The Wild Card (7 page)
Authors: Mark Joseph
The taxi was speeding across the Bay Bridge, the city a sea of lights in the rearview mirrors, when Bobby started to second-guess himself. His livelihood was playing high stakes poker with amateurs, and twenty thousand dollars was waiting like ripe fruit in the Palace Hotel. The game was no different from hundreds he'd played in, so what was the big deal, that he might lose? It wouldn't be the first time. Was it the wizard? Was he afraid of Alex Goldman? The Alex he remembered was a smug teenager who thought he couldn't lose. Alex was the only player who'd consistently beaten him, but that was a long time ago. As kids they'd been equals, novitiates to the game, but now Alex was a fifty-year-old college professor who played once a year while Bobby was a pro who played every day. If he played Alex tonight, he'd crush him like a cockroach. So, if he wasn't running away from the game, it had to be something else.
He stared through the windshield at the tunnel-like lower deck of the bridge, five and a half miles of steel girders and cars all zooming in the same direction. He felt weird and disembodied, as though he were locked inside a metal cage rushing headlong to nowhere. In the distance the dismal yellow lights of Oakland offered neither solace nor answers to his questions.
Needing a foil to sort himself out, he asked the cab driver, “You play cards?”
“Why do you ask?” Her eyes flicked in the mirror and then locked on the roadway.
“Just curious. That's what I do. I'm a professional poker player.”
“Poker only?”
“That's right. No blackjack, no bridge, just poker.”
“Must be an interesting life.”
“It has its moments, like pushing a hack. What's your name?”
“Driver,” she answered quickly, the moniker prepared in advance.
“That's it?”
“That's it.”
“Well,” Bobby cleared his throat. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Driver. My name is Bob,” and when Driver said nothing, Bobby asked, “Ever been to Reno?”
“Yeah, once.”
“You gamble? Play the slots?”
“No.”
“Wha'd you go to Reno for?”
“To ski on Mount Rose.”
“Ah ha! A winter tourist. Can I smoke in your cab?”
“No.”
“Can we negotiate that?”
“No.”
“You're not a lot of fun, Driver.”
“This is a cab, Mr. Passenger, not an amusement park.”
“Sorry. I'll just sit back, shut up, and dream about the old days when a cigarette was just a smoke.”
The old days. The game had been born one night in Alex's parents' garage on Alvarado Street. They used a big cable-spool for a table, and those old clay chips, and during that first night they all fell in love with the game. Alex had a book,
Poker According to Maverick,
that explained the odds, told them what a poker face was, described simple strategies (don't stay in if you can't beat the cards you can see), and served as a rule book. They played until dawn that first night and every night for the next week. Simple-minded pop psychologists would call their game “male bonding,” but it was more than that. They became part of a history and tradition of card players and gamblers they couldn't exactly define but which resonated deep in their souls. It didn't require analysis. They loved it and lived it and let it sweep them away like the current of a mighty river.
Poker According to Maverick,
that explained the odds, told them what a poker face was, described simple strategies (don't stay in if you can't beat the cards you can see), and served as a rule book. They played until dawn that first night and every night for the next week. Simple-minded pop psychologists would call their game “male bonding,” but it was more than that. They became part of a history and tradition of card players and gamblers they couldn't exactly define but which resonated deep in their souls. It didn't require analysis. They loved it and lived it and let it sweep them away like the current of a mighty river.
“I call.”
“I raise two bits.”
“You raise, you son of a bitch? What d'ya got? A straight? Your high card is only the four of spades.”
“Pay up and find out, chump.”
Smoking cigarettes and drinking beer, they'd played cards and Alex's dad had had the good sense to leave them alone. They could hear Alex's parents arguing upstairs.
“Do you know what they're doing down there? Smoking and drinking and gambling.”
“I know exactly what they're doing, and if they weren't doing it here where they're safe, they'd be doing it in the back room of a pool hall on Divisadero Street.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because that's what I did when I was their age.”
“Well, Alex has to study.”
“Don't worry. He's going to be all right. They're good boys. Go to bed.”
They were transformed by the game. Alex became the wizard, Charlie the reckless perennial loser, Dean the stodgy conservative, Nelson the party animal, and Bobbyâit always came down to Bobby and Alex in a showdown when they had to lay their cards on the table. They were the real players, the fierce competitorsâBobby who played by instinct and Alex the maniac who learned card tricks, read poker books, and studied accounts of famous games by notorious gamblers. They played through the spring and summer of 1962 and as often as possible during their busy senior year at prestigious Lowell High School, finding time for a few hours of cards between family obligations, part-time jobs, and college entrance exams.
In June of 1963 they graduated and faced the inevitable of going their separate ways. Alex was headed for New York City and Columbia; Bobby, who wised up after failing math in the seventh grade, was admitted to Berkeley; Dean had an athletic scholarship to play football up north in Oregon; Nelson was southbound for UCLA; and Charlie, a less than stellar student, was going to live at home, work for Hooper Fish and go to San Francisco City College. Like pollen, they'd been cast to the four winds. With the profound solemnity
of adolescence they made a pact to return to San Francisco once a year to play cards, but that was in the rosy future. Meanwhile it was a glorious summer of girlsâstrip poker, oh boyâand five card stud. Years later, on those rare occasions when Bobby allowed himself to reminisce, he realized that 1963 had been the last year of innocence for them and all of America. Charismatic Jack Kennedy was president and no one had heard of Vietnam or Lee Harvey Oswald. They played cards, went to the beach, got their tattoos, climbed aboard Dean's father's boat and went for a ride up the river.
of adolescence they made a pact to return to San Francisco once a year to play cards, but that was in the rosy future. Meanwhile it was a glorious summer of girlsâstrip poker, oh boyâand five card stud. Years later, on those rare occasions when Bobby allowed himself to reminisce, he realized that 1963 had been the last year of innocence for them and all of America. Charismatic Jack Kennedy was president and no one had heard of Vietnam or Lee Harvey Oswald. They played cards, went to the beach, got their tattoos, climbed aboard Dean's father's boat and went for a ride up the river.
Boom, fragmentation grenade, and Bobby never went to Berkeley. Instead, the day after their journey up the Feather River he walked into the Oakland Induction Centerâhe could still remember the smell of disinfectant and sweatâtook his physical, stepped across the yellow line and was herded on the bus to Fort Ord just like that. To say he never looked back would be an exaggeration, but he didn't look back often. He didn't look forward much, either, making no plans and living solely in the present, if not in oblivion. He hadn't intended to stay in the army twenty years; every time his reenlistment rolled around he re-upped because the Army took damned good care of him. The closed world of the military had shielded him from everything but himselfâall that cabbage on his chest cut a lot of slack; and when he retired he played cards because that was the only thing he knew how to do except make war and drink and inject heroin into his veins.
Poker had saved him. He wanted to play, exactly why he wasn't sure, and since he couldn't play stoned and drunk he endured withdrawal and detox and kept playing. Occasionally he fell off the wagon and sometimes chipped a little dope, but he stayed clean enough to play a few hours a day somewhere. There is no shortage of poker in America. Poker is the great American game, and anyone can play. Anyone does, and when anyone has a few bucks and thinks he's pretty good, sooner or later he sits down in a clean, shiny casino poker room with Bobby McCorkle. La de da, check and raise, fool. Bobby gobbled up the rubes and made his rent and child support, no sweat. And when he was tap city, there was always the pension check every month.
He was good-looking, always smiling and exuding an unrepentant hustler's charm. Bobby came on slick, sarcastic, bright and brash in a way some women found attractive. In bed, most asked right away about the ace of diamonds tattooed on his arm, and he lied and made up stories about a tattoo parlor in Saigon. If they didn't ask, he saw them again. Three never asked, and he married them. Two had his kids; one lived in Florida and the other in Chicago. It didn't take long for the charm to wear thin, crushed by booze, dope, car wrecks, losing streaks, and white-hot psychic shrapnel. None of the women ever reached his core, a searing morass of trauma and suppressed rage. They only saw the effect, the rolling disaster called Bobby McCorkle. He'd disappear for weeks at a time and then call from New Orleans or Las Vegas saying he was coming home with a hundred grand. When he arrived two weeks later, he had five thousand left and a fresh collection of bruises and tracks. When the women realized he wasn't going to change, they left. None of his wives or girlfriends ever heard a word about the Feather River.
What had happened during one night at Shanghai Bend was the central event of his life, the crucible from which the rest of his days were formed, but he had to admit that he wasn't sure exactly what had happened. He was certain of his responsibility, but in those moments when the memory forced its way into his consciousness and he tried to recall the exact sequence of events, he saw a few pieces clearly but there were blanks. Some gaps had been there the following day because he'd been monstrously drunk. That he knew for sure. Other blank spots were created by his erasing them from his memory. They were just too painful to remember.
It occurred to him that if he stopped ruminating and just let Driver take him to Reno, he might cop some dope and kill himself with an overdose, thus adding a final episode of cowardice and guilt to his repertoire of reprehensible acts. He could take Shanghai Bend to the Reno morgue tonight without ever having uttered those two words to any living person, two words that said his life had run into a waterfall on the Feather River and careened in a new direction, a bearing that wasn't marked on any compass.
Exile on Main Street. Nowhereville. Heartbreak Hotel in downtown
Reno, the Biggest Little City in the World. Shark music, can you hear it? Dum dum Dum dum Dum dum. Remember that kid on Market Street, the three card monte dealer? Bobby! You dumb fuck, you're him, trying to get over with a clumsy trick, a little sleight of hand, a cheap hustle.
Reno, the Biggest Little City in the World. Shark music, can you hear it? Dum dum Dum dum Dum dum. Remember that kid on Market Street, the three card monte dealer? Bobby! You dumb fuck, you're him, trying to get over with a clumsy trick, a little sleight of hand, a cheap hustle.
I'm better than that. I don't cheat. I've never cheated.
Well, whoop dee doo. Want a medal, or a chest to pin it on?
There were advantages and disadvantages to living exclusively in the present rather than the past or future, or some combination as most people do. Zen monks live in the present as do card players, artists, sociopaths, and soldiers in combat. Living in the present is always risky, without security or equity, with no deductible, capital gain, or tax write-off, and since most people practice risk avoidance as a guiding principle, they never experience the present. They may gamble but they rarely risk anything of value. They can't possibly imagine a human being who risks everything every minute on every hand. They'd have a heart attack if they pushed eighty thousand dollars into the pot and said, “I raise.” Damn. Bobby had lost that one, but he'd walked away with a thrill that was almost as good as winning. He'd had the balls to make the bet and he got beat,
c'est la vie
. He'd done it before and won, and he'd win again. He was a pro. He knew the odds.
c'est la vie
. He'd done it before and won, and he'd win again. He was a pro. He knew the odds.
The driver broke into his thoughts by saying, “Open the window and you can smoke. Okay?”
“What a gal. You're terrific. Thanks. I appreciate that. What do you do when you're not driving your cab?”
“What do you do when you're not playing poker?”
“You're a tough lady, you know that? But I'll tell you, anyway. I used to drink, and that filled a lot of time, but since I don't drink anymore, I watch TV. In the winter it's cold in Reno so I go to Vegas and watch TV there.”
“And play poker.”
“That's right, and play cards.”
“It sounds pretty dismal, all that TV.”
“Fantasy, young lady, is infinitely preferable to reality, unless you're rich and can make your fantasies come true. Are you rich? I
didn't think so. I used to read books, lots of books, but after a while I read everything worth reading. Now I watch TV. My name is Bob, by the way. Got a boyfriend?”
didn't think so. I used to read books, lots of books, but after a while I read everything worth reading. Now I watch TV. My name is Bob, by the way. Got a boyfriend?”
“You weren't gonna ask any stupid questions, remember?”
“I'm just trying to make conversation, that's all. A guy tonight caught me talking to myself. I'll tell you what. You ask the questions.”
“Okay. Why were you in San Francisco?”
“For a card game.”
“You win?”
“I decided not to play.”
“Why not? You a good poker player?”
“I'm a pro. What does that tell you?”
“It doesn't tell me why you didn't play.”
“No. Maybe I'm not sure why myself. It's a high stakes game. There's real money to be made in that game.”
“Or lost. For every winner there's a loser, right? Seems to me like you're out four hundred bucks.”
“I can win that back tonight in Reno, but there's some things in life, you lose them and you can never get them back.”
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