by Craig Birk
Chapter Four
The Rodge
2:00 p.m.
“You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you’re sittin at the table.
There’ll be time enough for countin when the dealin’s done.”
– The Gambler, Kenny Rogers
Roger walked out of Moondoggies in Pacific Beach at exactly 2:00 p.m. wearing black slacks and a wrinkled blue short-sleeved Hawaiian tee shirt. For having only worked three hours on a lunch shift, he was relatively pleased to have ninety-five dollars in his pocket. He was not pleased that he forgot his sunglasses at home and he recoiled sharply when he hit the sunlight. He briefly put his left arm in front of his face to shield the light, then ran his hand through his full head of closely cut brown hair. After, he raised his right arm to take a sip out of a twenty-ounce plastic bottle of regular Coke.
It was a very pleasant day, but the sun radiated off of the heavy concentration of cement and asphalt on Garnet Street, pushing the temperature into the slightly uncomfortable range. The usual Friday afternoon crowd was milling about the streets. It featured about half college chicks shopping at the various boutiques and surf shops, a handful of college dudes doing basically nothing, scattered military guys starting the weekend beer drinking marathon early, and a few middle-aged people who probably had some kind of job, though it really didn’t seem like it. After orienting himself to the light and remembering where he parked, Roger began to walk down the street. After about thirty feet, he untucked the Hawaiian shirt, placed the Coke bottle in his mouth so he could hold it with his teeth, and dug into his pockets with both hands, ultimately locating his objective in the left pocket. He pulled out a one-third full, silver and green can of Kodiak wintergreen chewing tobacco.
Roger looked around and spotted a bus stop about forty feet farther up the road. He walked over, took a seat on one of the benches, set the Coke on the ground, and began packing the can of chew, subconsciously scanning the street to see if there were any hot chicks he could be looking at.
He opened the can, glanced inside to ensure it was adequately packed, and took inventory of how much remained. He squeezed a medium-sized pinch of Kodiak between his right thumb and forefinger and placed it in his lower lip. Despite his frequent use of the product, he still felt the soft pleasing burning sensation the tobacco caused in its first few seconds. He grabbed a few more grains out of the can and added them to the amount already in his mouth. Then he used his tongue to marry the new addition into the old one. Satisfied with his chew, Roger reached down to grab the Coke and proceeded to pour the remaining contents onto the sidewalk. While doing so, he noticed a colony of ants crawling around by his right foot. He used the last two ounces to attempt to drown as many of them as possible. At least fifteen of the small black creatures were engulfed in the brown foamy liquid and began squirming helplessly.
Roger pressed the chew further down into his lip with his tongue and then spit once into the now empty Coke bottle. He then reached into his right pocket and removed his cell phone. After pressing the button for Cingular web service, he hit the # key and then the 1 key for “favorite #1,” which was ESPN.com. After waiting about ten seconds, he realized he didn’t have reception in this area. “Fucking Cingular,” he muttered to himself for what seemed like the millionth time.
Roger spit again, this time adding his tobacco-filled saliva to the brown mixture on the ground and further thinning the ants’ chances for survival. He rose to cross the street, breaking into a slow jog at one point to avoid an oncoming lime-green Volkswagen Beetle driven by a small Asian guy wearing a Dallas Cowboys hat and who had selected a violet tulip for the little holder built into the dashboard.
Roger arrived at the corresponding bus stop on the other side of the street and took a seat. Almost immediately after he sat down, an attractive girl walked by. She looked to be about twenty-three, had medium-length brown hair, and long, firm, well-tanned, shapely legs that disappeared into a short denim miniskirt. The skirt was complemented by a white half-shirt that read, in neon pink letters, simply, “Billabong.” About ten feet past him, the girl stopped and bent down to re-tie the laces on one of her white Vans sneakers. Much to Roger’s delight, this caused her skirt to hike up in the back, revealing the bottom of a pair of light yellow cotton panties. Roger instinctively leaned forward and tilted his head to get a better viewing angle, spitting into the Coke bottle again on the way down. Unnoticed at this point, to his left, a large man of about thirty years of age stopped walking to concentrate on Roger. The man wore brown lace-up boots, camouflage pants and a black Slayer rock tee shirt that covered a bulky upper body most likely achieved with the help of steroids. He had Oakley sunglasses on, clearly had not shaved in a few days, and had spiky black hair.
“Hey asshole,” the Rocker Guy said loudly to Roger who looked up at him startled, “Did you get a good look?”
“Um, no I was just . . . um, . . . So, um . . . do you know her?” Roger asked, nodding his head in the leggy girl’s direction.
Rocker Guy walked closer so he was standing right above Roger. “Yeah, you could say that,” he said.
“Girlfriend?” Roger asked.
“Wife,” Rocker Guy answered and held up his left hand, displaying a traditional gold band. Then he waved his fingers around before closing them into a fist.
Roger began talking quickly, “Oh, well hey, sorry. I um, I didn’t mean anything by it.”
“Yeah, I bet you didn’t,” Rocker Guy said. Then after lingering a moment he started to walk away and muttered to himself, “Fucking joke.”
After the Rocker Guy had moved about ten feet away and caught up with his wife, Roger spoke again, “Hey, bro?” he asked.
The rocker guy turned around, “Yeah, what?”
Roger spit into his bottle, then asked, “You don’t happen to know the final on the Ohio State game from last night, do you?”
“What the fuck do you want?” the Rocker Guy asked, pronouncing the word fuck a lot more slowly and a bit more loudly than the other words. He started walking back in Roger’s direction.
Roger immediately changed strategy, “Never mind. It’s cool. Sorry,” he said.
Just then, Roger’s cell phone broke out in song, producing the familiar tunes of Jay-Z’s Big Pimpin’. This meant Alex was calling.
Roger looked quickly at the phone, then back up at the Rocker Guy. “Oh, hey, I’ve got a call so, um, you know. Have a good one,” he said. Roger waved first at the guy, then smiled and waved at the girl. Then he flipped open the phone and answered all in one motion, “Yo, Alex, what’s up?”
Alex, who as far as he could recall had never ridden a municipal bus in his life, was still sitting on his bus stop bench in La Jolla, about five miles away. “Hey dude, what are you doing?” he asked.
Roger: “Just got off a lunch shift. Hey, I had the over on Ohio State last night and have not been able to check it. Do you have any idea where it came in?”
Alex: “35-24 Ohio. You should be good.”
Roger: “Talk to Daddy! All I need is Stanford with the points tonight to pop a nice three-teamer.”
Alex: “Dude, you have issues. Anyway, I have something I think you will like – you up for Vegas?” With Roger, there was no need to do much promotion when it came to Nevada trips.
Roger: “Oooohhhh. When?”
Alex: “Today. I can pick you up in two hours. G-Balls and Mike are in.”
Roger: “Shit, no way. Mmmmm. Look I really want to, but I was up until six last night banging one of the regulars and am fucking beat. And I have to work a double tomorrow.”
Alex: “Get it covered. You can sleep in the car.”
Roger: “Well, the other thing is if Stanford comes in it is all good, but otherwise I have no funds. The shift this morning sucked. I only made ninety-five bucks.”
Alex: “I thought you hit a four-teamer on Sunday?�
�
Roger: “Yeah but I had some errands I needed to do and I still owed some rent.”
Alex: “Jesus, Rodge. All right, listen, don’t tell the other guys, but I’ll underwrite your share of the room and your vodka when we go out. Also, I am driving so don’t worry about gas or anything. All you need to pay for is what you gamble. And you can bring some Kodiak for me.”
Roger: “Thanks, cool. You know I’ll get you back. I just need to make sure I can get my shifts covered for tomorrow.”
Alex: “All right buddy. Make it happen.”
Roger: “Nice, see you.”
Alex: “I’ll talk at you.”
