As I watch the glow from my laptop computer flash lights against the sleeping face of my beautiful wife, I can’t help but think I am the luckiest guy in the world. Unfortunately, I know the limitations of my digital screen’s reach. I know, from here, it won’t illuminate every negative aspect I have brought upon our union, cleverly tucked away, temporarily in the shadows and corners of this crumbling kingdom.
She has learned to ignore every click, moan, sigh, and just sleep through my midnight virtual antics. She used to watch cutely laying on her side, thinking this was something in a better direction- something further away from more hazardous circumstances, and I suppose, to some extents, she’s right.
So, the digital deck flickers, deals the new hand, and I can’t stop asking myself, where did this go wrong? She obviously deserves an answer, if not something better than a wild card with a just dirty, crumpled, single to his name. I wish I knew the source- the home where I could channel some constructive thought. I wish I knew where to start from, as I already feel too consumed and committed to dare turning around.
I look at the lights dancing on my wife’s cheek, and she is still gorgeous as always. I look at the digital pocket on the screen, and I come face to face with the same dilemma I’ve been facing my whole life, ever since the first time I held a deck of cards in my hand. Am I in? Do I stay in? Do I play? Have I not lost enough to call a loss a loss and survive to fight another day?
I may not have much, but I have her. I still have her smile and the warmth of her heart. That is, until my bet is raised. I feel disgusting.
Yet, I wonder, what is this? I have a growing strength in my stomach, and something wants me to believe it’s good. Is this the high of reckless abandon? Is this the smile of pushing it all in and seeing how the fate of the last couple cards treat you? No, I am not that jaded. I haven’t lost all humanity to the four suits, misguiding my emotions from the guilt I know I should bare. I understand the monster I have become, but I know I can change back.
Is this what this feels like- redemption or some salvation? Have I confused my table confidence with other situations enough to think I can pull a bluff over destiny? This isn’t the glow of redemption or salvation- this isn’t a good feeling. This is the hungry monster dragging his knuckles over the felted surfaces of my skull, heckling me to check through another hand, because I still have a bet to make.
I can’t push all in without her, and, I ask myself, is that what I am waiting for? Am I waiting for her to materialize as the last darkly-colored chip, and toss her in? Am I revolting to wonder?
I think so, closing the screen against it’s keys. I turn to her and smile, as she still lays in perfect time-stopping beauty. I gently put my hand against her cheek and kiss her lips. She hums moaning from behind the walls of sleep, and I hope she feels me. I hope she feels my tired, worried heart- growing dark with constant disappointment and betrayal. I hope she still sees the good man I believe I have the potential of being, behind the monster mask. I hope she’s not like me, and wonders where did her husband go so wrong?
I put the card games away, if just for the few hours of sleep, and I begin to relax in the darkness beside her, with the same questions coming to the forefront of my mind. And, as my eyes close, opening my mind, I travel back for a sudden moment and look to answer a few things.
Beep... Beep...“So, you are another one of those MIT, mother fuckers?” a twenty-something Jack Goddard asks, holding a cheap beer bottle in his hand. “Code words? Card counting? Like all that Casino movie bullshit?”
The young Goddard takes the last sip of the green bottle and taps the empty container against the arm of the out-dated fashion sofa. An unbelievably large fraternity insignia stretches over the wall behind him.
“That’s bullshit Blackjack, Jack,” the man replies, “We don’t play that shit.”
The man pushes his upper body over a cluttered table and lifts a book back to his seat, flinging the paperback at Jack. It hits his chest and rests on his lap, with a reluctant Goddard smiling and looking down, unsure of what he is expected to do.
“That’s probably a bit advanced for you,” the man starts, pointing at the untouched book. “But it’s a great reference for this. You’ll catch on quickly, and when you do, you are going to be buried in that thing. You’ll gobble up every last word, and wonder where you can learn more.”
Jack lifts the book from his lap and takes a quick glance at the simple, black, front cover. “Super System?”
“It’s the unholy poker bible- Texas Hold‘em mostly,” the friend introduces. “It’ll take that friendly, colorful, card game you would otherwise treat like a game of mother-fucking Uno with
Gram-Gram and Pop-Pop, and rip that whole fucking thing off it’s hinges.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Jack laughs, thumbing through pages that appear to be in nothing but Greek- terms and references failing to be anything but foreign.
“…Ever see The Matrix?” he asks.
“Well, yea…”
“See,” the friend continues, leaning from his chair, into the direction of the open book. “That’s what that book will do. It’ll expose the math behind the game. It’ll erase the colors and pretty pictures, and replace it all with numbers and percentages- along with some advance thoughts about tournament play.”
Goddard closes the book, feeling a bit overwhelmed and out of place, and places it to the side. “Yea, I guess I’ll have to take a look at it, sometime.”
“I am talking about a lot of free floating money out there,” the frat brother insists. “There’s a ton of stupid businessmen out there, without knowledge of that book, just waiting to pay for your college debt.” He laughs at the analogy.
“What?” Jack’s doubt and suspicion continue to arise. “Come on now.”
“Well, why do you think, Jack?” he continues to explain. “What do these rich CEO’s and tourists expect going to casinos and games? They get free drinks, free food, and all the bleached blonde to gaze at. Jack, they are just looking for a good time. They’re not even watching their bank rolls. It's all just dead money, and literally foolproof.”
“You mean,” Goddard cuts in, reopening the introductory pages of the book. “You and whoever go into these games and always leave with wads of cash?”
His friend's face cringes, winches, and replies with the his most accurate answer. “No, I guess not all the time, but, what you don't see, is that money we take to some games is the winnings of the game the night before. Some nights, the cards just don't look good on you. Lady Luck is on the rag and every last divine force in the universe is making sure you leave the table without a dime to your name. On those nights, make sure you don't lose your shirt. Don't lose everything you came there with, and, for the love of God, don't lose anything you didn't.”
Jack nods and looks down, giving his attention to the first few words on the first page.
“Take that book, and read what you have to to get a basic understanding of the game beyond the gambling,” he wraps up, turning away and opening a cupboard door. “Then come talk to me. I'll take you to game. We'll see if you can put all those ideas and thoughts into practicality on the poker table. We'll see if all those X, Y, and Z's start to make sense.”
I'm sure she's waking up now, and finding out I'm not there. I'm sure that's just going by swimmingly. Apologetic is a poor word to use, but, I guess if you don't care to hear the whole story, it's a good enough general emotion. As poor as it is, I'm relieved in it's simplicity, seeing how I am moving with still a loss of words. I can focus on different sources of confusion, and not just making sure the door doesn't hit me on the way out.
It's literally Day Two here at True Glory, and I jest, thinking some how I made a bigger name for myself outside the squared circle than inside. That was pretty much opposite than I expected or wished to do, but, then again, I didn't think I would be pretending to be a ghost, flying across the country in a bus. I guess the only thing I proved to do was live up to my Wild Card moniker. I guess I never know what to expect, not even from myself.
I am buying time writing between pothole bumps, avoiding to discuss other topics. There is a reason I am under a spotlight, at this moment, but you'll either have to read on or between the lines to get anything new out of me. I haven't decided whether or not speaking of that matter will be in my favor or not, because, it's as no surprise, I have to always look out for myself.
So if you landed here looking for a piece of the excitement, please feel free to get disappointed in my eclipsing No Comment for the rest of the world. If it lacks the answers you were looking for, settle for bashing my character, and I promise I'll do what I can about caring. Otherwise, take the apology, as poor as it is defined.
“See that guy right there, Jacko,” says a young man in a clearly Fear and Loathing-inspired get-up. A cigarette dangles from his lips. “Pinch, Weirdo, and Jimmy all watched that clown putz around the moment he showed up. He's your fish if no one else. Got it?”
A younger Goddard in a slight disguise nods, soaking the ends of his fake mustache in his tropical drink. “Yep.”
The pair of off-camera partners separate and Jacko lurks around the meeting hall, soaking in the general mist of the scene, while holding a patient and cold eye on his designated target- his fish. That was his man, and, plans were, if nothing else were to happen, to take this nobody's wallet before the rest of the sharks in the hall smell the blood in the water. Pinch had his man across the room, and so did the rest of the partners in crime. In fact, sometimes some fish were too large or timid to reel in solo. Sometimes you need a bigger boat or, rather, just another man in on the trick to help a giant stack disappear before the audience catches the trick.
Games were starting to get under way and table seating was being established. Goddard takes his drink and phoney facade and finds himself perfect feeding position over his prey, immediately abandoning his novice Australian accent, as the rest of the table is just crawling with pros.
Jack's target- an otherwise cool looking forty-something with an evident desire to look Italian, even though he clearly wasn't. His normally mismanaged hair was slicked back with a greasy overbearing product he bought hours before his arrival. His suit, straight off his father's corpse, looked even more strange than suited men usually do. Jack sighed in disbelief, as all the imaginary red flags were just popping left and right on his catch. Surely everyone else was seeing them too.
Maybe this was his challenge, he thought. There could be a good chance the boys seated at other tables left this floater for him, just to see what he would do and adapt to with the imminent chaos, just one television poker reference away. Sure, the money would be great, but maybe there was some other lesson embedded in this ticking bomb. Goddard set his sights and priorities, and began to play.
Hands and rounds are played, and Jack spends them out of the way, watching his target and it's interaction with the rest of the table and the rest of the table with it, hoping he didn't have to scramble into this mental melee too blind. He looks over his shoulder, glancing at the early dealings of his partners. He wonders how they are doing and if his nonsense is going to be under watch.
He comes back to the game with a real hand and injects into the table conversation already in progress.
“I don't really seeing it happen, to be honest,” he starts, pushing a small bet forward. “So older computers and electronic devices might not be able recognize the new year, that's never stopped my digital clock from just resetting itself after midnight.”
“But do you think they will stop working and cause some sort of technological panic- like what if computers in hospitals stopped working?”
“Come now, really? You're really believing this stuff?”
“Well, I think it could...”
“Listen,” Goddard speaks up. “So
our computers could possibly have some difficulty, do you really think something so inaccurate on anything but a local level could really cause so much destruction? I mean, its just the time of date- one humans created- one that changes depending on where you live. I can't imagine anything that less standard could do anything but reset.”
The table goes on about their impending doom banter, following his logic, with the Italian-wannabe bobbing on the surface of the water, playing bad move after bad move. The novice Goddard gets increasingly nervous with his target losing a particularly large hand to someone else on the table.
“But enough of that Y2K bullshit,” he says, peeling up his pocket cards from the following hand. “I have the same old seven-two-off to play with the utmost care.” Despite his obvious joke bluff, he plays into the hand. “I'll call.”
“I thought you said you had seven-two-off? Who would play that?”
“I said I call,” Goddard smiles back, reinforcing the transparent bluff, just for everyone's amusement. “I didn't raise.”
Out of all the possible pairs of cards you could receive from a dealer, the pair of a seven and a deuce is, without a doubt, the least liable set to win you a decent hand. There's plenty of reasons why. One glaring one, is that every last player following your bets couldn't have a worse pre-flop hand. The other difficulty in playing such rag cards, is that as the cards begin to get played on the table, the likely hood that they will benefit others over your hand.
The hand finishes and Jacko comes out on top, reeling in a large amount of chip. Now holding enough plastic money to force it target into any hand he sticks with, The Wild Card thinks over his next few steps, as others joke and mock his paper-thin seven-two bluff. The faux Italian, on the other hand, appears to have a rougher and more unpleasant time.
“Yea, the whole lot of you's motherfuckers must just be waiting to take my money,” the target blurts, pausing the shocked smoking and drinking table. “I can see it. All you's motherfuckers just can't wait to bust me in every hand I play!”
“Hey, now, there's no reason to get bent out of shape.”
“Wow, where the fuck did that come from?”
Before the rest of the sharks caught on, the fish could tell he was being bled. Except this time, this stupid-looking forty-something never assumed he was a fish, or, rather, a small fish.
“Go fuck yourselves, the lot of ya',” he continues to huff, wiping sweat of his greasy brow. “Cause you's ain't stealing my money. You's stealing from someone really fucking scary. Jus' throwing that out there, for all you's bastards to suck on.”
“Yea, is that so?” The Wild Card returns, with a cocky grin. “I should be afraid of your little threat there, because someone dumb enough to proxy you in a high stakes game is some kind of gangster? Why can't I believe a such a desperate-sounding bluff like that?”
“Tis' no bluff, you jack-off,” the sweaty man replies. “And I'll fucking show you!” He reaches over and takes the remaining stacks of chip he has and puts them in front of his cards. “If these are what you's want, then please allow me to let you steal them. I am all in and these are my cards.”
He carelessly flips over his cards and reveals nothing of any significance, but, to Jack, this target just made his assigned gig as easy as it could get. Jack, still holding his covered cards, looks over and ponders the consequences of winning a fool-proof hand, while accepting the possibility of a mean mobster beat down afterward. The man sees the conflict in his eyes.
“Go ahead and take it, boy. That is, unless you's know I ain't bluffin'.”
Goddard takes one last look down at his cards and lifts his head. His lips slowly separate, as time slows to a halt.
We both know I have done a lot of really stupid things- things that have permanently stained my life with stupidity and things that have sent stupid echoes down through the paths of my future, but that's always been a part of me. Yet, with some clarity, I can say this really isn't one of them.
The means of which, sure, are regrettable, but this was something I couldn't allow us to lie about any longer. We painted a picture a long time ago for us to live in, with beautiful mountains and trees. We etched our silhouettes along the embankment, and used words and phrases like forever and until the end of time. We meant them then, as fools always do, but as the picture drew closer in focus, I saw that there was refuge in discovering the bomb shelters in the mountains behind us. That is where I took us into separation, away from each other- away from the destructive, foolish world we created for ourselves in vain.
Was it too late for some last few words? Was it too late for an explanation? Perhaps not, but, as long as we are locked in, lets prioritize in taking minimal damage until the world resets. Surely, you wouldn't agree, but please accept this apology, as poor as the company it keeps.
You have the world's support, and, with that, you'll turn out just fine. Just endure the solitude, the blast, and the rest of the world will praise your survival, waiting for you with open arms. You'll have much less to worry about, at that point, than someone like me, but, look, I am trying to sound victimized. Ironic. Or obvious? Hold your own opinions to paper, no one is stopping you. I am merely speaking of one portrait. I've never proclaimed myself a saint or a demon, just different, even by human terms. I am a flawed person, like everyone else, who only wants the best for himself, and, at the end of the day, if your head isn't on the chopping block, you've done good enough.
The air breaks exhale, and I must be wrapping this up. Reader, if you are looking for a retort, my side of the story, or just fuel to hate me more, I really didn't have any of that for you. I am just the guy you hate one second and love the next. And with such quick judgment like that, doesn't that say more about you than me? Next stop: nowhere.
I hit the gym again because I was given a date with a letter. Q. Was that it- the whole thing? I feel a balancing act between confusion and complete indifference overwhelm my mind, one I already have preoccupied with more serious matters than a Q. If nothing else, I hope this one actually shows up. I need some part of this wrestling career of mine to start diverting attention from other parts of my introduction here.
It would be a relief, if by some luck, bloggers and reporters would post about the show-stealer between Q and The Wild Card, win or loss. They would go on about the battle that could have gone either way, but minor techniques and strategies played in big when both men were gassing. One man looked to close the show, but it was reversed and the matched was flipped on it's head.
I am looking for something that exciting. I need the room to breathe, evaluate things, and pick a path to move on, and maybe being matched up against the most unique superstar this federation has to offer is something of some blind luck I have been lacking of late.
Listen, Q, I suppose this is the part of the show where you'd expect me, the guy we both know knows very little about you, to start swinging wildly, trying to make crazy accusations and predictions for our match coming up. Well, sorry. When it comes to disappointed customers, feel comfort in the fact its been a rough show across the board. I'm not that type of guy, or rather, not yet. I am synched in survival mode- ego aside, and as long as one of us makes it entertaining, it will work in a favor that suits me.
It's Animosity only in title, so no hard feelings, just come ready to tear the roof down.