Strongly weekly: PLAYING GAMES

 

The strong stench of Roy’s habitual cigar puffing clung to his clothes, engulfing the Gin players in foulness. No way would he light up during the weekly night game of the four old buddies, even though his day had been extra stressful. He reluctantly set aside his need as he scraped his chair across the tile floor.  The other three players cared enough about Roy and their treasured friendship to accept the embedded smell. They tolerated many things knowing each had his own peculiarities, nervous habits, troubles, and tried not to pick too much on any one person on any given night. But that didn’t always  work.

 

This looked like ‘Roy’s night’ to Roy. Except for the cigars, he was meticulous about himself. His fine gray hair meagerly covering his pink scalp-always neat-never a wind-blown strand. Wrinkles crinkled his cheeks and too many folds waddled his neck. All 6' of him sat erect but his mind wandered.

 

‘O.K.,  Roy, take a card. Quit dreamin’,’ At the sharp tone of Irv’s voice, Roy drew a 7. ‘Gin,’ he blurted! ‘That’ll teach ya to rush me.’ Len, his partner, whistled low. ‘That’s the ticket. Let’s Schneider these guys. Gimmee the count.’ Roy got up to get a coke, his pants sagging around his puny behind. Pale, lack-luster eyes smiled a little as the game neared completion. As he closed the refrigerator door, he heard cards slam on the table and Len’s strident upset voice, ‘Damn, he got me too fast. I couldn’t get under. Down 5 and the box. There goes the Schneider.’

 

Jack piped up, ‘Calm down, Len. You’ll have another heart attack!’ Len used his paper napkin to wipe his sweaty balding head, adjusted his horn-rimmed glasses, settled his haunch and dealt to Jack. Roy quickly gave Irv his cards and turned the knock card to 6 spades. “Double,’ he muttered. Irv loved these Tuesday nights even though he knew he’d nosh too much, have too many beers and probably add a pound to his ever increasing girth. His small beady eyes twinkled as he picked up his cards and saw two complete melds and 2 pairs. He clucked his tongue against his false teeth. All the guys nudged him to go to the dentist but he kept finding lame excuses. A back ache, a broker’s appointment, Clara needed him or the grandchildren were coming over–dozens of reasons were handy so he could avoid the dental chair. ‘I’ll go. I’ll go,’ Irv insisted but he never said when. Time and too many sweets had worn most of his teeth away. The guys put up with that and the occasional bad breath, but it was harder accepting Irv’s cheating. No matter what the stakes, he miscounted or dropped a card while craning to look at the window reflection of his opponent’s cards. He cheated a little on his taxes and sometimes returned an almost finished meal to the waitress as being lousy and got it deducted from the check.

 

It was a sickness. Money wasn’t the problem as he had made his pile and retired five years before. Irv just ‘had to do it’, get away with something. Friends stayed mum, alert and breasted their cards so the buddies since flapper skirts and raccoon coats would go on forever.

 

Jack shifted his 6'2" bulk, pushed back his beautiful silver-white hair, put his hands across his mouth and rubbed his smooth cherubic cheeks.

The tiny red lines on his W.C. Fields’ nose brightened with each swallow of his Smirnoff’s neat. He was the best player in the foursome, sharp as a tack and good scorekeeper. A close, lasting friendship had kept his extra-marital affairs strictly between the four. Bits of jealousy weren’t mouthed but were surely there. Silence filled the air and the game went on. 

 

Len’s feet hurt. He kicked off his shoes to let his corns breathe. Arthritis gnarled his slim surgeon’s fingers but not enough to keep
him from shuffling. God forbid. Aside from ‘the boys’ Len’s life was his family while holding close his deep religious convictions. He was a listening post, a shoulder to lean on, always there, a friend tried and true. Len felt time running out as his 75th birthday neared.  He was not afraid.  No regrets, no enemies wasn’t a bad way to close the door he believed.

 

It took another half hour before Roy and Len finished it off. A big win of $5 gave each a tinge of disappointment. No Schneider! With years of practice they seemed to all get up in unison, taking the empty glasses to the kitchen, dropping bent beer cans in the trash.

 

‘How about dinner Friday?’ Len asked in a general way. ‘I can’t make it’, Irv replied. ‘Neither can I’, Jack and Roy answered as one.

 

Len shrugged, ‘Well, what the hell. See you all here next Tuesday.’