Don't recall how it started. Could be due to age though in most ways my gray matter's in good shape though I have to be careful how hard I blow my nose. Got a head cold a few months back and I blew most of Fourth Grade into a strip of toilet paper. What remained told me I'd not lost much of value. A fair amount of my school day back then was spent after class repenting my evil ways. In 1950s parochial school it didn't take much to be evil. The road to hell was paved by my maturing sense of humor or so the ladies in black said.
Could be it was Earl who led the way down to the bunk at the far end of the barracks. There we formed a group of Saturday afternoon regulars who whiled away the hours with nickels, dimes and a deck of Cincinnati made playing cards. Our idea was entertainment and that no one be financially ruined. When you're pullin' down ninety bucks a month ruination doesn't take much. Yup, we kept it simple and innocent till the day Russ spoke up and introduced us to the rite called Guts. Guts added spice to our lives and emptied a few pockets along the way.
It was a simple game, two cards only and was a cause for a man to look deeply into his soul to see what was there. Most times when the pot grew exponentially, I saw a coward looking back at me. Also a mathematician. Guts was a game suited to a knowledge of odds and a fit Russ' knowledge of numbers just fine. Like I'd said earlier, Russ knew 'em backwards, forwards and upside-down. At least he did till alcohol befuddled his thinking. I took to it like a slug to the bottom side of a garden rock. Maybe not a pleasant image but you get the idea.
Let's say there are six men in green sitting around the bunk. Me being one of them. Winter sun beaming its way through the window over my right shoulder. We each ante a nickel. The dealer, he be two hands to the counter-clock side of me, shuffles and runs the circle twice, each man gettin' two cards. The rules were simple, straight poker, no flushes, no straights, pair of aces was the best you could hold. I look at my hand of ace, ten. Not great but has potential. For a change my mouth isn't running. Hell, there's money on the green-brown blanket. This is serious business. Not real serious seein' as how the pot's only thirty cents but business nonetheless. First man to the left of the dealer declares his intent; guts if he's in the game, folds if not. He folds. Next man's weighing his options and makes a bold statement, says he's got guts. My turn. I'm thinkin', my ace high with an ten kicker has to my way of thinking, a hair better than an even chance of winning even if my buddy to the right isn't bluffing, plus it's only a thirty cent pot, so I'm in, got guts. On it goes around the blanket. Men weighing chances and declaring. Turns out three of us are in. Also turns out the first man in ain't bluffing and shows a pair of fives. Good hand. Us two losers now have to pay up, match the pot, thirty cents each and now there's sixty cents on the GI wool. Deal passes and we go at it again.
The beauty and also the devilishness arrives as the pot grows. Most often there's only the thirty cents but at times, thirty grows the sixty, then a buck twenty, two-forty and so on. The higher the pot the more you search your soul. Twice in the training cycle the pot built to over thirty dollars. Ten days pay. That'll get you thinking. I wanted badly to win those pots but both times I spectated. My game was close to the vest, an occasional bluff, rarely won big and even rarer, lost money. Most Saturdays found me five bucks ahead and having had a couple of hours of fun. Long story short, my nine weeks of training expenses were paid for by others. Not great but I had better uses for my pay down the road on leave.
Earl was a different animal. Mid-way through the cycle he won three hundred dollars in a high stakes game, sent most of it home and bought himself a portable stereo at the PX. Smart man. Over the next few weeks he tried to interest me in joining the big games. He saw the way I played and figured me as a way to another big kill, I saw nothing but loss. Yeah, I was a small potatoes kind've man. Small ponds and lakes have always suited me best. Also figured those with rich tastes probably knew their odds better than us blanket gamblers and would find good uses for my fleece. Come the end of the cycle I had all two month's pay in my wallet and a half-dozen albums to boot. Of them, Earl said nothing when I fired up Dylan. Could be his revenge was wearing me down on the double Ray Charles album he'd been eyeballing at the PX but was beaten to the punch by his bunk mate. Hope he still has it and cherishes my memory each time he slips one of his ill-gotten LPs from its sleeve.
No comments:
Post a Comment