All his life, Sam had been a hustler. His talent for agitation had taken it’s time to show a beneficial side, but once he discovered he could convince the boys who beat him up to gamble, well, one can’t refuse their life’s calling. He avoided three card monty, figuring that everyone would assume he was cheating and take their money back by force. Instead, he started running playground games of Texas Hold'Em, Blackjack, and Seven Card Stud. Penny-ante stakes at first, but as the years went on he learned the art of pumping a mark for more, of reeling them in, making them comfortable, and then giving them just enough hope that things will turn around that keep coming back for more.
Patience, naturally, was the key. Sam knew when to start his good luck streak so that it wasn’t suspicious and always made sure it had a conspicuous exit before its miraculous resurgence. This got much easier in high school, since most people were too drunk to pay attention. The downside was by the time everyone had got to the right level of drunkenness, they were more interested in girls than card games. To work around this he invented a variant of strip poker; instead of betting with money, he had girls bet with their clothes. He cut them in for a bit of his earnings, because just giving someone a dollar keeps their hand open for more; but give someone a dollar and the sense that they’re smarter, better than everyone? Why, they basically pay themselves in smugness
He passed most of these things down to his younger sister Camilla, who had dragged him out to one of his old haunts to hustle as many schmuck’s as she could line up, so he could pay back everything he had stolen from her. With interest.
She set the going rate for his penance at $1500. That he hadn’t been set foot in a bar or stood over a pool table for over a year now were just trivial details to be discarded or skimmed over. Sam’s insistence that he may not have the skills to actually get her what she wanted was met with an immediate outbreak of insult and incredulity.
“You used to scrounge that up on a Tuesday,” she said, “This is a pay-day Friday. So if you can’t come up with that with that kinda handicap, than, really, what good are you?”
The thing that hit him when he walked in was the noise. It’s usually labeled as atmosphere, but that doesn’t quite do justice to the sonic membrane that is the structured cacophony of dozens of conversations and side discussions fighting for their own space. It took him a few minutes to go through the process of getting beat down by the sound, to isolating the strands, and then finally putting the roar in the back of his mind that he could tap in and out of like a well. He hadn’t really noticed his feet carrying him to the tables before his eyes had seen them.
“First one up,” Camilla said, coming up behind him sipping her Red Bull Vodka, “is that guy.”
She nodded to a clean cut, tastefully dressed schlub in his early forties. He was chalking up a pool queue in front of the only unused table scanning the crowd, looking for minnows.
“Ah,” thought Sam, “Competition.”
He ambled over to his fellow shark, throwing furtive, yet very obvious, glances towards the table. Out of the the corner of his eye, Sam saw a smirk form on the corners of his fellow swimmer’s mouth.
“Hey, fancy a game,” he said. Sam had to admit, the guy knew what he was doing. His face was just the right kind of open with a broad smile spread across his lips that never parted to show any teeth. It was the sort of face where the words “Care to place a friendly wager?” would have indeed sounded inviting and not at all like a setup.
Sam nodded yes. Bruce, as Sam decided to call him, racked the balls up, and motioned for Sam to break. Sam made the most embarrassing break he could, or, at least, he hoped it was that intentional. The balls had barely separated from their triangle, let alone spread out across the table. Bruce gripped his cue, lamenting the amount of work ahead of him. He sunk two solids in neat succession; but then ran into a trap. There was a way open for him to sink the two ball; but to do it, he had to bank the cue ball off the back end of the table at just the right speed to make the physics work. It would be a brilliant shot, one that, if Sam was back in his working days, he’d hesitate to make. You never want to make yourself so impressive to a mark so early on, it drains them of any hope that they’ll be able to beat you.
Eventually, Bruce split the difference. He made the attempt, sure, but it was the valiant effort of an amatuer reaching beyond their skill. Really, it was a shame what had to happen here, but Camilla’s repeated glares of impatience was the none-too-subtle signal that it was time for this to wrap up.
And so, surprising even himself, Sam ran the table. Bruce skulked off after the eight ball sank, more upset that Sam didn’t have the professional courtesy to at least try to make some money off each other before showing their true colors, but, tonight was for Camilla. It’d just be selfish to dictate the terms of his amends, after all. They stuck around for another two hours for Sam to find his rhythm and left before they’d worn out their welcome when he really started to get going.
It was in the third place they went to that Camilla found her big mark. Chris Travers was his name, insisted on being called Christopher. He spelled his name out with a K whenever he checked into hotels to step out on his wife. Camilla had lead him over, hand-in-hand, careful to let the back of his hand brush ever so accidentally against her ass.
Sam knew the type, almost no fun at all really. There wasn’t much to it, all he had to do was let him win twice in front Camilla and he was locked in for the night. The second game had been for money-ten bucks per ball made in the pocket-and it almost hurt to let him win. From there, it was twenty, fifty, until Christopher with the cheating K was wearing out the carpet making return trips to the ATM for his hundred-bucks a game bet. Soon Christopher's phone, wallet, car keys and wedding ring were laid out on the felt. At the sight of the ring, Sam offered up a truce.
“You have however long it takes me to smoke this cigarette to think about what you’re doing,” he said. “When I come back, if you still want to bet it, I’ll take it from you like everything else.”
Sam leaned his cue on the wall and left Christopher, eyes bleary and burning, behind him for the cold of the night air.
Sam took a long, slow drag from his cigarette and watched the smoke drift away into the night air and felt, for the first time in what seemed like an eternity, that he was himself again. The night has and always will be it’s own, but here, now, Sam could feel the last year melting away into the ether. The deep dark secret no one wanted to admit to in all those meetings was that there was a reason everyone in there hadn’t been able to fit in the real world: they had tried it and found it wanting. All they found waiting for them in the light of day were mortgage payments, insufferable kids, and a job they dragged themselves to each day just so the wheels could keep spinning. How could any of that beat what he had, here and now?
Christopher was right where Sam had left him. And, in a moment of inspiration, he saw a way to make this whole amends thing work for him, too.
“Tell you what, man,” Sam said,” It doesn’t feel right to take a man’s wedding ring without some ‘I do’s’ attached, so you can keep it.”
Christopher slid his wedding ring back on his finger, slightly relieved that he wouldn’t to explain how he had lost it. Again.
“But,” Sam continued, “I would like a chance at that.”
He pointed to the high school championship football ring on Christopher’s right hand. Money wise, it was worthless. But that ring kept the glory years fresh and vibrant rather than fading into the dull grey of yesteryear and really, what was money worth when you could take that from a man?
Sam saw his resolve floundering, so he reached into his pocket and laid out the wad of cash he had earned so far.
“Here, it’s two-grand, easy.” He made sure to riffle the bills, they made a satisfying thunk against the wood edges of the table.
“Everything you’ve lost to me and then some. All this,” here he riffled the bills again, a bit faster, “And all you have to do is put up one measly ring.” Christopher’s eyes drooped and fixed themselves on the bills. He held out his hand, turned it over to look at the ring, back to the bills, and then back to the ring. There was no way this game was going to end well for him, but everything in his booze addled brain told him that this time, things would go straight, that all the breaks would play his way. Sam watched the thought process play out in it’s staggered line from A-to-B and had to look away before the flash of recognition hit him full force.
He turned his eyes to Camilla. He was curious what he’d see, since it technically was her money he was gambling with and he had made a major play without her. He saw her eyes bright as the sun, practically giddy at his move. Christopher proved actually useful for once when she slammed his ring on top of the cash and told Sam to rack ‘em.
Sam kept him in the game, just so the man could have one last stab of effort. It was a pitiful sight. Christopher could barely line a shot up, and whatever contact he did make just sent the cue ball spinning in a sad spiral in non direction in particular. When the final defeat came, Christopher launched into a violent rant complete with wild gesticulations about how he had been cheated, conned, and that he was going to beat everything out of Sam to make it right. At least, that was the general idea of it. The effort was slightly undermined by the slurred words, the stumbling, the threats that were forgotten halfway into their utterance.
“Jesus,” Sam thought, “Was this me, too?”
“That last bit was a bit of brilliance.” Camilla leaned against the passenger side of her car, counting everything out. She hadn’t drank much at each individual place, but, still, two drinks each at three bars will catch up to anyone, eventually. She counted and recounted the cash to make sure she had it right. This would have been easier if she could actually remember the total when she started to count it again.
“I was a little proud of that, not gonna lie”
“Dude, I swore he was gonna piss himself when you asked him to bet the ring,” she had lost about a minute to laughing, and another after that getting her breath back. “His face,oh god his face, I’m gonna be laughing about that for a while, now. Thanks a lot, really.”
Sam remembered that face, too. He’d seen the same kind in a lot of guys who dragged themselves to a meeting after draining a bottle of whiskey at 6:30 in the morning. Everyone with that face had a story about losing something small, something they threw away in a moment and when they came to and realized, just decided to barrel down to the bottom because, what else did they have to lose? “What am I going to do,” Sam thought, “If his face shows up looking for a way out?”
Camilla broke his reverie when she poked him the side.
“This is yours,” She had separated out a wad of cash from the pile and was holding it out to him, “if you want it.”
It was tempting. He wouldn’t feel good about tonight, and it would be a long time before he admitted this to anyone. But, what would life be if not for the weight of all the things we were ashamed of
Sam reached out, and took the cash
Camilla took a drag from Sam’s borrowed cigarette and laughed.
“You know, I was worried there for a bit,” she said, trying to get her bearings, “I thought all that group meeting hoodo would change you.”
“It did,” taking his smoke back, “They got me to stop drinking, stop destroying myself.”
“Which leaves you sharp as ever to do unto others. Like I said, it’s comforting to know that, after everything, it’s still you in there.”
“Yeah,” Sam said, stubbing out the cigarette, “I guess it is.”
Abigail, born minutes earlier and years older, had always cleaned his cuts and held the ice bags over his swollen bruises. The first set would be from boys at school, the fresher and bigger ones from their dad. When one session ended with two of Sam’s ribs and nose broken, Abigail crushed up some of their mother’s sleeping pills and poured the dust into his whiskey bottle. He woke up choking on the vomit, turning over to spill it out over his shirt instead of letting it rest in his lungs. After that, no alcohol came to their father's lips. Which would have been fine, had the man not found God and turned into a kind of Pentecostal preacher who made a flock out drunks. “The spirit in the bottle has blocked you from receiving the spirit of the Lord,” he would say, spittle flying from his mouth as he thrust his Bible into the air, clutching and shaking it for whoever was there to see it.
She had a job at the local college, teaching people barely younger than she was the wonders of physics. He was waiting outside her building, hoping that she wouldn’t see him among the throng until she was too close to turn back the other way. Worked too, even if he underestimated the venom that would be in her eyes. Her words matched her look.
“What do you want?”
“Talk. Maybe grab a cup of coffee?” He had heard that speaking softly with an angry person could calm them down. It must work some of the time.
“Sure. I hear you’re flush, so you can buy.”
Sam froze for a moment.
Abigail smiled, taking enjoying the moment. “Cam texted me this morning. She was ecstatic, seeing you in action again. She tells quite the story you know.”
Sam ran a hand through his hair and sighed. He really should have seen that coming.
“Got a bit of a traitorous streak, that sister of ours.”
“Shouldn’t have taught her so well, then.”
The lull Sam had figured would come at some point settled in much, much sooner than he’d hoped. Abigail stood there, bag slung over her shoulder, binder full of quizzes hanging at her side, just, waiting. Waiting for whatever show Sam cared to put on.
“Abbey,” he said with as much humility and repentance as he could muster, “I haven’t had a drink in thirteen months.”
“For all the good that did,” she spat back at him. “Still swimming in the slipstream of drunks and sad sacks to scam whatever you can to get by.” She looked him up and down, saw, again, the picture of a man out all night who had shambled out into the morning to make an appointment he had no hope of preparing himself for. “You haven’t learned a goddamn thing, have you?”
“I’m coming back to school.” The words blundered out of his mouth before he had time to think about them. She didn’t say anything, just raised an eyebrow, daring him to elaborate He began to realize how much he had depended on her looking the other way when he lied to her. Far from weaving a brilliant web of mendacity, she had always just saved him the trouble of digging himself deeper.
“It’s true,” he said, because if he’s going to go down in flames here he might as well make an effort. “I’m thinking psychology. Since I’m, you know, good at figuring out the subtext of people, like, what they don’t say, what they secretly want, what they’re hiding. I figured that I could use that to help someone other than me.”
Abigail dropped her eyebrow and smiled, unable to stop herself from snorting.
“You’ve got the sincere and heartfelt nonsense down pat, I’ll give you that,” she said, cocking her head the way she always had when she was about to deliver a dismissal, “But that you just tried to use it on me, to tell me how you’ve changed and how much better you’re doing, speaks for itself, doesn’t it?”
Later, Sam was nursing a green tea in the corner of her favorite coffee shop. When she came in and saw him, there wasn’t anger, just resignation.
“You stalking me now,” she quipped.
“No, that implies I followed you here, which,” Sam held up his cold tea as proof, “obviously I didn’t.”
“So, not stalking, just ambushing. It’s not creepy, so there’s that, just vaguely predatory.” Abigail’s brain took a second to catch up with the implications of her words, but when it did, her temper started to resurface. “Wait, how did you even know to be here?”
“Your lovely wife,” Sam replied, standing. “Now we’ve both had women we trust spill things we’d rather they didn’t today. That puts on on even ground, right?
Abigail swallowed her next statement and glared. If there was no escaping this today, so be it.
“Fine,” she muttered, then at speaking volume, “Let me grab something and we’ll go out back, the view’s not so terrible.”
Drinks in hand, they made their way to the back patio. Dusk was beginning it’s hand off to night, leaving embers of color in the sky above them. When they sat down, they both plopped their cigarette boxes down on the table
“You gave up on quitting?” Sam asked, more than a little scandalized she had picked the habit up again
“Pretty much,” she replied, her face glowing behind the lighter, “Spent a lot of time with mom after dad died. The place reeked of cats and cloves. I needed my own cloud to hide behind, so here we are again.”
“Camille said you two put on quite a show at the old man’s funeral.”
She almost knocked the cherry off her cigarette, her face coming alive at the memory.
“Yep. You should’ve have seen us, the grieving sisters who never told their Daddy how much they really loved him.”
“Jesus.”
“Right,” she said behind a new puff of smoke. “Teri refused to go. Said what I was doing was obscene and disrespectful.”
“You have to admit she’s got a point.”
Abigail took a loud, prolonged sip from her coffee before she answered.
“Yeah, well, we had to compensate because someone wasn’t there. Cam and I liked to think you were both there in spirit, though.”
Again the pall settled over their conversation. They sat in silence together in the receding dusk. In another moment, the heavy silence would’ve been the blanket to their conversation, putting to rest everything left unsaid for another time, when both of them would be willing to listen. But this was here and now, and there is very little in the world that burns like the will of man desperate to atone.
“Abby,” he almost pleaded, “How can I make this right?”
Abigail broke her cigarette in half when she ground it out.
“Nothing,” she finally said, her voice solid as granite. “Give me nothing.”
Sam opened his mouth to make his case, but Abigail, as always, beat him to it.
“I’ve spent enough time bound to this charade,”her voice began turning into something molten, “All the times I had to scrub or shampoo my car because of all the fluids you left behind, every time you got dragged into a rehab before you got thrown out again, just, all of it. I’m done, Sam, I’m just done.”
The finality and weight of the silence forced Sam’s head down to contemplate the bottom of his empty teacup. He couldn’t let this be the last word. Not with her.
“I know I’m asking a lot,” he choked out, “But Abby, there’s worse than me. Seriously, you should hear what some of these people have done, stuff that makes me look like an amatuer.”
His head shot up, he had to say this looking into her eyes.
“But they all made it back. They found a way to make things whole again. Don’t I deserve the chance the do the same? Don’t I have the right to believe that if they can make it, that I can too?”
Abigail held his gaze as she gathered her things and scooted her chair out.
“No, you don’t.”
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