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I Kan't Spell



Wednesday, October 04, 2006

 
Dropping Hard Eight Glasses

Sometimes I like to balance cups on their polar ends. So that they would be face to face and rear to rear. They would be open to open and closed to closed.

"11 Craps!" I just lost half my bank roll on that roll. I was hot and this cooler comes over to offer me a drink or a hot dog. She smelled like vanilla and rust and looked about as friendly as a dead dog. The dice came on back because I was the only one at the table.

Then 1 more showed, and one more, and 6 and then the green felt housed colors of the rainbow and the eyes were fixed. "The blonde kid can roll. He's hot as shit!" Then it was point after point after point and I wasn't banking. I was playing the pass line.

"Scratch throw!"

That's just how it goes sometimes when the dice seem to click together and hit off the table. Every single time you roll the dice they click, bang, thwap, and end up in the pit boss' lap. The old man at the end of the table sighs and looks at you as if you were some retard who didn't know how to roll dice. The mood changes.

"Give me those bones. I'll show you old man."
Bing! Bang! Clack! Thwap! And the pit boss was almost bloodied. Now you are nervous and the mojo has run out of your body. Your hands feel like anchors holding mice and not like pillows holding diamonds. You throw once more and it's craps. "11 Craps!" Your face sags and you realize that you hit 4 hards and naturals like it was your job but you failed to bet it.

"New shooter coming" out says the pit boss and you step aside. You are back on the rail with your 600 in chips and that look in your eyes. Your hard on is gone. So why are you still there? Walk away with the chips you have. You should walk away and go buy a steak as big as your foot. But you juggle the chips a little in your hand. You juggle them to remind yourself that you are comfortable around the chips, the winners, and the dice. You know what the hard 8 is for and you remember that to push back up is a good thing. You connect with the shooter. He's a 22 year old kid with a girl on his arm and a stiff drink in his hand. You have been moved to the end of the table but you can tell the kid is fearless in his eyes. You can even smell his cologne from where you are. You let it ride on him and he makes you a first pass.

"Coming out!"
"7!"

You clench your hands and look at the kid. You give him a wink and push it back up.

"Coming out!"
"11!"

Every bone in you says to walk away. You pick up your 2400 in chips and walk away. As you walk you hear the roars. "7!", "11!" "Hard Eight". You already have your back turned to the action and your chips are already nestled under your arm. You could have made 10 grand or more. You could have gambled with the young buck with the silver eyes and the neon dripping him off him like a fresh orgasm.

You could have had that moment.

But you walk like in slow motion with some good ole' blues song playing to downplay your beat. Your jeans aren't that cool anymore an dyour 22 year old tattoo now looks like old scotch in a dirty glass. You smell like failure and the eye rolls follow you around the room. Nothing about your walk says winner but you think other wise. You think it's like pounding down building with each steps. With each heel click there are women's heads turning and there are men wanting to buy your drinks and ask your advice. In actuality you just want out of there. You just want out with your crumbs and your anonymous dignity.

The chips jingle onto the marble counter and the woman in the red vest behind the gold gated window counts out your 24 one hundred dollar bills. She slides them through and you think about tipping her a 5 but instead you just light a cigarette and wad the money into your pocket and make off like you are still important.

I like to balance glasses on their polar opposite ends until they reach the ceiling. I like to build upwards in the safest way. There is no more risk to me. There isn't anything in me that screams that I'll ever be what I was intended to be. "Always trust your gut son." Well my gut says that it's all coming down the line soon and I'm going to be out in the cold just like my old man. I feel a loss coming on and I feel those glasses stacked so high that they aren't going to make it through the winter. How do you sell short in life? I could make a fortune.

I should bet the "Don't Pass" line.

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