Pocket Aces
I suddenly couldn’t get those memories out of my head. Perhaps they invade my daydreams because work has become rather boring. Or maybe I spend too much time letting my brand new, 2017 Model S drive me around. Another vacation to Costa Rica might be in order. After thirteen years of dormancy, that annoying filmstrip plays its way through my mind without warning. It begins with an awful exam I took back when I was still a freshman...
“Pencils down. Pass your test booklets to the aisles. Remember, no class this Friday, so see y’all back here Monday morning.” The friendly Southern accent did nothing to prevent a collective air of defeat from settling over the lecture hall as my fellow students quietly zipped their backpacks, grabbed their winter coats, and headed numbly for the exits. Several drifting snowflakes seemed to blink on and off as they passed by the few slits of light still remaining within the towering Dennison Building.
I can’t think of anyone who liked the place. Unoriginal and built on a tight budget, it’s an ugly fortress designed to sequester the dreaded physics and calculus courses. Not even a decent room to study in or a cluttered office to visit. Suffering through never-ending PowerPoints and excruciating exams inside stuffy lecture halls made me want to switch majors.
Discouraged, hungry examinees huddled in penguin-like clumps at the side of the road waiting for the big blue bus to pull up and rescue them from the cold. I lingered close enough to hear tidbits of what they were saying, but far enough away to avoid being drawn in. Conversation began to shift from circuit diagrams and magnetic field lines to the location of the biggest party that night.
They were thinking too far ahead. I couldn’t steer my own thoughts away from dinner. No time for much of a lunch with a day devoted to practice tests; too bad that sacrifice hadn’t paid off.
The line for dinner stretched part way down the stairwell and my impatience rose to the point where I had to bite my lip in order to avoid plowing through the crowd like an unhinged running back. My stomach angrily demanded the food that social order denied. Molecules wafted down the steps and smelled amazingly good, even though I knew from experience that the food itself would be a disappointment.
My roommate stood next to me babbling about some show his head-banging metal band would play that night. He did the growls. I wasn’t really listening. The excruciating wait made me so dizzy that I had to lean reluctantly on the grubby hand-rail. The dirtiness of this place made my skin crawl.
Eventually, a plethora of food came into view. The sight would have dropped the jaw of any person hailing from the Third World, but to me it had become tedious. The wonder of seemingly endless options deflated into a chore of choice; I was tired of choosing.
Breakfast was available all day long at the biggest dining hall on campus. I started with a waffle and a bowl of cereal even though the allure of breakfast for dinner had finally worn off for most of us. After filling several undersized glasses up to the very top with milk, I spotted some friends at a table and winced at the screech caused by a chair moving backward as one of them stood up to get seconds. I found a seat near the vacating offender.
The first round dropped into my stomach like dirty clothes falling down a laundry chute. With hardly a word to my dinner companions, I found another line to stand in as I waited for Sexy Grandpa - the gnarly old biker with a white beard, black bandana, and a few gold earrings - to serve me up a piece of runny lasagna with a burnt top. How was that guy always so cheery? He must take drugs. I grabbed a hamburger and some dessert on the way back to the table for good measure.
Dinnertime conversation failed to inspire. Eating consumed nearly all of my focus. I gathered they were talking about how to sneak a keg into the dorm. Apparently it had been done before. Big surprise.
After dropping our half-eaten remains of dinner onto the conveyor belt, we headed out the double doors, noisily discussing the appropriate time to meet up and wait for the bus that would disgorge us into the heart of Central Campus. We made our way downstairs to the convenience store for a few twenty ounce bottles of soda. The plan was to use them as mixers for the ride down. When the time to pay arrived, I realized the M-Card I needed was no longer in my wallet. Must have left it on the tray that got sucked through the tiny opening into that raucous dishwashing room.
Drink abandoned, I sulked back up the stairs to the Caf only to be denied entry by the Card Lady. At least there wasn’t a line this time. She called someone over to go ask if my all-important rectangle of plastic could be located, who in turn disappeared to investigate. After an inordinate amount of time passed in awkward silence, the anonymous eight-dollar-and-fifteen-cents-per-hour cafeteria worker in the white apron came back empty-handed. I was seething. Twenty bucks for a new card! I assumed it was hiding in the pocket of that stupid looking apron.
Suddenly, the thought of braving the cold just to drink cheap beer in an old sticky-floored house while trying to say something above distorted, overpowered woofers blasting Akon and Mr. West had lost its appeal. I wandered the halls aimlessly and found myself a bit lost in some lounge on the other side of the gangly building. It takes a while to get used to the third largest dorm in the nation.
Although I passed hundreds of flyers without a second glance, the bulletin board in this far-flung lounge caught my attention. Before stepping up for a closer look, I warily scanned the uncomfortable couches and eerily empty hallway, failing to confirm the sneaking suspicion that someone was watching me.
The cork board had long since disappeared under multi-colored layers of paper. As I leaned in to examine the picture of an unwanted car, some unseen figure opened a door and the slight disturbance gave one of the neon-pink Kappa Kappa Gamma sheets just enough liberty to plummet straight toward the ground. It hit the worn linoleum on its edge with a sharp crack, startling me. Whoever placed it there had covered up news of a poker tournament in Pierpont Commons - only a short walk down the hill. I figured that would have to be more fun than wandering through empty hallways.
Cold air hit my lungs with a force causing me to instantly regret my decision. It didn’t help that I found myself slipping and sliding like a Jamaican on a hockey rink down the steep, poorly lit hill. Glowing, pyramidal skylights stuck out of the roof of my target, reminding me of those stupid chrome studs adorning my roommate’s wrist.
Although I somehow managed to make it without falling, the situation that awaited me took the night from bad to worse. Kicking myself for failing to anticipate the now obvious, I stared around a room filled with engineers. They were mostly Asian, with a couple brave, or perhaps desperate, females competing for Pop-Tarts and Pringles. Not exactly what I had in mind. I asked if there was a real game nearby. Looking slightly offended, they said I might try the basement.
I poked my head into unlocked rooms until I came across an older guy who must have been in his thirties, wearing a cowboy hat, sitting alone near the end of a hallway. While heading toward this misplaced character, I passed a few outdated research posters covering dirty concrete block walls that were glaringly lit by banks of fluorescent lights. One of them flickered incessantly.
Feeling a bit strange, I tossed my inquiry in the direction of the cowboy and he responded like a bookie. He said the buy-in was twenty bucks. A little steeper than what I was looking for, but I suppose it was this or an early bedtime.
Apparently, the smoke detector had been disabled as I almost choked while walking into the dimly lit haze. One chair remained open. A stack of chips sat in front of it, as if they had been expecting me. I took my seat and was greeted with curious smiles. The faces presenting those expressions were not quite what I expected. Could any of these people actually go to this school? I would be shocked if they did. They must be employees. Worthless janitors, maintenance men, and food service workers.
I recognized Sexy Grandpa from the cafeteria, confirming my hypothesis. “How was that lasagna tonight?” I opened my mouth to respond but he just continued talking. “You can call me Frank here. I only tolerate that Sexy Grandpa nonsense in the Caf,” he said, gold tooth flashing in the muted light.
If only he had an eye patch and a parrot on his shoulder he would look just like a pirate. He carried on with his introduction. “The others you won’t need to know until later on. Titans of industry they are…er…were.” Those in question didn’t look like they could handle much more than a broom and a mop. Their carefree vibe didn’t really make me want to know any of them.
Each of their heads were covered in some kind of stupid hat. I saw a Yankee’s cap, a fez, a turban, and what is that thing Imam’s wear called? Not to mention the ratty black biker’s bandana. Was this some kind of foreign delegation? I felt very young and out of place. Tacky floors and overworked sound systems quickly grew in appeal.
After a few rounds, I started to feel a bit more at home, although there was something wrong that I couldn’t quite put my finger on. Then it came to me. Deep shadows seemed to move in and out of drifting smoke with an inky oneness reminiscent of a night scene shown on a cheap plasma TV. It was as if reality couldn’t quite manifest itself.
Partially formed darkness gave away the fact that I had not stepped into any old poker night. I had no idea what to make of that extraordinary conclusion. Perhaps they were smoking more than tobacco and it was messing with my head.
The second card slid to a stop in front of my fingers, pulling me back into the game. I lifted the corners to reveal pocket aces. Both aces stared up at me and sparked intense excitement which was not allowed to surface on my face even for a fraction of a second. The lid stayed fastened securely onto that emotional pressure cooker. It didn’t really matter because everyone seemed to be ignoring me anyway.
“Hey Barney, did you make it to that G3 meeting yesterday?” The guy wearing the Fez was talking.
“Sure did Jimmy. It was a whopper. You have no idea what those towel heads have been up to – no offense Billy,” replied the Yankee’s fan as he tapped away the ash from his cigar.
“None taken,” said the man from the Middle East, “I just hope we can keep things under wraps until this whole messy business takes off.” He grinned, waiting in vain for the others to catch his pun.
I had no idea what they were talking about, but my stone cold façade worked, and the stack of chips in front of me almost doubled. When I turned up the two corners dealt next I couldn’t help but let a little steam escape. My slightly raised eyebrows did not go unnoticed. Once again, I cleaned house with pocket aces. What were the odds?
As my hands reached toward the center of the table to round up my chips, I saw the man wearing a turban beating me to the task. All of the broad smiles pointed in my direction didn’t even register as I stared openmouthed at this blatant disregard for the rules.
My subsequent challenge was met with a few chuckles and Sexy Grandpa’s ridiculous sounding retort: “Of course those are his chips, didn’t you see he won that hand?”
“With a king high!?” I replied incredulously.
He grinned behind that unkempt beard. “And who made you in charge of the rules?”
“Rules are rules, and this is not how the game is played,” I said icily.
“You must be thinking of a different game. Didn’t Frank tell you on the way in?”
“The guy I gave my twenty bucks to? I thought you were Frank?!”
The others looked at each other knowingly as Frank lumbered into a patient explanation. “This is more than a game of poker, my young friend. This is what one might call a fork in the road. Life has dealt you pocket aces. You have an invitation to the top 1% of society if you play your cards right. You can stick to your rules, collect those chips, cash out, and discover what it’s really like near the top. Having all been there ourselves, we can tell you that it isn’t worth the trouble.” Heads nodded in unison all around the table.
“You can keep playing if you want to know more, but, if not, Cowboy Frank will settle your account on the way out. Keep the money, and don’t look back. If the prospect of a boring life isn’t doing it for you, we will be here again next week. Same time. Same place. New rules.”
I awoke with a start. The shrieks of my roommate’s alarm clock tore into my consciousness like the beak of a hungry vulture. Why couldn’t that metalhead remember to turn it off on the weekends? I tilted my head in his direction only to see an empty bed. He must not have made it home after the big show.
In a rush to silence the screaming, I knocked my head on the overhead pipe. Hadn’t done that since week one. The pounding between my ears wouldn’t subside. Wasn’t that just my luck? A splitting headache with nothing to show for it.
I couldn’t remember getting home last night. For that matter, everything after the cowboy hat was a bit hazy, more dreamlike than anything. I do remember smoke and a card table. What were they smoking?
After seriously considering the possibility that it had all just been a vivid dream, I grabbed my wallet (minus the M-Card), keys, flip-phone, and let the door slam behind me as the craving for Wendy’s dollar menu blossomed. Fast food became a weekly ritual as the dining hall was closed on Saturday mornings.
My car rolled to a stop at the window as I fished the tattered wallet out of my pocket. To my surprise, it was stuffed with cash.
The dream theory ceased to hold much weight, but I still couldn’t recall what precisely had happened. Rationalizing, I decided the void must have been caused by a combination of nearly sleepless nights leading up to that terrible exam and the layers of stress it evoked. My brain was pretty fried last night. Today it just hurt.
Yet another week of lectures, homework, and studying had come to pass. I found myself standing in line waiting for seconds on the lasagna. At least it wasn’t burnt this time. Sexy Grandpa served me up with his standard smile and casual, friendly greeting. Then there was the wink. It sent chills down my spine but I could not fathom why.
Shaking off the sensation, I grabbed a piece of apple pie, smothered it in soft-serve ice cream, and navigated my way back to the table. Tonight they were talking about the hockey team. We had just upset number one North Dakota at Yost Arena. Suddenly everyone wanted tickets to the next game. Why did they only care when we did well? Who was this Jack Johnson anyway? I thought he was a singer, and his music was boring, but they spoke about him like a hockey player. I didn’t want to let my ignorance show by asking a stupid question. Confusion remained.
Distended bellies insisted the couch was a much better idea than our planned workout, so we popped in season three of Family Guy. After a few episodes, the clock registered 9pm. Shower time. Then the cold...the bus...and more cold. My friends couldn’t wait to get to the fraternity party. I couldn’t wait to get out of the cold.
After ten minutes of trudging down slushy sidewalks, bass emanations could finally be heard from the tall, white, imposing house lit up like a distant monument. More than fifty dudes lived there. You couldn’t pay me enough to be one of them. Just like many of the girls who spent time within its walls, the mansion looked a whole lot better from far away. I couldn’t imagine trying to study or sleep in a place that never sheds the smell of stale beer and cigarettes.
“Who cleans all this up?” I asked the stupid question when discarded Solo cups and beer cans that sprayed the front yard materialized.
“Pledges,” came the synchronous reply.
“Jimmy is pledging Phi Psi,” said Dave, “and he said last weekend they had to get everything ready, fourteen kegs and all, and then spend most of the day Saturday cleaning it all up. That wasn’t even a big party! He spends so much time as an indentured servant I think his grade point average is about half what it should be.”
As we were herded into line like barnyard livestock, I wondered to myself why smart kids would subject themselves to the humiliation of joining a fraternity. The girls that had ridden down with us pushed ahead to make sure we got in with them. It hadn’t taken long to realize that a group of guys didn’t stand a chance on their own.
Somewhere between losing a game of beer pong and watching soro-stitutes dance all over the abandoned flip-cup table, a weight settled about me. The air became suffocatingly thick. Snippets of conversation regarding the Middle East reached my ears as I noticed the DJ happened to be wearing some kind of fez. It was hard to pinpoint the sensation’s source with flashing lights bombarding my vision and Mike Jones crashing his way into my skull, but it was there - the feeling that I had forgotten to do something incredibly important. I ran through my standard mental checklist and came up Milhouse.
Fresh air felt necessary. I jostled my way outside, unknowingly followed by a friend. Eventually we made it onto the porch. “This is the life,” Dave proclaimed with a big sigh. “We are at the biggest party that the best University on the planet has to offer, and Big Ten Burrito is right around the corner just waiting for us.” He spit into the dirty snow.
“What could be better?” I replied with feigned agreement. Perhaps, at that moment, I really began to believe it. Could I imagine anything better? No.
The niggling sensation that something was indeed missing remained. Wanting to enjoy the party, I dismissed it as a ridiculous notion. Just like that, the feeling lifted, evaporating into the crisp winter air, following the lead of our foggy exhalations.
After a brief moment of silent contemplation, we walked back inside. The soles of my shoes made a point of sticking and unsticking themselves to the floor every single step of the way. They offered the last bit of resistance to the crowd that swallowed me whole.
Now, thirteen years later, specific memories of that smoky card game drift back for the first time. Not sure if I can trust them as it happened so long ago, but they bring up questions that I can’t seem to banish from my thoughts. What if I had played by their rules? Why had I forgotten the details? Is it too late to give back the money and find out?