I'm Not Mean, I'm Just Crazy

     In my younger and more impressionable
days, my mother gave me some invaluable advice that I’ve been thinking over
ever since. She said,

     “Son, you’re a smart
man but you’ve made some foolish choices. You’re a slave to whiskey, women, and
song; the only vice you have left is gambling and that’s the worst of them all.
It’ll be your friend one second and it’ll steal your family, money, and
livelihood the next. Whatever you do, don’t give in to the only vice you don’t
have.”

     These words resonated
through my thoughts as laid the green felt on my living room table, well my
only table, as it’s a one room apartment. I straightened the felt out and
stared around the room, only now realizing the state of disrepair it was in.
Various articles of clothing were strewn haphazardly over the moth-eaten couch
in the corner of the room and all over the floor. All the same, the same
whiskey stained undershirts, the same wrinkled chino pants, and the same old
socks with holes in the soles.

Shards of glass lay in piles in the opposite
corner. I had had Bob from next-door over for a couple and had forgotten the
key thing to remember when drinking with him: never drink from glass. Bob had a
habit of draining his drink and lobbing the glass across the room and into the
wall. After the second glass, I had threatened to tear him a second asshole, so
he stopped, but he’d left right
afterwards and refused to clean anything up. I was going to clean it; I just
hadn’t gotten around to it.   

Was this truly the life I wanted to live? Was
this the glamorous life of a writer? When an elementary school teacher asks her
students what they want to be when they grow up, almost all of the boys in the
class say they want to be firemen. A few say they want to be doctors or
lawyers, but no one ever says, “I want to be a writer.” When the teacher asked
me, I said, “I don’t really know…”

While lost in my own musings, I heard a
persistent knock on the door, well; actually three persistent knocks on the
door. It had to be the four guys from the racetrack; I had invited them over
for some Texas hold ‘em the
previous day, they seemed alright enough. They had been standing in line by the
ticket window when I ran over to place my bet. My horse was in the next race,
which was set to start in two minutes. I’d
seen Big Rig in the Racing Form, which had him down at 15 to 1, and had
remembered him from last week. This horse was on fire and the Form had him down
at 15 to 1! How could the chimps down at the Form keep their jobs while they
were publishing odds like that?

Anyway, I had pushed my way through the mob
to the windows, but these four men still stood between my goal and me. I hadn’t let the speed limits, crosswalks,
pedestrians, or common sense stop me, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to let them stop me. So I ran towards them full speed and screamed, “Fire!” As they ducked and turned, I slid into the front of the line and placed my bet.

Well, as it turns out, people don’t like to be fooled around with, especially
when dealing with arson, and these guys were no exception. After I had placed
my bet, I turned to walk away, only to be greeted by an intimidating wall of
racetrack bottom-feeders. (Although I’m
a racetrack bottom-feeder, it doesn’t
stop me from identifying others.) I found it interesting that they spoke in
order; one, then two, then three, then four and so on and so forth.

“Hey!
What do you think you’re doing,” said number one.

“Yeah,
what the hell was that?” said number two right on cue.

Number three looked at the first two,
looked back and said, “You really should watch where you’re going.”

And the fourth one, who really didn’t
seem to be paying attention, looked up and yelled, “Yeah! You goddamned idiot,”
and proceeded to pick at his cuticles.

“Hey guys, let’s not make a scene of
this. How bout you guys come around my place for a little poker tomorrow night,
eh? Sound good?” I asked.

They looked at me with confounded
expressions on their faces and said, “Will there be something to drink?”

“Yeah, you buying?”

“Get some whiskey.”

And with a confused nod of his head,
the fourth one agreed.

“What do you think this is? Amateur
hour? Of course there’ll be whiskey,” I said, not believing they were thinking
of coming.

“Okay, we’ll be there,” said number
one.

“Yeah, we’ll…”

“Shut up! Let’s go!” Yelled number one
and walked away with the three others trailing behind.

     Perhaps
this wasn’t a good idea, having those swine in my apartment. Who knows what
kind of treachery would take place if those four punks found their way in. But
it was too late now. They were at the door and it would be even worse if I made
them stand outside for more than two minutes. As I walked to the door, I heard
them talking in the hallway outside. It didn’t sound like them. Who the hell
was outside then?

     As
I opened the door and stared into the hallway, confusion turned into wonder and
then back into confusion. How could this be happening? They’re dead they can’t
be here, now. Standing in front of my door were two people, but they weren’t
the men from the racetrack. Standing in front of me were Hunter S. Thompson and
Charles Bukowski. An unlikely set of people in any situation, but even more
unlikely when taking into account the fact that they’re both dead.

“Um...Hi,” I said at a loss for words.

“You weren’t going to let those punks
in were you?” asked Doctor Thompson, pointing off into the night.

“Um...What?”

“Those four dolts that were standing
out here waiting for Whiskey.”

     None
of this made sense. Why had Hunter S. Thompson turned the racetrack swine from
my door? Why was Hunter S. Thompson here? Why had he come with Charles
Bukowski?

“They were trying to get into your
apartment with a crowbar, but I don’t think they’ll be trying that again...” said Dr. Thompson pulling
his coat aside to show me the 44 strapped to his shoulder.

“Those sons-of-bitches didn’t know what
was comin’ to them. They just slid away like a turd down hill,” said Bukowski
as he pulled the pint of vodka from his lips.

“Do you want to come in?” I asked,
still unsure of what was happening and what state of mind I was in. “I was
gonna play some poker.”

“Poker...I don’t know. Hank! What do
you think? Hank? O Jesus, where did he go? Hank!”

     Bukowski
had disappeared and Thompson began running up and down the hall looking for
him. I couldn’t believe my eyes. What the hell was going on? Had I somehow
fallen into some alternate universe? Had I somehow ingested some Jimson Weed
and proceeded to hallucinate beyond my control? Neither of these possibilities
seemed very viable.

     Perhaps
in a subjective reality, I could alter what I saw. No. This level of sensory
distortion, to the point of full-blown image hallucination, wasn’t possible.
Perhaps I was simply going mad. It was bound to happen. What is mad anyway? Isn’t
it just a label the powerful place on the weak? I could deal with going mad
(Ironic eh?), even if it meant playing poker with two of my favorite, dead,
writers. But first Bukowski needed to be found. However, this proved to be simple
enough, for he had found his way into my apartment and was already dealing out
chips.

“Come on boys, 20 dollar buy in, winner
take all.” Said Bukowski as he finished dividing the chips up.

“O there you are you goddamned whore!
How the Hell did he get in here?” yelled Hunter as he walked through the door.

     Although
I had come to terms with the fact that I was seeing Hunter S. Thompson and
Charles Bukowski in my apartment playing poker, I still couldn’t believe it.

“Well, come on Jack, sit down. Aren’t
we playing poker?” asked Thompson beckoning me over to the table.

“I guess we are, Hunter. Charles
Bukowski, Hunter S. Thompson, and I are going to play poker,” I said listening
to the absurdity of the statement.

     As
I sat down, Bukowski dealt cards around the table. We all threw in our 25 cent
antes and looked at our cards. Queen ten, suited. Not bad for a first hand. It
was Thompson’s bet; he was sitting to the left of the dealer. He threw a
25-cent chip into the pot, I called, and Bukowski called. Three stubborn
players usually makes for a quick game. Bukowski reached for the deck, burnt
the top card and laid down the flop. Queen, Jack, Ten.

     I
could win this hand, two pair, that’s pretty good. Although, the possibility of
a straight was pretty high, I wouldn’t let them push me out.

“I’ll bet a dollar fifty,” said
Thompson as he threw the chips into the pot.

     Damn
it, he probably has a straight; maybe I can push him out. “I’ll raise you
another dollar,” I said tossing two fifty into the pot.

“Why you swine, what are you trying to
do? Push me...”

“I’ll raise you to three,” said
Bukowski as he tossed three dollar chips into the pot.

“What!? You’re both full of shit. I’ll
call your three you whore.” Said Thompson angrily.

     This
was turning ugly fast. If I were a rational man, I would have folded then, but
I usually didn’t fold before the Turn and I had a feeling that they were
bluffing. “I’ll call you three, let’s see the Turn.”

     Bukowski
burnt the top card and laid down the Turn. A ten. I didn’t matter if they were
bluffing or not, I had a full house and I was going to make their stacks a
little bit lighter, but it was still Dr. Gonzo’s bet.

“I’ll check,” said Thompson.

“I’ll raise you two dollars,” said
Bukowski, trying to set Thompson off.

“Why you slimy son-of-a...”

“I’ll call that,” I said as I tossed
the chips into the pot.

“Well I guess I have to now,” said
Thompson as he counted out two dollars. The pot was looking pretty hefty and we
all had our eyes on it.

      All that was left was the River. Bukowski
burnt a card and laid down the card. A three of clubs. It would be a great
understatement to say that the River was a let down. Well, it didn’t really
matter for me, because I had gotten my hand on the Turn, but the other two were
visibly disappointed and that meant that I could make my move.

“I’ll check,” said Thompson.

“I’ll check as well,” said Bukowski.

“I’m all in,” I said pushing my stack
into the pot.

“Fine! You’ve done it, you’ve pushed me
out. Are you happy?” asked Thompson as he threw his cards at the wall.

“Well, we’ll see.” I said.

     Bukowski
just sat across the table, staring at me, trying to discover my motives. He
took a generous hit from the pint, placed it slowly back into his jacket
pocket, and said “I’m all in.”

     He
stood up and said, “well buddy, let’s see what you have.” And as we both
flipped our cards, I realized the folly of my play. Bukowski was the poet
laureate of skid row, he was the king of hustlers, he knew his way around a
deck of cards and I had let him get me. The cards hit the table and sat in
cold, silent reality, a full house on one side of the table and a royal flush
on the other. I couldn’t believe my eyes (although they seemed to be
malfunctioning anyway), he had gotten the royal flush and he’d had it since the
flop. “I can’t believe you got the…”

     I
was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Who is it?” I yelled from across the
room.

“It’s us!”

“Who’s us?” I asked.

“Us. From the racetrack. The guys you fooled
into giving up their spot in line!” said the voice from the hall.

     What
were they doing here? Why would they have come back if Thompson had threatened
them with a 44?

“Hey Hunter, I thought you...” but as
turned to face the table, I found myself alone. However, the table was covered
with chips and our cards, and when I looked at the pot, I found that the cash
was gone. I checked my pockets, to no avail, and went to take a drink, but
found the bottle was empty.

“Hey! You gonna let us in?” yelled the
voice from the hall.

“Hold on you sons-of-bitches. Let me
get my head straight.”

“Jeez. If you don’t want us here, just
tell us, we’ll leave. You don’t have to be so goddamned mean about it.”

     I
slowly walked to the door, opened it, and took a step into the hallway. I
lifted my face as close as I could get it to the first one’s face and said, “I’m
not mean, I’m just crazy.”

 

 

by Chiansky (Viewed 393 times)

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