fell asleep on the couch reading about fantasy vacations in
Sunset
magazine.
“Dinky, he takes you to all the funerals and none of the weddings,” his friends often said, shaking their heads. But it wasn’t just the funerals that bothered Tulip. Dink didn’t do anything husbandly. At the gas station, he stayed in the driver’s seat, glued to his sports ticker, while Tulip pumped the gas. He didn’t know how to rent a movie. His idea of grocery shopping was going to the 7-Eleven and buying baloney and American cheese. In all the times they visited his mother in Queens, Dink never once took Tulip into Manhattan for a day trip to Central Park or to visit a museum. It was strictly Shea Stadium, the track, and lunch at the Georgia Diner on Queens Boulevard. If Tulip asked Dink to do a simple task around the house, he’d panic. “I make the money,” he’d argue. “You change the lightbulbs.” Her first husband was so much more competent. David used to take her Jaguar in for tune-ups. He always pumped the gas and opened doors. When David lostraces, he never would’ve imagined blaming it on his wife. He never would’ve called her a jinx.
Dinky, Dinky, Dinky. He was such a child. But Tulip never wanted kids.
Dink continued to scream and punch himself in the head. Without saying good-bye, Tulip closed the door so quietly that it took Dink a moment before he realized she was gone.
“I know something that’ll make you feel better,” I said.
He covered his face with his hands. His voice weakened.
“A bullet?” Dink said.
“Chinese poker!”
I grabbed the deck from my backpack and sat in the empty seat beside him.
“My wife is a jinx. I deal with it as best I can.” He stuck a pen in his mouth and chewed on its end. “Best out of three,” he said. “You shuffle.”
Beneath the banquet table, amid kinked computer cables and tangled telephone cords, our knees touched.
I came home to a message slid under my door by the motel manager. “Your father called,” the note read, “wondering if you’re still alive.”
I had yet to tell either of my parents about my new job. I felt that my mother, who was living in Ohio, recovering from her thirty-two-year marriage to my father and the long, bitter divorce that followed, was better off not knowing what I was doing. It would just cause her worry. But Dad never worried. Working at a dealership in Fort Myers and playing blackjack every weekend on
The Big “M”
(he referred to the casino boat’s high-limit table as his office), Dad is—and always has been—a very lenient man. Other than the casual remark that I’d make a good car salesman, he never pushed me down any career path. As long as I wasn’t “headed to the slammer,” Dad was proud. I put Otis on his leash and we walked to the corner pay phone.
“A collect call from
BETH
. Will you accept the charges?”
“Yello …”
“Dad!”
“Beth Raymer. You alive?”
Then the question that always followed:
“You workin’?”
“I’m working for a professional gambler!”
“Professional
who-what?”
“Sports gambler,” I said. “I help him make his bets.”
I leaned my back into the phone booth and gazed across the street, inside the 7-Eleven. Its glass front doors were wide open and welcoming. Native Americans played the slot machines that lined the walls. Their free hands gripped necks of bottled beers. One of my neighbors, a Filipina hooker, came on to an elderly tourist in an electric wheelchair. Her long black hair sank into his lap as she leaned down and whispered in his ear.
“How much you make to do that?” Dad asked.
“Twenty dollars an hour, under the table!” I said. “Plus vacations and bonuses.”
“See if ya can get your old man a job. I got fired.”
This was not unusual. As a kid, if I walked home from school and saw my dad’s car in the driveway, I knew he had been fired. He sold cars seven days a week, from nine in the morning until nine at night. Under no
Sunset
magazine.
“Dinky, he takes you to all the funerals and none of the weddings,” his friends often said, shaking their heads. But it wasn’t just the funerals that bothered Tulip. Dink didn’t do anything husbandly. At the gas station, he stayed in the driver’s seat, glued to his sports ticker, while Tulip pumped the gas. He didn’t know how to rent a movie. His idea of grocery shopping was going to the 7-Eleven and buying baloney and American cheese. In all the times they visited his mother in Queens, Dink never once took Tulip into Manhattan for a day trip to Central Park or to visit a museum. It was strictly Shea Stadium, the track, and lunch at the Georgia Diner on Queens Boulevard. If Tulip asked Dink to do a simple task around the house, he’d panic. “I make the money,” he’d argue. “You change the lightbulbs.” Her first husband was so much more competent. David used to take her Jaguar in for tune-ups. He always pumped the gas and opened doors. When David lostraces, he never would’ve imagined blaming it on his wife. He never would’ve called her a jinx.
Dinky, Dinky, Dinky. He was such a child. But Tulip never wanted kids.
Dink continued to scream and punch himself in the head. Without saying good-bye, Tulip closed the door so quietly that it took Dink a moment before he realized she was gone.
“I know something that’ll make you feel better,” I said.
He covered his face with his hands. His voice weakened.
“A bullet?” Dink said.
“Chinese poker!”
I grabbed the deck from my backpack and sat in the empty seat beside him.
“My wife is a jinx. I deal with it as best I can.” He stuck a pen in his mouth and chewed on its end. “Best out of three,” he said. “You shuffle.”
Beneath the banquet table, amid kinked computer cables and tangled telephone cords, our knees touched.
I came home to a message slid under my door by the motel manager. “Your father called,” the note read, “wondering if you’re still alive.”
I had yet to tell either of my parents about my new job. I felt that my mother, who was living in Ohio, recovering from her thirty-two-year marriage to my father and the long, bitter divorce that followed, was better off not knowing what I was doing. It would just cause her worry. But Dad never worried. Working at a dealership in Fort Myers and playing blackjack every weekend on
The Big “M”
(he referred to the casino boat’s high-limit table as his office), Dad is—and always has been—a very lenient man. Other than the casual remark that I’d make a good car salesman, he never pushed me down any career path. As long as I wasn’t “headed to the slammer,” Dad was proud. I put Otis on his leash and we walked to the corner pay phone.
“A collect call from
BETH
. Will you accept the charges?”
“Yello …”
“Dad!”
“Beth Raymer. You alive?”
Then the question that always followed:
“You workin’?”
“I’m working for a professional gambler!”
“Professional
who-what?”
“Sports gambler,” I said. “I help him make his bets.”
I leaned my back into the phone booth and gazed across the street, inside the 7-Eleven. Its glass front doors were wide open and welcoming. Native Americans played the slot machines that lined the walls. Their free hands gripped necks of bottled beers. One of my neighbors, a Filipina hooker, came on to an elderly tourist in an electric wheelchair. Her long black hair sank into his lap as she leaned down and whispered in his ear.
“How much you make to do that?” Dad asked.
“Twenty dollars an hour, under the table!” I said. “Plus vacations and bonuses.”
“See if ya can get your old man a job. I got fired.”
This was not unusual. As a kid, if I walked home from school and saw my dad’s car in the driveway, I knew he had been fired. He sold cars seven days a week, from nine in the morning until nine at night. Under no
Similar Books
