I decided to wait til he got there. To make sure.
He barged loudly into the house without knocking, as usual. He’d dyed his hair in purple and gold streaks. He was wearing a T-shirt that said ‘I’m like a superhero, but without powers or motivation.’
I’m writing a book, he announced. It’s called ‘Quentin Tarantino Is God.’ It’s all about how Quentin Tarantino is God.
I laughed.
Kelly laughed.
I loved the sound of it.
I knew I’d done the right thing.
They decided to watch episodes of Family Guy on DVD. More laughter. Maximally therapeutic. I was even tempted to stay. Watch Family Guy with them. Kelly loved it when I did that. I always laughed so hard. It was infectious. It made everything seem even funnier.
But I just couldn’t bear the thought of dealing with Melissa. Yes, it was heinous, I agreed with myself. To leave it to a child. But really, Kelly was more an adult than this old man. She reminded me of that, from time to time. When she caught me smoking. When I yelled at Melissa. Lost my temper.
I needed my Wolf’s Lair too. I needed a Scotch, real bad.
That clinched it.
I bade Kelly and Peter good evening. I added the usual useless imprecations about bedtime, and not eating in the basement.
I wanted everything to seem normal.
The Wolf’s Lair didn’t feel normal, though. Not its usual inviting self. I looked around. The bar was still mahogany. The rail was still brass. Thom was still smiling and warm. The regulars were scattered about in their usual poses. But it didn’t feel right. The stool felt hard, uncomfortable. The Scotch tasted watery. My stomach hurt.
It felt like I wasn’t in control of anything anymore.
I knew the ‘anymore’ part was illusory. I’d never been in control of anything. Certainly not Melissa. Or her Monster. Especially her Monster. Though I may have fooled myself otherwise, once. For a short time. Maybe.
My professional life had always been, would always be, in the hands of others. Even if I quit, or got quit by Warwick, I still wouldn’t be in control. Even if I opened my own shop. I’d always be at the mercy of the market. Of clients.
On top of that chilling realization, I knew that Kelly was getting to the age where, no matter how much she loved her dad – and I had no doubts on that score – she was becoming her own, independent person. I couldn’t really tell her what to do anymore. I didn’t want to. It wasn’t right. I could no longer think of her as an extension of myself. A thing I’d probably done to a fault, in the past. Contributed to her reclusive tendencies.
Damn, it was hard being a parent.
Hal was at his usual spot, two stools down.
Hey, he said.
Hey.
Did you ever get a chance to play in Jake’s game?
I did. Twice, actually.
How was it?
It was all right. Interesting bunch of characters.
How’d you do?
The first time, I was down all night. Won the big hand at the end. Got back in the black. Next time, I was ahead all night.
Good.
Yes. I like it better that way.
Hal laughed.
I went back to my Scotch.
Hey, said Hal.
Hey.
Did you check out that thing I told you?
What thing?
The thing with his eyes.
I looked at him, raised my eyebrows.
How he looks at you like you’re not there.
No. I didn’t notice that.
Hal went back to his beer.
Hal, I said.
Rick.
You’re deeply weird.
I am?
Yes, Hal. You are.
Well, I guess I am.
Two Scotches and the Times crossword puzzle later, Jake came in, brushing snow off his shoulders. He was wearing a plastic raincoat. I hoped it had a lining.
Hey, Rick, he said.
Hey, Jake, I replied, looking at his eyes for signs of vacancy.
They looked pretty normal.
He sat down beside me.
You’ve got a head start on me, he said.
I guess I do, I agreed.
Give me a double, he said to Thom. Got to catch up with Rick here.
Thom laughed, poured him a double. We talked a little poker talk.
The World Series of Poker had been on TV. We talked about our favorite players. There was a whole culture of hold’em. Books, magazines, Internet chat rooms, websites. I recognized some names. The old guard. Amarillo Slim. Everyone’s heard of him. TJ Cloutier, former football player. Tough, solid, fearsome. I knew Ken Smith. He’d been a strong chess player, too. Smith had died a couple of years ago. Now there was a bunch of guys I’d never heard of. Phil Hellmuth. Arrogant, petulant, brilliant with a big stack of chips. Phil Ivey, young, imperturbable. You never knew what he had. And all the rest. Johnny Chan, Men Nguyen (say ‘Wynn’). A multicultural panoply of fearless card mavens.
About four double Scotches in, Jake asked how Melissa was.
I paused. I remembered the ache in my gut. The poker talk had taken my mind off my problems. I wasn’t too pleased to have Jake break the spell.
It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t know.
She’s fine, I said.
There must have been something insincere about how I said it. Jake gave me a quizzical look.
Let’s go smoke a joint, he said.
A joint? I laughed. I don’t know. Last time it weirded me out. I’m very sensitive to it, for some reason.
C’mon. Take a chance.
Jesus. I don’t know.
Come on. Just a toke or two.
All right. If you insist.
I’d never been very good at resisting peer pressure.
We went out back. We smoked a joint. My mind started looping in circles. Everything I said repeated itself in my head. I was a walking echo machine.
I needed a few more Scotches. To calm it down.
I started babbling. Baring my soul to my buddy Jake. At the point when you start throwing your arms indiscriminately around the shoulders of people you barely know. Sharing your darkest secrets. The alarm system
