Houseboat

by Paul Shadinger

  Houseboat

  by Paul Shadinger

  Copyright © 2016 Paul Shadinger

  All Rights reserved

  Ibsn-13: 978-0692654149

  Title ID: 6101986

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Edited by Ellen C. Campbell

  Formatting by Kevin G. Summers

  Cover design by Kevin G. Summers

  This book is dedicated to my wife Sandy who saw something in my writing I never saw.

  Thank you.

  This book is also dedicated to my beloved Buttons. I know she is waiting for me somewhere over the rainbow. I miss you little one.

  CHAPTER 1

  November, 1999

  Come on; give me a break! I’m not a doom and gloom person, but all I hear lately is the world is coming to an end. The fact is, I don’t believe the world is going to end yet. I’ll admit, I have purchased an extra pound of coffee just in case it does. Let’s be realistic. I mean, you can’t be too careful, right?

  The reason I remember the date this story started so well was because of the clamor of the media and how we were facing the end of time. Or at least the end of civilization, as we had known it so far. The year was 1999, and if you listened to certain people, a great many of them believed all computers were going to die a horrible death: governments were going to topple, the economic system of the world was going to end and the human race was going to turn into savages. Our cars were not going to start. Planes would fall out of the sky. ATMs would cease to spit out cash. We would all live in caves again and hunt for food with spears and bows and arrows.

  And the reason for all this doom and gloom? It was going to happen because some idiot had forgotten to incorporate some kind of computer code or some such thing when computers were first built, that would enable computers to recognize a date after December 31, 1999. When this glitch was discovered we were told since computers wouldn’t be able to understand the year 2000, civilization, as we knew it, was going to come to a smashing end.

  Doomsday!

  The end of civilized mankind.

  WHAT?

  As I remember, my feelings at the time were, “Come on, give me a break!”

  The other thing I remember about 1999 was the fall weather that year and how horrible it had been. Reports issued in November said the year had seen the coldest and wettest September and October on record since they started keeping track of weather kind of things.

  This story starts on a wet, Friday mid-November night in ’99 and considering what was going on outside that night, it looked like November was trying hard to beat the cold wet record of the previous two months.

  Due to the computer problem, many people shared that feeling of doom and gloom and sadly it seemed to be spreading. As for the weather, it didn’t seem to be helping with the somber mood of the times. I felt that since there wasn’t a lot anybody could about it, the best thing to do was plan indoor activities and that was exactly what I had been doing.

  My main problem that evening started because there were too many people in too small a kitchen, which made the kitchen stifling hot. In addition, my chair felt more like stone than wood, and to make matters even worse, I felt like I’d been ridden hard and put away wet. My body was sore and I was just plain dog assed exhausted! The snack I had wolfed down just after midnight had become a lump sitting in my tummy, trying to decide if it was going to move on or stay where it was and haunt me. I thought to myself, “Thank God, dawn—and relief—is just around the corner.”

  My eyes felt like there was a desert of sand and grit trapped inside of them. With every blink I was positive my lids were scratching my poor eye surfaces beyond any repair.

  And then there was my mouth. That was the worst. My Lord, what a horrible taste! I know that taste. I’ve tasted it before. It’s similar to the entire 6th Army division bivouacked for a fortnight in my mouth, latrine and all. I forced my poor eyes shut again for a moment, however I dared not shake my head to try to clear away the cobwebs for fear one of the other players would realize just how tired I actually was and then decide they were not ready to fold. To be honest, I really shouldn’t complain too much since I was sitting here playing poker by my own choice.

  As I slowly opened my eyes, the room full of poker players gradually returned to focus. I cast my gaze directly across the table at a large, flush-faced man in his early forties who kept fidgeting with his cards. Just an idle glance at his demeanor would tell you he was not having the best of evenings. Beads of perspiration had popped out across his forehead and his thin blond hair lay flat and damp on top of his head. His small, bloodshot blue eyes were deeply recessed in his puffy face and the laugh crinkles around his eyes now made him appear tired and old. What was once a crisply laundered, expensive white shirt was now wet and yellowed under his armpits, the collar stained and wilted with the tips curling up. I could see he had his French cuffs rolled up and I remembered earlier when I’d watched as he removed and placed his large gold cuff links into a coat pocket.

  At the start of the evening, his bespoke expensive suit draped well over his stout form, but now the jacket hung shapelessly from the back of his kitchen chair. His tie hung loosely around his neck and the knot showed a greasy shine from being repeatedly fondled and tugged.

  The man’s pudgy hands betrayed a slight tremor as he held up his cards in front of his face. He was chewing on his bottom lip as he stared at the cards in his right hand for a few more seconds. There was anguish plainly written on his face, making it clear he desperately wished he could change the spots on those cards; obviously I was not watching a good poker face. In his left hand, he held a couple of poker chips he kept repeatedly turning over. I watched as he finally swallowed hard, signaling to me he’d made up his mind. He sighed heavily, and then pushed the rest of his money into the pot.

  My best friend Scott stared at the pile of money the heavyset player had just moved to the middle of the table. Staring at the money, Scott tugged lightly at his dark blond beard. Finally, he slowly lifted his gaze from the table and peered over the tops of his glasses, looking into the other man’s eyes. Scott waited for the stout player’s eyes to shift away and then back down at the table. Scott’s voice was soft and low as he admonished, “Wheeler, it looks like you’re still light…let’s say you’re at least five grand light.”

  The man called Wheeler looked up quickly and began to search each face at the table, searching in vain for an ally. Several seconds passed without a word from anyone while he licked his full lips. Finally, he whined, “Yeah, yeah…I know…but…can I owe the table? Please?” Several heads shook back and forth, even those who were no longer involved in this hand, but Wheeler continued his plea, “I got the cards this time, just let me finish. Give me the credit guys, please. Come on, give me a break…you all know I’m good for it. Please…” his voice trailed off.

  Everyone at the table moved their heads negatively in unison. Eventually Scott verbalized the other players’ feelings, “Wheeler, please don’t do this to us. You know the game is table stakes only. The rules have never changed. There are no IOUs allowed. If you don’t have any more money, you’re finished. You wouldn’t let any of the rest of us owe the table,” Scott paused and then continued, “Would you?”

  Wheeler’s gaze returned to the table in front of him and Scott waited for the man to look up. When he did, Scott added softly, “Wheel, I’m sorry, but you know the rules.” And once more Scott admonished, “Besides, if it was someone else, you know you wouldn�
�t do it.” Silence filled the room, everyone waiting for something to happen until Scott asked again, “Right?” Scott was not going to back down and again he asked, “Wheel?” Scott paused and asked again, “Right?”

  Wheeler sheepishly raised his eyes up to look at Scott without lifting his head. The big man looked like a kid who had just been caught with his hand in a cookie jar. Once he made eye contact with Scott, he quickly looked back down. He sat for a moment and then started to work the diamond-encrusted wedding band from his finger as he explained, “Here, this ring is worth three times what I owe the pot!”

  Luckily for the rest of us who were still in the hand, the player sitting to Wheeler’s right reached over and lightly touched him on his right arm, preventing him from removing the ring. “Let it go, Wheeler. Tonight’s not your night, and for sure, no one wants your wedding ring.”

  Boy, I was certainly grateful I wasn’t the one to have to tell him that. I didn’t want the ring either. God knows, I’ve had a couple of my own wedding rings over the years and the last thing I wanted was to win one in a card game. The thought gave me the shivers just to think about it. Don’t get me wrong, my marriages really weren’t that bad; it’s just the endings weren’t very good.

  An explanation if I may. I now know I am too excessively self-centered to be a good mate for anyone. I’m sure some psychologist would have a field day with my Id and Ego and all the other stuff they supposedly examine. Of course, they would want to look at how I felt about my mother and the other mumbo-jumbo too, but I reserve the right to keep my psychoses to myself. My feelings about my marriages are my own and I want to keep ‘em that way.

  Wheeler raised his head from staring down at the table and he glared at the man with his hand on his arm. After the man had removed the offending hand, he spread his anger around at the rest of us. He snarled at those sitting at the table, “Well, thank you! And just fuck you all! Hear me? Just fuck you all!”

  He pushed his chair back, stood for a moment as he snatched his coat off the chair and stumbled unsteadily towards the kitchen door. One of the other players called after him, “Wheeler, cool off, you really don’t want to go any further tonight. Okay?”

  Wheeler yanked the door open, then turned back and held onto the doorjamb. His bulk filled the opening as he hissed at all of us, “I won’t forget what you did to Ol’ Wheel tonight. You wait, I’ll get even!”

  Someone else at the table murmured, “Okay Wheel, you know where we’ll be. Come back another time and try again.” Wheeler slammed the door and was gone. Now there were just seven people at the table with only four active players left, three others and me.

  CHAPTER 2

  Before I continue, please allow me to explain something or you’ll think poorly of my group of players. Let’s consider some cold hard facts. I’ve been down on my luck at times, just as most of the other players have, but we’ve all played together often enough that everyone is aware of the rules, especially Ol’ Wheeler. I’ll agree we don’t have them exactly written down anywhere, but whenever you start playing with our group, we tell you right up front what’s what, and you agree to everything or you don’t play in our game. The game is table stakes, unless you got a killer hand and you put up the pink slip to your car or something that the rest of the players are willing to accept as collateral. Well, anything except a wedding ring of course.

  There are no IOUs, checks or anything like that allowed. I admit this with some level of chagrin, because I had one great ‘57 Chevrolet convertible I lost in a card game. So, don’t go feeling too sorry for Wheeler. Remember, it’s our ball, our rules, our game. You play it our way or you don’t play. Anyway, it was common knowledge that sometimes Wheel pops off, and this was not the first time he’d tried the wedding band routine.

  Regarding the players in our little games; there are around eighteen to twenty of us who get together and play two or three times a month at someone’s house. Not all the guys can make each game, but seven to ten of the guys usually make it. Wheeler was one of the more regular players and actually one of the better ones. Tonight was just not his night.

  The older gentleman who was sitting to the left of Wheeler had only played with us a few times before. Randy Ralph originally brought him to our game…and yeah, you got the name right. Randy Ralph. Randy, as in very horny! Allow me to explain about ‘ol Randy Ralph. The overriding characteristic of Randy is that he has this thing for the dames.

  I know most guys like women, but with Ralph, it’s different. If we allowed a gal to sit in on our games, he would lose every dime he had. Randy would not be able to keep his mind on the game because he would be trying to figure a way to get her horizontal the entire time we were playing. It’s as if he can’t get enough sex. When I say he doesn’t seem to be able to get enough sex, we are talking about two or three women in just one night and sometimes he’s still looking for more. I don’t know about you, but I think that’s a bit excessive.

  Randy is a very skinny guy. He’s a tad less than six feet tall, and he’s just skin and bones. I’ve seen him eat at some of our poker games and I know if I ate half of what he eats, I’d end up twice the size of old Wheeler. No idea how he stays so slim unless all that sex sweats it off him, but the one thing it doesn’t seem to do is slow him down when it comes to women.

  Don’t get me wrong, I like women as much as the next guy. Just to make sure I am perfectly clear, I don’t ride the other bicycle, if you know what I mean. I love women, but not like Randy. I realize I am not very PC, but in my declining years, I’ve noticed women have other attributes than the furry patch between their legs, and the secrets buried beneath that. Women are just as intelligent and just as much fun to be with as men, but somehow, Randy doesn’t see it that way.

  I know, I know. It’s not the correct thing nowadays to refer to the fairer sex in those terms, like sex objects and all. God knows in this age of political correctness one has to talk and be so careful not to offend, but at my age, it’s a bit tougher to change my views. Old dogs, new tricks, you know, like that. I don’t think women are less capable than men, or that they should receive less pay for doing the same job, or anything along those lines. And I sure as Hell don’t think they are less intelligent. I, just as many other men do, have to admit to viewing women as sex symbols. Actually they’re a lot more than just symbols, but it has most of everything else beat. I think they look, feel, and smell great. The sight of unfettered breasts swinging free under a sweater, or a great set of legs poking out of a skirt with a slit that shows some thigh; ah well, that to me is pure poetry in motion. To me it just makes life worth living.

  You damn betcha there is a difference. I sure as hell don’t see many men I wish to view as sex symbols. In a strict biological sense, women were placed on this earth to turn on us horny dogs. To propagate the species and all, right? I choose very carefully with whom I practice the propagation thing. Ralph on the other hand, would jump a bush if he thought there was a rabbit in it, and so we all call him Randy Ralph. I honestly believe he even enjoys the name. He seems to feel it’s his badge of honor. Even as long as Randy has attended these games, I have no idea what his last name is. He was already part of the group when I joined and they introduced him to me as Ralph. A couple of weeks later Scott had called him Randy Ralph and I almost choked on my coffee when he said it. Scott told me many of the other players call him Randy Ralph to his face and he seemed to act proud of the name. Go figure.

  Anyway, the older gentleman friend of Randy’s that he’d brought to our games had been introduced to all of us as Slim. Nothing else, just Slim. I know I’d never heard any other name for him, first or last. The name fit him perfectly. Slim was perhaps 5’ 5” at the most and he was slat thin. I figured him to be well over seventy and he’d obviously spent a lot of time in the sun. He had heavily seamed skin with deep wrinkles and his face looked like a well-polished brown walnut shell. He had very pale eyes that peered out from
under large, bushy, sun bleached eyebrows.

  The first time I met him the word eagle came to mind. Not to imply he looked like one, just somehow the concept of an eagle perched in a tree watching everything before him came to mind. Something about him generated a need for me to watch him. I’m not certain whether it was the shape of his nose or the feeling that he observed everything that everyone said and did around him, but he was a very curious guy.

  Slim reminded me a lot of that rich old man from Texas. The one with the big ears and the bad haircut who several years ago kept getting himself embroiled in and then out of politics, and who could never make up his mind if he should run for president or not.

  It was now Slim’s turn to bet. I’d had a slight burst of energy during the confrontation with Wheeler, but I could feel the adrenaline was now starting to fade. While I sat waiting for Slim to decide what he was going to do, I noticed him reach up with his left hand and then wipe his left eye with the back of the hand. After a few seconds, he did it quickly twice more.

  He finally picked up a large stack of bills and counted them. He threw in the large pile of bills and turned to the player who had stopped Wheeler from removing his wedding ring. “Tom,” Slim drawled, aiming his comments towards the host of tonight’s game, “I’m tapped out.” He looked around the table at the rest of the players, and he said, “I know better than to offer a check, ‘specially after the scene Wheel did to y’all, however, I would like to put up my houseboat. Some of you have seen it and have been aboard. Those of you who know the houseboat, know that it’s worth at least a couple hundred grand. Maybe a lot more. Right?”

  Tom nodded his head and Scott piped up he had been aboard once. Slim went on and asked, “Would you say it’s worth the pot, and a little bit more?” Some of the players nodded their heads. “Then I would like to put it up as the rest of the bet and raise the bet $25,000. OK?”