Poker Night

Every Friday night is Poker Night for me and a few chosen comrades. None of us are worth a fuck at Poker but it gives married friends of mine time away from their wives and children, which they desperately need. With each passing day they find themselves being crushed more and more by the American Dream.

As you can imagine, their wives don’t think of me. They don’t like the fact that I’m divorced, like to chase tail, drink too much, bitch too much, am writing a manuscript sent from Heaven, still like loud music, don’t work, and that their husbands are always in much better moods after the weekly Friday night sessions.

Their wives didn’t start out as sniveling, controlling bitches. They were once tough-minded broads who knew how to have a good time and could out think any old son of a bitch. But age, children, lost dreams and having to deal with the same asshole on a daily basis have taken their toll. These women are angry and their anger has severe repercussions for all those that cross their path. I avoid the bitches like the plague.

Another reason I enjoy Poker night is it allows my married friends to mix with some of the more eccentric acquaintances I keep or have kept. When Moe isn’t trying to pick up young punk rock girls, he’ll stop by for a few hands. I don’t invite him as much lately because of my fear he’ll get drunk and start talking about the daughters of some of my married friends. These daughters are well into adolescence, which makes them prime targets for a scumbag on Moe’s insidious level.

There’s Roy, the 9/11 activist. Roy spends half his days working for the City, the other half researching the events of 9/11. He’s become obsessed with it. Even I have to tell him to shut up occasionally. On the 4th anniversary of the event, he went to New York to take part in a 9/11 Truth gathering, handing out literature and telling anyone who would listen what really happened that day. Unfortunately he hasn’t been back because a couple of meatheads took exception to what he was saying and gave him a heck of a beating. The poor bastard came back looking like Joseph Merrick.

Jimmy. Jimmy is a sex addict. Only problem is, Jimmy is one ugly motherfucker. This guy is the human manifestation of every bowel movement in human history. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great guy – he’s got great taste in music with the best Sinatra collection I’ve seen and he’s a loyal guy – but he’s an ugly cuss. Can you imagine how difficult it must be for a sex addict whose appearance repulses women? This guy has to peel some serious dollars off to the working girls in order to get his fix. Fortunately for him he makes good money as a postman.

And then there is Fergal. Fergal is Irish. He doesn’t talk much. I met Fergal in a bar I frequent after we came to blows. It wasn’t a big deal. I’d had one too many toasts and became suspicious of Fergal sitting alone in the corner. I thought he might be a spy. I confronted him about it, he took exception, and a fight ensued. Fergal can throw a few haymakers. That was one of the tougher fights I’ve ever been in. Employees of the bar broke it up before it got too out of hand. Since then Fergal and I have been friends. Turns out Fergal is a school teacher. He teaches high school math. Unmarried, no kids that he knows of. Keeps talking about going back to Ireland. Won’t tell me why, but I think it has to do with some high school floozy.

I relish my married friends – men I’ve known for years – sharing a room with my newer friends. It’s good for both sides, to see how the other half lives. It’s a reflection of my own life. My old friends represent a more conventional life – marriage, kids, careers – while my newer friends, not necessarily shunning the conventional life, seem made for an unconventional lifestyle.

I lean more towards the unconventional side. I like the loners, the crackpots, the geeks, the pervs and the unambitious. They seem to have the best stories. The conventional life is nice, but it’s uninspiring. I tried it, and found myself unsatisfied. We all have to grow old and die so why not do it on our own terms?

Bringing them together tells me one thing: none of us are ever truly satisfied. My older friends admire and envy the perceived lack of responsibility my newer friends have, while my newer friends envy the perceived stability of my older friends with their wives and careers. As always, true happiness seems to exist in the middle, if at all. Perhaps when all is said and done, all any of us are truly left with are our hopes, desires and, if we’re lucky, a full house on a Friday night.