Well, I sure wouldnt shoot my own dog, I objected.
Dad shrugged. It was different then. Maybe if things were still the way they were back then, the world would be a lot easier to live in.
That night when we were in bed in the cold bedroom upstairs, listening to Mom and the Old Man yelling at each other down in the living room, I said it again to Jack. I sure wouldnt shoot my own dog.
Aw, youre just a kid, he said. That was just a story. Grandpa didnt really shoot any dog. Dad just said that.
Dad doesnt tell lies, I said. If you say that again, Im gonna hit you.
Jack snorted with contempt.
Or maybe Ill shoot you, I said extravagantly. Maybe some day Ill just decide that youre no good, and Ill take my gun and shoot you. Bang! Just like that, and youll be dead, and Ill betcha you wouldnt like that at all.
Jack snorted again and rolled over to go to sleep, or to wrestle with the problem of being grown-up and still being afraid, which was to worry at him for the rest of his life. But I lay awake for a long time staring into the darkness. And when I drifted into sleep, the forest in the kitchen echoed with the hollow roar of that old rifle, and my shadowy old dog with the sad, friendly eyes tumbled over and over in the snow.
In the years since that night Ive had that same dream again and againnot every night, sometimes only once or twice a yearbut its the only thing I can think of that hasnt changed since I was a boy.
The Gathering1
I guess that if it hadnt been for that poker game, Id have never really gotten to know my brother. That puts the whole thing into the realm of pure chance right at the outset.
Id been drafted into the Army after college. I sort of resented the whole thing but not enough to run off to Canada or to go to jail. Some of my buddies got kind of excited and made a lot of noise about principle and what-not, but I was the one staring down the mouth of that double-barrelled shotgun called either/or. When I asked them what the hell the difference was between the Establishment types who stood on the sidelines telling me to go to Nam and the Antiestablishment types who stood on the sidelines telling me to go to a federal penitentiary, they got decidedly huffy about the whole thing.
Sue, my girlfriend, who felt she had to call and check in with her mother if we were going to be five minutes late getting home from a movie, told me on the eve, as they used to say, of my departure that shed run off to Canada with me if I really wanted her to. Since I didnt figure any job in Canada would earn me enough to pay the phone bill shed run up calling Momma every time she had to go to the biffy, I nobly turned her down. She seemed awfully relieved.
I suppose that ultimately I went in without any fuss because it didnt really mean anything to me one way or the other. None of it did.
As it all turned out, I went to Germany instead of the Far East. So I soaked up Kultur and German beer and played nursemaid to an eight-inch howitzer for about eighteen months, holding off the red threat. I finished up my hitch in late July and came back on a troopship. Thats where I got into the poker game.
Naturally, it was Benson who roped me into it. Benson and I had been inducted together in Seattle and had been in the same outfit in Germany. He was a nice enough kid, but he couldnt walk past a deck of cards or a pair of dice if his life depended on it. Hed been at me a couple times and Id brushed him off, but on the third day out from Bremerhaven he caught me in the chow line that wandered up and down the gray-painted corridors of the ship. He knew I had about twenty dollars I hadnt managed to spend before we were shipped out.
Come on, Alders. What the hell? Its only for small change. His eyes were already red-rimmed from lack of sleep, but his fatigue pockets jingled a lot. He must have been winning for a change.
Oh, horseshit, Benson, I told him. I just dont get that much kick out of playing poker.
What the fuck else is there to do?
He had a point there. Id gotten tired of looking at the North Atlantic after about twenty minutes. Its possibly the dullest stretch of ocean in the worldif youre lucky. Anyway, I know hed be at me until I sat in for a while, and it really didnt make that much difference to me. Maybe thats why I started winning.
All right, Arsch-loch. I gave in. Ill take your goddamn money. It doesnt make a shit to me. So, after chow, I went and played poker.
The game was in the forward cargo hold. Theyd restacked the five hundred or so duffle bags until there was a cleared-out place in the middle of the room. Then theyd rigged a table out of a dozen or so bags, a slab of cardboard, and a GI blanket. The light wasnt too good, and the placed smelled of the bilges, and after youve sat on some guys extra pair of boots inside his duffle bag for about six hours, your ass feels like hes been walking on it, but we stuck it out. Like Benson said, what else was there to do?
The game was seven-card stud, seven players. No spit-in-the-ocean, or no-peek, or three-card-lowball. There were seven playersnot always the same seven guys, but there were always seven players.
The first day I sat in the game most of the play was in coins. Even so, I came out about forty dollars ahead. I quit for the day about midnight and gave my seat to the Spec-4 whod been drooling down my back for three hours. He was still there when I drifted back the next morning.
I guess you want your seat back, huh?
No, go ahead and play, man.
Naw, Id better knock off and get some sleep. Besides, I aint held a decent hand for the last two hours.
He got up and I sat back down and started winning again.
The second day the paper money started to show. The pots got bigger, and I kept winning. I wondered how much longer my streak could go on. All the laws of probability were stacked against me by now. Nobody could keep winning forever. When I quit that night, I was better than two hundred ahead. I stood up and stretched. The cargo hold was full of guys, all sitting and watching, very quietly. Word gets around fast on a troopship.
On the morning of the third day, Benson finally went broke. Hed been giving up his place at the table for maybe two-hour stretches, and hed grab quick catnaps back in one of the corners. He looked like the wrath of God, his blond, blankly young face stubbled and grimy-looking. The cards had gone sour for him late the night beforenot completely sour, just sour enough so that he was pretty consistently holding the second-best hand at the table. That can get awfully damned expensive.
It was on the sixth card of a game that he tossed in his last three one-dollar bills. He had three cards to an ace-high straight showing. A fat guy at the end of the table was dealing, and he flipped out the down-cards to Benson, the Spec-4, and himself. The rest of us had folded. I could tell from Bensons face that hed filled the straight. He might as well have had a billboard on the front of his head.
The Spec-4 folded.
Youre high, the fat dealer said, pointing at Bensons ace.
I aint got no money to bet, Benson answered.
Tough titty.
Come on, man. I got it, but I cant bet it.
Bet, check, or fold, fella, the dealer said with a fat smirk.
Tough titty.
Come on, man. I got it, but I cant bet it.
Bet, check, or fold, fella, the dealer said with a fat smirk.
Benson looked around desperately. There was a sort of house rule against borrowing at the table. Wait a minute, he said. How about this watch? He held out his arm.
I got a watch, the dealer said, but he looked interested.
Come on, man. I got that watch when I graduated from high school. My folks give a hundred and a half for it. Itll sure as hell cover any bet in this chickenshit little poker game.
The fat guy held out his hand. Benson gave him the watch.
Give you five bucks.
Bullshit! That watch is worth a hundred and a half, I told you.
Not to me, it aint. Five bucks.
Fuck you, Buster. You aint gittin my watch for no lousy five bucks.
I guess you better throw in your hand then, huh?
Christ, man, gimme a break.
Come on, fella, the fat guy said, youre holdin up the game. Five bucks. Take it or leave it.
I could see the agony of indecision in Bensons face. Five dollars was the current bet limit. All right, he said finally.
He bet two. The dealer raised him three. Benson called and rolled over his hole cards. He had his straight. His face was jubilant. He looked more like a kid than ever.
The fat guy had a flush.
Benson watched numbly, rubbing his bare left wrist, as the chortling fat man raked in the money. Finally he got up and went quickly out of the cargo hold.
Hey, man, the fat dealer called after him, Ill give you a buck apiece for your boots. He howled with laughter.
Another player took Bensons place.
That was kinda hard, a master sergeant named Riker drawled mildly from the other end of the table.
Thats how we play the game where I come from, Sarge, the fat man said.
It took me two days to get him, but I finally nailed him right to the wall. The pots were occasionally getting up to forty or fifty dollars by then, and the fat man was on a losing streak.
He had two low pair showing, and he was betting hard, hoping to get even. It was pretty obvious that he had a full house, seven and threes. I had two queens, a nine and the joker showing. My hand looked like a pat straight, but I had two aces in the hole. My aces and queens would stomp hell out of his sevens and threes.
Except that on the last round I picked up another ace.
He bet ten dollars. I raised him twenty-five.
I aint got that much, he said.
Tough titty.
I got you beat.
You better call the bet then.
You cant just buy the fuckin pot!
Call or fold, friend. I was enjoying it.
Come on, man. You cant just buy the fuckin pot!
You already said that. How much you got?
I got twelve bucks. He thought I was going to reduce my bet so he could call me. His face relaxed a little.
You got a watch? I asked him quietly.
He caught on then. You bastard! He glared at me. He sure wanted to keep Bensons watch. You aint gettin this watch that way, fella.
I shrugged and reached for the pot.
What the hell you doin? he squawked.
If youre not gonna call
All right, all right, you bastard! He peeled off Bensons watch and threw it in the pot. There, youre called.
That makes seventeen, I said. Youre still eight bucks light.
Fuck you, fella! That goddamn watch is worth a hundred and fifty bucks!
I saw you buy it, friend. The price was five. Thats what you paid for it, so I guess thats what its worth. You got another watch?
You aint gettin my watch.
I reached for the pot again.
Wait a minute! Wait a minute! He pulled off his own watch.
Thats twenty-two, I said. Youre still light.
Come on, man. My watch is worth more than five bucks.
A Timex? Dont be stupid. Im giving you a break letting you have five on it. I reached for the pot again.
I aint got nothin else.
Tell you what, sport. Ill give you a buck apiece for your boots.
What the fuck you want my fuckin boots for?
You gonna call?
All right. My fuckin boots are in.
Put em on the table, sport.
He scowled at me and started unlacing his boots. There, he snapped, plunking them down on the table, youre called.
Youre still a buck light. I knew I was being a prick about it, but I didnt give a damn. I get that way sometimes.
He stared at me, not saying anything.
I waited, letting him sweat. Then I dropped in on him very quietly. Your pants ought to cover it. Some guy laughed.
My pants! he almost screamed.
On the table, I said, pointing, or I take the pot.
Fuck ya!
I reached for the pot again.
Wait a minute! Wait a minute! His voice was desperate. He stood up, emptied his pockets, and yanked off his pants. He wasnt wearing any shorts and his nudity was grossly obscene. He threw the pants at me, but I deflected them into the center of the table. All right, you son of a bitch! he said, not sitting down. Lets see your pissy little straight beat a full-fuckin house! He rolled over his third seven.
I havent got a straight, friend.
Then I win, huh?
I shook my head. You lose. I pulled the joker away from the queens and the nine and slowly started turning up my buried aces. One. Two. Three. And four. Is that enough, friend? I asked him.
Je-sus Christ! some guy said reverently.
The fat man stood looking at the aces for a long time. Then he stumbled away from the table and almost ran out of the cargo hold, his fat behind jiggling with every step.
I still say its a mighty hard way to play poker, Sergeant Riker said softly as I hauled in the merchandise.
I figured he had it coming, I said shortly.
Maybe so, son, maybe so, but that still dont make it right, does it?
And that finished my winning streak. Riker proceeded to give me a series of very expensive poker lessons. By the time I quit that night, I was back down to four hundred dollars. I sent the fat guys watch, boots, and pants back to him with one of his buddies, and went up on deck to get some air. The engine pounded in the steel deck plates, and the wake was streaming out behind us, white against the black water.
Smoke, son? It was Riker. He leaned against the rail beside me and held out his pack.
Thanks, I said. I ran out about an hour ago.
Nice night, aint it? His voice was soft and pleasant. I couldnt really pin down his drawl. It was sort of Southern.
I looked up at the stars. Yeah, I said. Ive been down at that poker table for so long Id almost forgotten what the stars looked like.
The ship took a larger wave at a diagonal and rolled with an odd, lurching kind of motion.
You still ahead of the game, son? he asked me, his voice serious.
A little bit, I said cautiously.
If it was me, he said, I wouldnt go back no more. Youve won yourself a little money, and you got your buddys watch back for him. If it was me, Id just call er quits.