by JR King
I grunted mutedly as I erupted, ridding myself of past frustrations.
Repeated raps on the door brought me back to the present. “Time.”
I crawled one hand upward the brunette’s chest, grazing the skin of her slender neck, softly running my fingertips across her cheek. “Good girl. You have been dismissed,” I told her softly.
“C-Could we…kiss?”
Smiling down at her, I shoved a hand in her gorgeous mane and clasped it tight, holding her in place as I sealed my mouth over hers. My tongue speared deep and tangled with hers. I gave a brief, tight groan when her butter-soft tongue started massaging the hill of mine, and then eased back from the kiss with a determined jerk of the hips.
Worst hummer ever. Remind me to avoid girls with bangs! What uplifted my spirit was the prospect of smokes, high-quality bourbon, and a velveteen green felt on a round table. Fortunately, the T-Bone was tender and flavorful, and the jacket potatoes accompaniment had that crisp, crunchy skin, floury insides fluffed and topped off with chives, crispy bacon, and crème fraîche.
Tony tore the seal of a brand-new French deck promptly after dinner, and chose stud. Buy-in was 15k, antes $500 a pop, the ceiling on all raises being 2k, except for the last round. Stakes would progress according to our moods. From agreed-upon company shares to material goods to blowjobs performed by wives or mistresses, all were valid currencies. Gentleman’s agreement that is, no six ways about it.
Not just a pussy-free zone, players and invitees had to be members of the old-boy network. No one at the table had a tell, or a routine that was marinated in predictability. No stuttering akin to Carina, no two-second long blinks to throw players off track, no hesitant murmurs. Zero, zilch, zip, nothing, nada. Cool and calm like Spock himself. It all amounted to having a good presence of mind to compensate for any physiological tell.
Out of the six gentlemen, you’re familiar with five of them. The sixth one was Michael Cross, a squash buddy. He was also Elena’s childhood friend, and though she publicly proclaimed Sara Cabot was her best friend, Michael meant everything to her. Loyal to the bone as only a true friend can be, Michael was a valuable asset. Naturally, my sights were set on him. Every great general knows when to call in the reserves for battle. I won’t bore you with tales of the past, but know that Aidan had fastened the bait, Tony hooked the fish, and now I had to reel it in.
Easy peasy lemon squeezy, watch.
Blessed with yet another fascinating combination of nothing, I scoffed silently and took another swig of my Hirsch bourbon, chucking my cards into the center. Not even a one pair or a two pair for me. I never went lower than bluffing with a three of a kind type of deal, but I would have taken my chances with a damn high card.
Michael bested Aidan’s flush and Tony’s straight with a slick full boat. It was the third pot of the evening, and once again, he raked in the Mount Everest of chips with his arms spread like he was hugging Donna Simpson. Not able to resist rubbing our noses in it, he wisecracked, “For losers *ahem* amateurs, there’s always that possibility to watch tutorial videos on YouTube, you know? I do believe it’s like this awesome free website, and unlike PornHub, there’s no membership fee for unlimited videos.”
“You gotta be fucking kidding me. You lucky, lucky little shit!” Tony was smoking an Arturo Fuente Opus X BBMF.
“You invited the motherfucker, you ball-licking cocksucker!” Aidan, tactful guy that he was, was smoking a Hoyo de Monterrey à la Red Auerbach. “I infer Tony rigged the deck.”
I acceded Aidan’s claim with hands in the air. “I concur, Tony rigged the damn deck.” I, too, was smoking a Big Bad Mother Fucker. Limited edition, capisce?
As for Michael, Jerry, and Daniel, some Indian Entrepreneur Of The Year had gifted Jerry a box of Gurkha cigars, so naturally, the threesome was sitting pretty while taunting us.
A couple of hands later, it was my time to deal. After yet another last shuffle, I placed the deck to my right, directly in front of Tony. “Cut.”
Taking a puff of his cigar, he positioned the deck in his palm and cut the cards. “Cut.”
With two down and one dealt to the table, I peeled up the corners of my cards to take a peek. Unlucky and feeling pathetic, I was prepared for off-suits. Several rounds went by, and when I carried out my routine check, I finally saw a ten and a seven of diamonds. Bless me, sweet Baby Jesus. Once Jerry finished dealing the five cards to everyone, I picked mine up. I liked what I saw, definitely the makings of a winning hand.
“Gentlemen.” Tony stole a glance at his Louis Moinet watch. “Here we go, last round. Pot-limit stakes time.” He checked his initial bet.
Ready to play poker for the first time this evening, I followed in his footsteps.
On to Daniel. “Check as well.”
Followed Aidan. I expected a fold, but instead he splashed 5k in the antes pot with a careless toss of chips. “On board. Going for 4k.”
Jerry’s turn. He first waited, letting us feel the thrill of the pause, then diffidently dropped the bomb. “Make it 10k.”
Michael was last, and a suspenseful silence fell over the table as we all watched him count 20k in chips. “You call that a high-stakes bet, Jerry? Here, this is a bet.” Goldenboy saw and raised by a double.
Tony dropped out, and all eyes shifted to me, without doubt waiting for me to fold. I had a few G’s left on the felt. In a single moment of clarity, I knew what to do.
We all had checkbooks next to us, so I cut a check for 41k. “Call.”
Daniel threw down his cards. “I’m out.”
Aidan, the one who’d eagerly started this funky mess, was out too.
Jerry hesitated to put up, counted his chips. He reached for his checkbook. Perhaps he had a great hand, or perhaps because he’d taunted Aidan earlier, regardless, he matched the bet with chips and a piece of paper.
Then Michael. Clearly he thought he had us by the balls, because he—with a cocky grin, nonetheless—reached for his checkbook as well.
And then there were three.
Jerry picked up the remainder of the deck for the last draw.
He swished some bourbon in his mouth and winked at me. “You good, Tinky Winky?”
“Yeah, baby. I’m all set. Hard and thick. You wet yet?”
Interspersed titters did a round when Jerry went on to exchange two cards and Michael stayed put.
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure,” Tony chuckled. “What’s it gonna be?”
Jerry took a moment to see if his hand had improved, before initiating the last check.
I went for it, placing the amount on the ridiculous pile of plastic and paper.
Michael, who was fishing for a reaction, said, “You must be bluffing out a big one, Alex. Tanking all night and suddenly you’re in ne’er-do-well trick play?”
Now I flashed a cocky grin, adduced glibly, “Life must be lived as play.”
“Call,” announced Michael, doing the necessary. “Virtuous, Plato’s words. Brava. Words to live by.”
Jerry remained silent. I sensed the, “I’m done,” coming before he uttered it.
Tony stood, the speed and ferocity of the brusque movement tipped his chair back and it clattered onto the floor. “Enough with the smartassery. Show ‘em, boys. Show me the money!”
Looking blissed-out, Michael went first, thinking he beat me with his quads. “Would ya look at that! I should have raised you, hotshot.”
I stared down at his cards, silently, giving him the pleasure of feeling like a winner. Then I looked him in the eyes and spoke as though I were gentling a well used submissive. “There’s a reason why I’m a hotshot, Michael.” I turned over the rest of my cards, revealing a straight flush.
Michael’s face paled as the blood drained from it, as if I’d given him a wet willy.
In this situation, four men cheered, cursed, spat even maybe, one sat perplexed, and another one raked in the pot.
“A toast, gentlemen!” howled Tony. “Here’s to my arms
for staying by my side. Here’s to my legs for supporting me. And here’s to my liver for putting up with my shit!”
Yours truly and his big-dick attitude, “If you cheat, may you cheat death. If you steal, may you steal a woman’s heart. If you fight, may you fight for a brother. And if you drink, may you drink with me.”
Daniel, “To our wives and girlfriends…may they never meet!”
Aidan, “May all your ups and downs be between the sheets!”
Jerry, “I drank to your health in company. I drank to your health alone. I drank to your health so many times...I nearly ruined my own.”
Michael, “Life’s a waste of time. Time’s a waste of life. So why not get wasted and have the time of our life.”
To the victor goes the spoils. Not just an excellent ending to a poker night, but now that Michael was my bitch, it was time to soothe him *ahem* own him.
Alexander Turner
The New Kid on the Block
Occasionally I had steamed pork buns for breakfast. I seriously recommend trying it. One dollar is too low a price for such goodness. I also got a hold of Michael and invited him to join Tony and me in Chinatown. Patience, dear ones, Michael’s story will turn up at some point.
Occasionally I also acted as a surrogate consultant. Tony wanted my opinion about the direction his Asian branch was taking. The soles of our shoes echoed against the tiled floor of the long corridor as we made our way to the meeting room. Great, another ELF doing the presentation. Unlike me, this guy didn’t wear a three-piece with the uncomplicated elegance of a man who’s comfortable in a suit. He stood five-six perhaps, and when he spoke it was with a stiff voice.
Sitting through another death by PowerPoint, I evaluated the product that was about to be launched on the world market. Brilliant bullshit. Customers who bought it and received its wondrous service would become more attractive, their life would instantly be happier, their surroundings appearing more colorful, their friends and family envying them. The message, in all its glory, was so ubiquitous and insidious, making me wonder what kind of people would buy into the premise. We all know that beauty products are nothing but manipulations that perpetuate a mind game; their message slips into the brain unnoticed, adding to the mountains of previous fictional messages that already fill up the prefrontal cortex. The ad, which would be live in a few minutes, showed a vulnerable, broken, half-swarthy woman standing in her bathroom, reading the label of a cream her friend had gifted her. Because she lived in a judgmental society where—unfortunately—people chased specific physical attributes, the cream would make her skin suppler and whiter. A control group had been using the cream for twenty-four weeks and apart from skin becoming softer and its blemishes fading, apparent whiteness wasn’t part of the result. All in all, the cream made skin softer, but of course nowhere on the tube did the manufacturer announce the proper function of said cream, which, in my eyes, was a good enough function. Soft and blemish-free skin, anyone should be happy living in his or her skin color, right? Think again. Fairer skin can make you happy, said the last slide of the presentation. Inexorably it made me think of something Steve Jobs had said, “There must be a better way.”
“Thank you all,” Tony spoke above the fray. He turned his head and said something I couldn’t hear to someone behind him. During the one minute I had alone, I texted Hamilton about picking me up.
“What do you think?” Tony asked when we had privacy.
“Regarding the Southeast Asia market, I’m no expert, but this will sell like hotcakes. Especially among the vast majority of peons.”
“That’s what I thought.”
“What about the focus group?”
“Most of them will try it, even if primarily it’s a moneymaker.”
“Is that the endgame?”
“Maybe. Maybe not. The endgame should be telling people that sicknesses are mostly in their heads.”
“They won’t listen. Might tickle them.”
He smiled in an intolerably self-satisfied manner. “I know. That’s why pharma is more lucrative than liable.”
“That’s where I’m a total fail. Ignorance. I cannot fucking stand it, and this is why I could never be president. Leadership skills apart, I’d seriously lose my cool before idiots.”
“Join the club. Do you think I enjoy the next part? I’d rather be edging a girl till she safewords than deal with housecleaning.”
And that was that. I take it you understand the changes Tony would be making to his Asian branch.
Within the safe and warm environment of a limo, I scrutinized the street. A full-fleshed, heavy-jowled pedestrian caught my eye. When the woman moved, it was with the kind of speed that rather seemed appropriate for obese people who were in a carb coma. She wasn’t there yet, she was only fat. Another lazy person who couldn’t quit pigging, and in that matter, as soon as she’d get there she’d be eligible to receive disability checks and free motorized wheelchairs. Perhaps she had Hashimoto’s disease, at least that would justify some of it. Cortisol is a bitch.
Her shoes were an insult to the eyes. Clunky monstrosities with thick platform bottoms in the ultimate eye-assaulting shade: yellow-green. Probably she had a menial job, and judging by her weight, it was either within or nearby a fast-food joint. Six months of Weight Watchers, a good batch of Revlon, nipping and tucking, and a How Do I Look lesson would be needed to get her back in the ball game.
From scrutinizing Asian shops on Washington Street, my eyes settled on the McDonald’s located at the corner of an intersection. I tried to read the promotional poster stuck to a window. The examination led to reading the headlines of an anti-abortion pamphlet that someone had stuck right beside the artery-clogging breakfast offer, and a tagalong had drawn a cunt over it. Were we still jammed on that subject? Sure, we had to protect the right of life, but what we had to protect more is the woman’s right to make her decision. What happened to freedom of choice and equal rights for women? As if that wasn’t enough to ruin my mood, a morbidly obese couple on motorized scooters crossed mid-block between stopped cars and went—or drove—into the McDonald’s. Never mind their asses largely spilled over the sides of the contraptions, they still needed more junk food! A clear danger to themselves, and to the traffic. Fuck life. For a second I considered stuffing myself with greasy fodder and wait for the apoplectic seizure. You can’t imagine how pissed off I was by the time I walked into my office.
“Who died and made you queen?”
Meredith, who sat in my chair, got up. “Did something crawl up your ass and die?”
My eyes were locked on the view of the city as I walked across the room. “What’s wrong with the world? Why are we so self-destructive?”
“Why do you care?”
“I wish I didn’t.”
“You’re sweet for a lunatic.”
Through the reflections in the smoked glass I saw her pouring whiskey into a pair of heavy crystal tumblers while I stood before the vista like a mesmerized child.
“Alex, do you think our President takes Xanax?”
I accepted the two fingers of whiskey with a wide smile. “I hope he does. Imagine the horror, living through all that shit sober. What prompted this question?”
We toasted silently, drank.
“The answer to your question—why are we so self-destructive?—is attention. You, me, the Pope, we all want this, one way or another. We’re all self-destructive, calculating malcontents, because everyone’s heart yearns hopelessly for something it knows it will never have. A parent’s approval, money, beauty, wit, humility, and so on and so forth. On some people it shows more, on others less, which simply depends on whether or not they are projecting the unattainable desires onto themselves, or onto someone else. Made me wonder why any man would want to lead a nation full of self-destructive people.”
“You’re smart for a lunatic.” She made to leave and I stopped her. “Oh, and Meredith?”
“Yes, Alex?”
“I want lunch delivered in here
today. Choose a trending happy meal from McDonald’s.”
“Mcwhat? You’re not serious?” She gave me that tinkly laugh I liked.
“I assure you, I am,” I told her stiffly. “As serious as the patent intellect of human waste in Sarah Palin’s—,”
“Alex, Alex, Alex,” she cut me off, not too loudly, and took a deep breath before continuing, “happy meal is for kids and Glenn Beck. I’ll choose something that’s more appropriate for an adult. Unless you’re collecting happy meal toys?”
I smiled, shook my head. “I shall start doing that, soon.” I already knew I wouldn’t eat the shoestring fries. Not because it was a fried food, more because it was fried in a commercial deep fryer. Yeah, you guessed it right, I should never have watched Kitchen Nightmares.
I worked pretty solidly over the next hours. I wrote a story about a woman on a train while I bit into the greasy bits of a cow sandwiched between a mealy bun. Not McDonald’s, another fast-food chain was parked way closer to the tower. I learned that some manufacturers stay authentic; the double-cheeseburger was, well, a double-cheeseburger consisting of an adulterant-laced patty and half-dry bread. Back in the brown paper bag it went. Not lampooning, but it was a waste to eat, and that so many people liked this spoke to the degeneration of our food culture. What’s certain is that if I fed on this type of garbage on a daily basis for a month, I’d end up forgetting what a Keen’s steak tastes like.
Having anticipated my allergic reaction, Meredith had organized a lunch at a beloved Parisian-style oyster bar on the edge of Little Italy in the North End. Aidan was my host. “Your darling practically ordered me to speak some food sense into you. What’s going on?”
“What’s going on is that if we feed the people enough shit for a while, they’ll never remember what good food tastes like.”
