Poker

"And I never to fold."

-- O.A.R., "That Was a Crazy Game of Poker"

--

Outside my window, a mile above the city, a helicopter looks for something. It buzzes and slices the air, a hummingbird of metal. A cement mixer squeals to a stop at the corner, its ancient brakes yelping like wounded dogs. Under the I-71 overpass two blocks south, a gold-brown SUV cut into my lane and almost took out that corner of my car. I honked, my car unharmed and myself alarmed.

Haven't been to a park in a while. Been watching Planet Earth episodes lately. Also ripping music up the wazoo. The Road is the space between the fires, a world where nature and technology are gone and all that remains is a boy and his father. I'm fifty pages from the end and I can't stop.

--

Had poker and a show last night--dress rehearsal, actually, for the Ensemble Theatre's upcoming production of The Seafarer. Wonderful play, stellar production, incandescent acting. The main character, a seaman himself, beleaguered by his past, fighting seas of shame, discovers the joy of life in a crazy game of poker. A brilliant affirmation of even the shittiest lives. And all this for free, too: it is good to network.

Afterwards, we walked back to our cars and made our way north for poker, cross-legged gamers bluffing on a carpet, sipping beer, wine, sharing stories, laughing, the rise and fall of chip towers, spotted empires of green and blue and black and white and red, crumpled bills in a pile on the mantlepiece, the forgotten pot, the verdigris and the reward. Making faces, making plans and schemes. The game moved to a proper table for the climax. A showdown in the wee hours, the apathy mixed with tension, dealing for the duo with drooping eyes, until an ironclad hand--kings full of aces, full house--rakes 'em in and clears one side of the table. The autumn of the cards.

Kings full of aces, indeed. A full house, indeed.

Five dollars can buy you into some priceless things.

--

All this, plus Chinese food laden with MSG, this time with an amiga for company rather than a libro. A full stomach and good DVDs today, the day off, the first in weeks, and also the last in weeks. No overnights this week, no terribly long days and painfully short nights. A week of breaks.

And McCarthy's words. The rusty grid of the fire-escape out my window, soupy behind the pea-green shade. The chimney next door and the trees scraping the rooftop gables, and a tundra of clouds in the highlighter-blue sky. My room is messy but my life is ordered. A return to simplicity and comaraderie, a spring in the woods, eternal life in the roots of a sprawling tree.

And I tuck myself in for forty winks at three in the afternoon. I love feeling full on empty days.