Lead Story

Stormy Weather

Dark clouds gathered a foreboding minion above the city. Lightning sliced the haze and sent shocks of fear and noise through the stifling air. But conditions stagnated and held an intimidating pall, only occasionally smacking a random block or two with poker-chip sized rain. The great dark anvils laden with fury seemed to circle, furious and imminent. Waiting.

Hank was hosting. And as the bangers smoked and charred on the grill and the felt laid, he toiled peacefully. Jokes and barbed jibes were lobbed around. Hank seemed to be having fun. Sitting proudly in his shit-brown club chair 'rescued' from some defunct grand hotel, Hank smacked his lips and pointed, sandwich in hand, about the current hot topic of our aging cadre: dental work. Gesticulating (his great wingspan and length belied by his slight build,) he appeared cartoonish and non-threatening.

The first argument precipitated gently. A familiar and comical bout instigated by Koneo, who during a typical misdeal, raised the ire and strident fury of Redcard and Hank. Koneo called "low in hole-5 card stud-single replace-low spade splits with high hand," a challenging game for any dealer, but especially Kenny. The fuck-up came on 5^th street, which he dealt down, clearly a mistake, but the resourceful dealer fibbed and claimed he had called it earlier.

Hank settled back uncharacteristically and resumed his repose, making only a passing comment about noise and neighbors.

Koneo waited patiently for the deal to come round to Hank and backhanded his retaliation for the previous argument. "Are we playing 5 or 6 cards?" he obstinated. Hank always plays 5 card games with a table of eight. Hank, as usual, offered no reply. "Are we playing 5 or 6 cards?" Koneo slides into the role of "Poker Speed-Bump" like an old pair of jeans. He wears the moniker well and can vacillate in and out of it like Richard Simmons in a room full of closets. But he soon gave in to the pressure of 14 glaring eyeballs and discontinued his filibuster.

Lymie spilled a beer on Redcard.

Chowhound knocked over a bottle, which he claimed was empty and, demonstrating the fact by upturning it, looked genuinely surprised when it’s incriminating contents flowed onto the felt.

These classic examples of poker buffoonery contributed to the jocular mood. We were having fun. Which is to say we were being loud. And during the last few incidents, Hank’s concern for noise and neighborliness caused him to open and close the windows onto the street repeatedly. “If you guys can’t keep quiet I gotta shut the windows,” he said sealing the room, closing it off to the only source of fresh air. The other players all in unison pondered this perverse behavior. Hank wanting quiet? He was by far the loudest member of the game. Howling Hank, Mr. AAAAAHHHHOOOOOOH?

Negative ions filled the air outside. The faint plinking of rain falling on the tired and faded exteriors of decaying Audis, VWs, and Volvos parked on the street outside began and revved a steady crescendo. The darkly luminous mass visible through the slit of sky viewable from the re-opened windows roiled and flickered with electric anger. But the players never noticed. Another storm was brewing. The charged atmosphere about the table intensified. The curious and hypocritical turn by Hank incited in everyone a desire to give a bit of payback for the years of weekly concussive verbal torment at the hands of our suddenly sensitive host.

I don’t remember who fired the first shot: probably Koneo, but he didn’t have a chance. There was a terrific flash. Hank rose slowly and deliberately, his mouth awash in foaming apoplexy. I reeled in the crisis of the moment, as I was within range of his swinging barbed-wire arms. “THAT'S IT! YOU'RE ALL OUT! GAME OVER.” A clutch of gnarled fingers whizzed past my nose and met it’s counterpart at the center of the table upon the blood red felt. The fingers locked and scooped up, indiscriminately, a mass of chips and cards stuffing them into the case, symbolically and genuinely signaling his serious intent. “EVERYBODY OUT. GAME OVER!” he said thumbing towards the door. “GOOD NIGHT. SEE YA. GET OUT.” And he vanished up the jagged staircase into the lofty nether regions of the triplex.

We all remained seated, dumbstruck and blinking. It took less than 5 seconds to accept the finality of the moment. It was 11:10pm.

As we shuffled out into the sky-split evening, the pelting rain and hostile cloud cover prevented conversation. But all thoughts turned to what to do about the ‘Hank Problem?’ The autopsy of the evening would be thorough. There would be much discussion. Conclusions would have to be made. Stay tuned.

See all the action in time-lapse photography. Click each Picture to enlarge: