Chasing Inside Straights

It’s hard to meet expectations when everyone calls you Brooks’ son, or Brooks’ boy. I’m 32 years old and I’m still being looked at like the four year old carrying the wrench around Brooks’ Auto shop. It’s like walking in the shadow of that man, even though I’m two inches taller than him now. Don’t get me wrong, I appreciate my dad and he’s a good guy and all, but I’d just like to be Nate and I think some of them don’t even know that name. Half the time, my dad introduces me as his boy and the person looks for the second part of the phrase, my first name, and it doesn’t come and they get to talking about the antique auto show down in Westmoreland and who brought the best Thunderbird. They always talk about the 55’ and the 64’ Landau; I like the four door from 67’, but no one ever really asks me. The conversation seemed to skip from third to fifth and I was the missing gear. 

My mom running off before I knew her was tough, but I guess I don’t know the whole story. My dad and I really don’t talk about that, but I think that lack of a mom and dad that put in a lot of hours gave me some freedom I sorta exploited. I’m not going to talk much about the stuff he’s ashamed of because I’m sure word gets around without my help. The city is decent size, but not big enough for stories to hide for too long. I’ll give you the gist and you can pick up the rest as it trickles out, kinda like a car losing fluids and by the time it’s all out on the pavement there’s nothing to hide. 

Well, I got my first drink from my dad. He was tipping back a few cans working on Mrs. Caron’s 69’ Blazer. I remember it had that two-toned look, brown and white, looked sorta like a Bronco, which I always preferred. He musta been in some sort of haze on that sunny spring day because he asked me for a wrench and handed me that Budweiser in exchange. I asked him if I could try a sip and he said he didn’t care, go ahead. I did and I guess that’s sorta where it all started. Let’s just say high school with his late hours and my older friends went by in a haze, like everything had a soft edge to it. I ended up moving from beer to pot and like they say that’s a gateway drug. I didn’t see the big deal, almost felt like it sharpened my senses. From there, we tried a bunch of shit, me and my buddies Charlie and Alex. I’m not going to give you the long version, but we dealt with some pretty sketchy people and some dealers you wouldn’t expect. I still remember taking the paper bags they gave us for our lunches and stuffing them in our backpacks, snagging whiteout from English or oil-based paints from art or WD-40 from shop or really anything else that might work and huffing them in the boy’s bathroom. We walked around 3rd block metals in a state of euphoric hysteria; we were laughing at nothing and staring down welding flames and bandsaws like they were things from out of this world. 

I don’t know if my dad didn’t notice, didn’t care or thought shutting some of this down would put me out the door quicker, but it really got messy. People do stupid shit when they’re high and that’s what happened to Charlie; as a reminder, don’t drive when you’re high. He did and that was it. I don’t want to linger too long, but when I heard about it, I imagined myself because I’d done the same thing countless times. When the police reached the scene, he’d leaked as much blood as the car had fluids and the whole thing went up in flames along the banks of the Connecticut. I could image the flames painted on that blue canvas, a portrait of chaos and destruction in those flames and a picture of what could happen to us. I went to the funeral and it was an empty casket and a closed casket and I think that’s where this part should stop. 

The habits aren’t under control, but I’ve made peace with them at this point. I look at myself in the mirror and I see hollow eyes, grease-streaked hair and at times, I even think my skin looks a little yellow. When I’m in between sticks and unwrapping the exercise band from my arm, I imagine myself as some sort of Simpsons junkie and get a chuckle out of that. 

What I really want is some sort of luck in my life. I’ve had enough bad with my mom walking out, my dad being overworked and a friend that died Sophomore year. I need to hit that long shot at some point. I have no luck with girls, they are up and down and none seem to stay in my life long enough to make an impact. I guess I’m picking ones like my mom, I think that was something Freud always talked about with psychology. I wonder how often it held true like it did for me. I’d give you a few examples, but most of them are a blur of flesh, alcohol and emptied syringes and end with me smoking a cigarette on the porch of my apartment building alone the next morning. 

Things are alright though; my dad pays me enough and I can even scratch together some cash to play cards with a handful of interesting guys. We mostly play Friday nights at the shop and I try not to bring more than 50 bucks, most of my extra money is off teenagers I bought cheap beer for. This guy Mike normally cleans up and I have some fun with the game, but who really likes to lose all the time? Like I said, I’m always feeling like I’m on a long shot. Mike’s brother, Matt, was talking about odds and a lot of the stuff those two guys said stuck with me. Most of the nights we’re tipping back a few too many beers, but they can rattle off these statistics like nothing. Half the time I don’t know if they’re making them up or if they’re actually true. I tell myself I’ll look it up on my phone later, but never get to that. Matt said one time when I’d followed that inside straight draw from the flop to the river that I’d had a 16 percent chance of catching it. I thought that means a little less than 1 in 5 I’m going to catch, not great odds, but what are you going to do? I’d held a 5 and 6 of diamonds and a 4, 8, 9 hit the flop. I was just waiting on that 7, lucky number 7. I was sure it would hit on the turn or river and I’d bet most of my stack on that. I’d followed Mike’s bet, about a quarter of my chips, on the flop. The turn came out with a king, which was no use to me and he bet again. I called and was down to my last chip, but it was a five dollar one. The river hit with a jack and I knew my hand was no good. He bet and I folded. I guess the 16 percent didn’t hit that time and I wondered if it would next time. Of course the part I was thinking about and I’m sure Matt would remind me, was the 16 percent after the flop turns to 8 percent after the turn and then when you come up empty on the river we all know what’s left. 

Sometimes I think it’s all just a little too much; I’m too much of a long shot to make a difference or do anything worthwhile. I don’t have any drug crimes to my name and was able to pick up a pistol from the local gun shop. I’m not sure of the caliber or brand or whatever, that stuff really doesn’t matter. I know that I bought it with the intent of using it once. I remember holding that barrel between my lips, cold steel against my teeth and waiting for everything to just slide away. I’m not sure if I’m putting this in or if it really happened, but I think Hamlet’s famous lines skittered across my mind before I saw my mom disappear and my dad, I saw Charlie’s flaming car and empty casket go and the line of girls that walked out my door in the past went as well, but I just couldn’t do it. I still wanted to bank on that long shot, something good was coming and I hadn’t put everything into this world that I could. I still had that chip in front of me on that plastic buffet table and was listening to 16 percent this and Brooks’ son that, but I knew something good could still come out of this life. 

I’m still waiting for that magic river card to complete my inside straight draw that never seems to come, my place in the world that isn’t under someone else’s name or sign above large bay doors. I’m still trudging through this life with more wrongs than rights in my corner, but there’s still that glimmer, that chance and that’s good enough for me. I need to keep playing and throwing my chips in the middle until I hit it big or go broke, I guess.