“I think I’ll keep my job for a few more weeks.” With that she went to the front door and added; “Are you going to be here when I get back?”
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The tone made it obvious that the right answer was “No,” so I said; “Yes.” I had to quickly ask; “We had a good time yesterday, didn’t we?”
She made a small laugh and said; “Sure did. Let’s make it a habit.” She left and I resumed watching the painter until the show ended.
When I got up, it was obvious that I didn’t have any remaining deleterious effects from yesterday’s wine consumption.
I recalled the somewhat recurrent dream that I again had. I was walking on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan, this time not desirous of going home, but rather looking at the stores and people milling about. I could tell that many of them were visiting from elsewhere and were quite excited looking at the morsels in the windows, but didn’t want to show what they must have considered their lack of sophistication. The adopted blasé countenance was betrayed by the delight obvious in their eyes. I found it charming, realizing I was no different. My good mood was enhanced when I saw the sign in front of a major bookstore which said; “Patti Smith book signing today, 12-3 PM.” The store itself had a very odd shape, that of a cross. There were entrances on Fifth and Sixth Avenues, as well as two more on 47th and 48th Streets. Other stores filled in the large gaps between them. Entering the Fifth Avenue door, I walked until I saw a crowd of about 100 people congregating near an empty desk
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and chair, in front of a handmade sign saying “Patti Smith.”
She, however, was standing twenty feet away in her boots, blue jeans and vest-like top, shaking her long black hair while playing her clarinet.
Someone wearing the store vest approached her and said;
“Patti, why don’t you sit down and sign? People are waiting.”
She removed the clarinet from her lips, dropped it to her side and looked at the questioner for a few silent seconds. She then said in a somewhat surprised tone; “Obviously, because I feel like playing my clarinet.”
I shut the television and drove home.
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