Visions of Gerard by Jack Kerouac

thoughtfully raises the jack of same underneath and purses his New England farmer lips.
    â€œSagely,” says Bull, slyly, small blue eyes thru reddened eyelid puffs watching, raising flask for a slug soon as he’s finished his speech, a simp, “if I had a barrel a beans and I had a store, I’d hire you to count the bad ones and lay the good ones aside, that’s how sly your dollar is.”
    â€œWhat are you, a Scotchman? A sneaky character you must be, with that false hat—bet it’s got hinges on it. I aint no guy that lets his whisky bottle interfere with the waybills, or throws a switch and throws the crummy over before it’s crossed the points.”
    â€œA lame, improfitable, infantile turn of talk if ever I heard one, your crummies —You? You’re too miserly for my cardgame—it’s midnight in my little life—what’s your key?—Took 80 dollars from me last night—that represents a lotta claprous calls from the crew clerk and a lotta locals in the freezing air for an old Canadian National boomer like me.”
    â€œ Boomer? You? You cahd shahp! Pool shahk!—First time I win some real money in my life and they’s complainin in the sides and up the back—”
    â€œ Le phantome de l’opéra ,” provides sepulchrally looking-over his shoulder, Manuel, looking to the eerie shrouds backstage deeper—
    â€œNe-mind the phantoms and drink your drink—You gave me a start, damn you!” says my father quietly chuckling.
    â€œNo complainin, Sage, I’m passin king of hearts Emil Pop here with his wife and kiddies just born, bang,” throwing Emil a king of clubs face card, and everybody eying it. “And Charles the hammer, bang, a queen of spades, two kings and two queens showing and where’s the marital bed, bang, a jack of spades for the conductor, and bang” (for himself) “same of hearts.”
    â€œThe game thickens.”
    â€œI bet and raise the ante.”
    â€œAt this stage, nobody cares.”
    â€œAnd on this stage. A new ace wont do you no good—old Sage could use it.”
    â€œSevens—aint got no use for em, even when I got seven in the hole, my unlucky number, nine’s my lucky number by God.”
    â€œAnother seven—talkin of the devil—pair a kings high.”
    â€œThere he is, Bull Baloon with a girl for his jack. Who’s gonna win the rainbow pot?”
    â€œLet me look and think.” Emil, high, with pair of kings, pretends innocent worry. Charley O’Brien has nothing further to examine beyond his showing queens, but a mentioned forlorn seven.
    â€œIt’s a dream, lads, it’s a dream,” utters Bull up-ending a lofty big pull on his swiggins, bloodshot returning the cap, spitting over his shoulder at the two spittoons in the corner. Sagely has a jack under and a jack on top, and nobody knows, but no advantage his, yet, till the last thrust of fate-cards, from the hands of the dealer, Bull. Emil leans over to rub his thigh in the night of the world forgetting his family, lost in the eye to eye the game of men in America; nights long ago after Langford battered Johnson; smoke in Butte saloons; Denver backrooms, games; lost heroes of America; Chicago, Seattle; vaudeville redbrick alleys and forgotten cundoms under isolated signs in the highway night of Roadster Twenties; long jaws of bo’s riding the boxcar from outside North Platte, to clear t’Ogallah, mispronounced, sad, spindle legged waiters in the summermoth night, by lights; America, sweaty, poker games, Negroes on the sidewalk in Baltimore, history, nostalgic with afternoon and man, midnight and weariness, dawn and O’Shea running to catch his train, Old Bull Baloon examining his useless King hole-card, half deciding to full decide to leave the game because even if he gets another King he’s got no ace to ace-high Emil.
    The others stay; Bull deals, lost in