The Road Least Traveled

by Jerry Cole

  On the first night the guys were all together in over a year, he wasn’t taking any chances, and he pulled the white shirt over his head. Perhaps white was being a little too generous. It was more an off-white, thanks to repeated washings and the times he was too lazy to separate the colors, and in the days before he hired Rosa to sort that for him. On the front was a thick green stripe, and under the stripe, a cat stood on a surfboard, surfing a large wave. Greg would be the first to admit the picture was pretty ugly. He’d bought it from a store by the beach where he’d taken a date, and after they had ordered burgers, Greg took a bite and ketchup burst out of the other side and ended up on his clean blue buttoned-down shirt. They’d laughed, and Greg had gone into the shop and quickly purchased the shirt from a surfer dude who must have had a bong in the back of the store, so red were his eyes and vacant his expression. That evening he and his date had walked along the surf together, and as the sun went down they had ducked behind a rock and made love on the sand. Perhaps it wasn’t just lucky for games of poker, although these days, Greg would be mortified to wear the t-shirt on another date.

  He pulled on some white canvas sneakers and went back downstairs, opening his bag underneath the table and removing his keys and cell phone. Placing them into his pocket, he left the house via the kitchen door and got back into the car. Suddenly he remembered the bottle of scotch, and returned to the house. In the den, he opened the glass cabinet and removed the boxed whiskey from the back, then returned to the car. He backed out of the driveway and swung the car onto the road with a crunch of gravel under its thick wheels.

  The evening sun still sent a glow over the valley. To Greg, very little could beat the sight of a California sunset. It was even more beautiful when enjoyed at the beach with a pretty girl on his arm. It had been a long time since Greg had enjoyed such a date. Since being made joint CEO with Marty Wiseman three months ago, work had been the focus of his life. His last relationship had ended four years earlier, when his girlfriend, Beverley, rightly protested that she never saw him and that all his life was spent at the office. Greg conceded that nothing was about to change in the near future, and Beverley moved her things out on a hot August morning. Since then, his resolution to remain single had worked well for Greg.

  He knew Henry Berman positively envied his lifestyle. Henry, who started at the firm at the same time as Greg, had turned down several significant promotions in order to ensure he was free to spend time with his family. Henry and Gaby, married for twelve years, had three daughters. While they were the apples of their daddy’s eye, they were certainly a handful. Sienna was the oldest at eleven, followed by Maddie at eight, then Leah at five. Nights such as these, when the four ladies were out of town, were a real treat for Henry.

  His house on Crestwood Overlook was in the center of a gated community where there were ninety family homes just like the Bermans’. It was a community of mostly Jewish families, though very few, Greg imagined, kept kosher or observed anything but the highest of high holy days. Each house was generously-sized and set on its own neat little lawn. It was a picturesque estate, one Greg enjoyed visiting. He brought his car up to the main entrance, and a face he recognized popped his head out of the little hut.

  “Well, well, Mr. Marsh!” said Bernard, his kind brown eyes sparkling with genuinely pleased surprise at seeing Greg. “It’s been a while!”

  “Hey, Bernard!” Greg replied, leaning out of the car and shaking the black man’s large, bear-like hand as Bernard came out of the hut to greet him. “How are you?”

  They exchanged small talk for a minute or so, before Bernard ducked back into the hut and pressed a button so the large gates parted and Greg drove inside with a farewell wave to the jovial security guard. He cruised down the pretty lanes to Henry’s house on a small cul-de-sac. Henry’s car alone was in the driveway and Greg presumed he was the first to arrive. He locked the car, and with scotch in hand, he walked up to the porch and rang the bell. Despite Henry telling him to let himself in, Greg could never bring himself to do it.

  Henry opened the door within five seconds, and Greg burst out laughing. His best friend was wearing his very own lucky shirt: an orange monstrosity with a garish Hawaiian print, and at least two sizes too large for Henry, who had lost fifty pounds since Gaby had banned cheese and beer from the house. She argued they’d never conceive the boy Henry wanted if they didn’t lose some weight. While Henry protested to his wife that he doubted the father’s weight made any difference to the mother’s ability to bear a son, any pleadings fell on deaf ears and the subsequent health kick had worked wonders for both Henry’s golf swing and his sex life, he’d confided in Greg. Despite that, there was not yet any sign of the coveted son. Greg was confident that Henry was simply scared to sire another daughter. Four women were already too much. To bring a fifth into the gang would break him.

  “You will never stop looking like a pimp in that shirt,” Greg greeted his best friend, and Henry laughed, pulled a Cuban from his pocket, and jammed it into his mouth with a wink.

  “I got some real honeys in the back for you, my good man,” he mocked. “A Hispanic beauty, fresh off the boat, with the sweetest little pussy known to man.”

  “I’ve heard Rodriguez described in many ways,” responded Greg. “But ‘Hispanic beauty’ is not one of them.”

  “Speaking of Rodriguez, he and Davies are already downstairs. They came in a cab.”

  Henry spied the scotch and licked his lips.

  “Oh, sweet Jesus, is that what I think it is?” he asked, his eyes like saucers.

  “I thought you people didn’t believe in Jesus?” teased Greg, holding the scotch away from Henry’s grasping fingers.

  “We do,” said Henry, “just not that he was the son of God, all right? Please Greg, let me touch her!”

  Greg decided not to make Henry wait any longer and handed over the box. Henry removed the bottle with such gentle hands that anyone would think it was priceless. That’s not to say it wasn’t a handsome bottle. Distilled in 1957 and bottled twenty years later by McColl Brothers and Wright, the writing on the label was barely visible. It had been in the collection of the late Alastair Gower, owner of the golf club, and upon his death had been offered as a prize for a testimonial tournament. Greg had beaten one hundred other amateur golfers over the course of five days, before finally being presented with the coveted bottle on a sweet summer Sunday evening. He wasn’t surprised to see Henry applauding wildly with a goofy smile on his face to the left of the awards podium, but he’d enjoyed making his friend wait for this night. While it was no doubt valuable, confirmed by an independent appraisal which set its retail price at no less than two thousand dollars, Greg was not the kind to hold on to something which could instead be enjoyed with his friends. Tonight was the perfect time to crack it open.

  Greg had never known the house to be so quiet. Even on the previous poker nights enjoyed in the house, the rest of the family had been home, the girls running amok upstairs while their daddy sweated over a pair of threes. It was the epitome of a family home – a complete juxtaposition from Greg’s minimal-style house. Instead of a pale designer sofa and leather chairs, there were a squishy, misshapen couch and two matching chairs. The television was streaked with greasy fingerprints, and there were more dolls in pink and purple clothing than Greg could count, piled into a box in the corner. There were cartoon princess DVDs strewn around the entertainment system, and the walls were adorned with photographs of the girls, posing angelically either alone or with each other; the only hint of the terror they caused Henry being the tiniest of glints in their eyes. In the kitchen, the refrigerator was plastered with finger paintings and grotesque figures with varying leg lengths and hair that stuck out like straw on a scarecrow. Staple kitchen decorations for any young family.

  “Got beer in the cooler downstairs,” said Henry, as they passed through the kitchen. “And don’t worry, I’ve already got some little glasses for the scotch.”

  “I wasn’t wo
rried,” Greg replied wryly, descending the wooden stairs into the basement. He ducked his head under the low doorway at the bottom of the stairs, and in the dim light at the far end of the room was the trusty table, with three men sitting around it. Marco Rodriguez and John Davies were pals from the club who played golf with Greg and Henry for the past ten years. They gave Greg a wave as they saw him, and a high-five each as they approached the table. The third man, who Greg had never met before but who he knew to be Gaby’s brother, stood up and reached out a hand. Greg took it and gave it a firm shake.

  “Hey, I’m Miles,” said the man, and Greg nodded.

  “Greg,” he said. “I’ve heard good things.”

  “Really?” Miles asked as they all took their seats.

  “Henry says you’re a master of discretion,” Greg explained.

  “Ah, yes,” Miles grinned, “I won’t rat him out to Gaby. She’d enjoy skinning us both.”

  Henry reached into a cooler of ice and pulled out a beer. He passed it to Greg, who pulled open the tab with a hiss, as the foam began to escape at the first sense of freedom. Greg quickly slurped up the rapidly emerging foam and gulped down three beautiful swigs of the icy beer.

  “What’s the buy-in, gents?” Greg asked. “Five hundred?”

  “Sounds good,” said Davies, and he handed over his wad of cash to Henry, who scooped it up and replaced it with a pile of different-colored chips. The others followed suit and Henry stuffed the cash into a vase beside him.

  “Standard Texas rules apply,” he began, shuffling the cards, “and we’ll kick off with a 10/20 blind. I’ll deal the first hand.” He reached under his seat and pulled out his trusty visor, the elastic was gray and limp from years of wear. Rodriguez was immediately to his left and threw in a ten-dollar chip. Next to him, Davies threw in a twenty. Then Henry dealt two cards to each player. Greg was next to Davies and Miles completed the circle. Greg sat back in his chair and took another sip of beer from the can, then lifted the edge of his cards. A seven of diamonds and two of clubs. The crappiest poker hand in the history of the game. However, Greg’s face remained expressionless. He stole a sly glance to his right, but Davies’ face, too, was unreadable. Greg considered tossing in a twenty and testing his rusty bluffing skills but decided it simply wasn’t worth it.

  “Fold,” he muttered.

  “I’m in for twenty,” said Miles, tossing in a chip. Henry mused over his cards and matched the bet. He leaned forward and dealt three cards in the center of the table. Two sevens and a two. Greg, now out of the game, looked down and cursed his lucky t-shirt. He should have stayed in for one round. Rodriguez folded, and Davies followed suit. It was between Miles and Henry. Miles not only called, but raised by another twenty. Henry called the forty and uncovered a nine. Miles threw in another twenty, and Henry matched it. The final card was a queen, and Miles threw in another twenty. For Henry, however, the hand was over. The queen had given him nothing.

  “Fuck this,” he growled, and tossed down his cards in defeat. “I want some chips.”

  Miles grinned and scooped up the first pot. Rodriguez took the cards from each player and the deck from Henry, who also took off his visor and passed it over, but Rodriguez grimaced.

  “I’m not wearing that sweaty piece of shit!” he exclaimed, and the others laughed. Henry acted wounded and placed the visor on his lap like a scolded puppy. Davies began with the ten-dollar stake and it was Greg’s turn to toss in the blind twenty. This time, the hand he received wasn’t too bad. Two jacks, both black. Miles and Henry both called, and Rodriguez laid out the first three of the flop. Another jack, a four and a nine. Greg remained stoic and Rodriguez and Davies both called. Greg raised by twenty. Miles folded, and Henry called. Rodriguez turned over another card: a second nine. The remaining players stayed in. The final card, an ace, was revealed.

  Rodriguez appeared to think carefully and raised by a further twenty, but Davies grunted and folded. There were only three left and Greg wasn’t about to let this hand go. He raised by fifty, and Henry called. Rodriguez folded.

  “It’s you and me,” said Greg, and threw another fifty into the pot.

  “Call,” said Henry. “Show us what you got.”

  “Full house,” smiled Greg, placing his cards down.

  “Fuck,” shouted Henry. “I had two pair. Asshole.”

  “It’s all about the shirt, my man,” said Greg, sliding the chips into a pile. “Looking at these chips is making me hungry. What have you got, Henry, other than a void where your poker skills should be?”

  As the rest of the table grinned, Henry threw the visor at Greg, who put it on backwards in good humor. Henry opened a cupboard and pulled out a bag of chips, only these were the edible kind. He opened the bag and passed it around the table as it was Davies’ turn to shuffle the cards. Greg munched and drank with his friends. As Thursdays went, things didn’t get much better.

  Chapter Three

  When he opened his eyes, he knew immediately it had been a bad idea. The pain shot through his head, as if splitting it open. He brought his hands up to try and hold the two sides of his cranium together. His mouth was dry and there was still the taste of scotch lingering on his tongue, and when he thought about alcohol, his stomach lurched. There was nothing for it but the emergency cure. He braced himself and sat up.

  He was on Henry’s couch. There was no sign of the others, though he could hear snoring coming from upstairs. He was wearing only the shirt and boxers from the night before, and spied his jeans, inside-out, on the floor. Greg could not bring himself to bend down and put them on. He stumbled through to the kitchen and could have cried with happiness at the sight of the full fruit bowl on the table. He unpeeled two bananas and munched them as quickly and methodically as he could, trying not to think of the gurgling noises of protest his stomach was making. He searched through Henry’s cupboards and found a packet of aspirin. He poured himself a glass of water, taking three pills with long, slow gulps. The hangover remedy would take a half hour to work, and until then, he was fit for nothing. He opened the door to the downstairs bathroom and stood over the bowl with his eyes closed, groaning a little with the pleasure of releasing his bloated bladder. He pulled the chain and washed his hands in the tiny basin, then returned to the couch. Slowly, the previous night came back to him.

  He recalled the first few hands of poker, and how the cards had seemed to be in his favor. He was two hundred up within a half hour, and Henry was getting redder and redder. He was correct about Davies’ bluff. He knew when the lawyer held his breath that he had a good hand, and Greg knew to fold before he lost anything on the hands where the whistling through John’s nose periodically stopped. Increasingly more of the night began to flood through Greg’s mind and he recalled opening a third beer, and then maybe even a fourth. They had two large pizzas delivered to the house and Miles, being the least intoxicated, had gone upstairs to fetch them. After they ate, Greg’s luck had dipped, and Miles ended up coming away with every cent. Henry had not revealed that his brother-in-law, while expressionless when Gaby was trying to extract details of her husband’s exploits, was just as tight-lipped when it came to his card game. He simply played a perfect hand, and cleaned everyone out, before walking out of the house with a grin, steady on his feet after only two beers, and heading back to his own house, a mere two hundred yards from Henry’s.

  Davies and Rodriguez also called it a night, and called a cab to take them home. That left just Henry and Greg, and it wasn’t five minutes before Greg finally allowed his best friend to open the coveted bottle of whiskey. Things were certainly hazy in Greg’s mind after that, although he recalled the lingering sense of bliss that swirled around his mouth when he took his first sip of the expensive scotch. It was peaty and smoky, but didn’t have the slightly bitter, woody aftertaste like many single malts he’d savored since his youth. Instead the finish was sweet, almost like honey, and Greg’s only regret was that he wasn’t enjoying the drink with a beautiful woman on his
lap. Henry, however, was like a kid at Christmas. There was no end to the words of appreciation he had for both the drink and the man who shared it with him. Greg could not recall the night ending, although he had a vague recollection of the hollow sound of an empty bottle falling over on its side on the laminated table.

  He lay his head on the back of the couch and with closed eyes concentrated on his breathing. Within ten minutes he began to feel the emergency cure working. He was less nauseated, and he felt that if he opened his eyes, the room would not spin quite so much. He reached over to the armrest for his cell, and dared to open his eyes to check the time.

  It was only nine. Greg was relieved it wasn’t midday. However, it was not the weekend. It was only Friday, and he had a meeting at eleven. He roused himself again, went back into the kitchen and put on some hot, strong coffee. Then he went upstairs, opened the door to Henry’s room just a little and called in to his best friend.

  “Henry, wake up.”

  “Guh?” Henry gargled protests at the sudden noise. Greg ducked his head into the room and tossed two bananas onto the bed.

  “You know the drill,” he called. “Eat these, then come downstairs for coffee and aspirin. It’s the miracle cure and God knows you need it. Come on.”