Lead Story

Withering Heights

It was hot. My unfortunate placement at the poker table put me furthest from the fan and I sat mired and rank between the remarkably pungent Edict, and Redcard: a finalist in the All-Ohio Varsity Perspire-a-thon. Edict, Hank, Dano, and our host, Chowhound, immediately went shirtless to add an equally dis-pleasurable visual to the nearly unbearable scent and climate that was general in that awkwardly designed conjoined space that, with a liberal interpretation, may be called a “2br/2bth.”

The table was place by the door, which is naturally furthest from any window. Not that it mattered much. There was no breeze or “cross-ventilation” to speak of. A tired $14.99 box fan from Lechters, whirred in futility providing meager respite to the oppressive dank. Redcard’s monsooning armpit stains extended nearly to the hem of his dried-rose colored batik print shirt; and if you listened carefully you could almost hear Lymie sweating.

“You look terrible, Lymie. You sick or something” came a voice from the table.
“This work, man. It’s brutal. It’s almost got me beat.”

Lyons, had been on vacation for the last 7 days.

That’s when Edict blew a gasket. “LYMIE, IT’S BEEN YOUR FUCKING BET FOR THE LAST TEN MINUTES!”

Lymie leered sideways at Edict and struggled with his wet fingers to grasp two chips. “I bet fitty.”

Exchanges like this were bound to happen in such a volatile environment. Especially since Edict had defiantly kept his shoes and socks on.

We continued on, like withered shipwreck survivors drifting hopelessly amid the sargasso and feckless gyre of the horse latitudes. There was talk of shark attacks and baseball and refrigerator doors. There were feasts and libations hallucinatory and real. But the heat…the damned heat. That’s what we’ll remember from this evening. The heat: the salient and obtrusive memory of an otherwise fine game.