by Adam Berlin
Gary spent the night and the next day was my dad’s economics department picnic. Gary sat with us on the worn blanket and plowed through the food. When it came time to pick sides for the softball game, Gary and I ended up on one team, my father and brother on the other. Gary played first base so he wouldn’t have to move much. I was in the outfield.
When Gary came up to bat, he looked gigantic next to the other players. His arms were so thick it seemed almost impossible that he would be able to get around on the pitch, the bat tiny as he rested it on his fat shoulder. Then the pitch came and Gary moved into it. He smashed the ball so hard that the out-fielder just stood there, looked up and then turned around to see how far the ball would travel. Gary walked the bases and touched home plate to cheers and handshakes. He did the same thing the next two times he came up to bat. No matter how far back the outfielder played him, Gary still hit the ball farther. He could have crawled the bases and made it home safely without getting tagged out. I remembered Gary owned an old Babe Ruth photograph with an autograph written across the bottom. Ruth too looked out of shape, certainly out of wrestling shape where every pound had to be stripped off or made into muscle, but he was still the home run king. Sometimes it was hard to tell where someone’s strength came from.
Gary had already dropped out of college and was gambling full-time. He wasn’t yet out of control but my dad gave him a lecture anyway when the softball game ended and we sat on our blanket for dessert, Gary’s paper plate loaded up with brownies and cookies and pie. Three credits, my dad said. One literature class. Only three more credits to get your degree. Gary said every English class had a final exam and he wasn’t going to take some bullshit final to prove himself, then apologized for saying bullshit in front of my mom and dad.
“I hate tests too,” I told Gary.
“But you take them.”
“Of course he takes them,” my dad said. “He’s in school.”
“Most of my high school tests are ridiculous.”
“And putting someone in a headlock isn’t ridiculous?”
“Not to the guy in the headlock,” I said.
“I’m not going back to college,” Gary said. “It’s not about the three credits anymore. I’m not going back.”
“Don’t you think you owe it to your parents?” my dad said. “They paid full tuition for five years and you still didn’t finish. Even Odessa would finish.”
Gary didn’t say anything. I didn’t either. Gary’s parents, especially Uncle Jack, thought my parents had done something right when they brought us up and that we weren’t trouble-makers, that there was no tension at home, no conflicts, that we were good students and good kids compared to their son. I sometimes wanted to tell my uncle that it wasn’t true, not with me anyway. I wanted to tell him that I had problems with my parents too, that I hated school, that I could never pull the grades that Derek pulled, that I wasn’t unlike Gary that way and what did it matter anyway when you could pin a man or hit a long home run.
Gary picked up a brownie and ate it. My dad didn’t let it go.
“It’s no life,” he said.
“It’s my life,” Gary said.
“Don’t you ever feel that you should get a regular job? You must know plenty of gamblers who have lost everything.”
“I’m not one of those.”
“Not yet.”
“So far so good.”
“Living for the moment is a nice idea,” my dad said. “But sometimes you have to think ahead.”
“I do,” Gary said. “I’m going to prepare some doggie bags so I can have more of these brownies for dinner.”
“Good, Gary.”
“You’re lucky, you like your job.”
“I am lucky. You could be too.”
“I’m very lucky.”
“He’s a gambler,” I said.
My mom gave me a look.
“You could have made more money,” Gary said.
“Of course I could have. I chose to teach so I would have time off to do my own work and so I could spend time with my family. That was my choice.”
“My choice is to live like I’m living.”
Gary finished the last brownie on his plate.
“Money was never important to you?” Gary said, testing my father, looking for a reaction, listening.
“Money is fine, but it’s far from everything.”
“You’re an economics professor,” I said.
“I’m a professor, not a stockbroker.”
“Don’t you know what Dad does for a living?” Derek said.
“Shut up.”
“Wrong. He teaches economics.”
“I’ll teach you how to be broken.”
“I’ll teach you how to be fixed,” Derek said.
“Boys,” my mom said.
I turned to Gary so he’d see that we weren’t perfectly behaved kids but Gary wasn’t listening to us.
“Money was always important in my house,” Gary said. “My dad always valued money. Big money.”
Uncle Jack always talked money. He didn’t want to live the same poor life my grandfather had lived so he’d worked himself up the factory ladder, floor sweeper to foreman to owner. That he always talked money, that he judged people on their wealth and possessions, went against my father’s values but my dad didn’t touch this with Gary. Instead he told a story about a moneymaking scheme Uncle Jack had devised in high school and how he had persuaded my dad, still a kid at the time, to go in on it with him. It involved a camera contraption that took miniature photographs, which were then put in a viewfinder that magnified them big as life. My uncle and my dad would go around the parks in Brooklyn and take pictures of babies. When a mother would say that her kid was sick, Uncle Jack and my dad would tell her that sick babies photographed the best, with their glossy eyes coming out sparkling and their feverish cheeks looking rosy and cute. For a while they made some decent money. But they didn’t have a license. Eventually a cop busted them, confiscated their camera and their stint as photographers came to an end. My dad said get-rich-quick schemes didn’t always work. Uncle Jack had learned the lesson and had worked harder at his regular job and had supported a family and wanted the best for his son. Gary said it was a good story. Their talk was over.
Gary was not my father’s son. My father came to some of my matches and complimented my wins but it wasn’t enough for him. He’d tell me I’d done well or that I’d looked strong but I knew he was thinking that there was more to life than wrestling.
Altamont. St. Elmo. Bluff City. Vandalia. Traffic became heavy around St. Louis and I could see the small skyline, the famous arch smaller than I expected, once again not much, a bump on the New York City horizon, and we were on a bridge and the sign said MISSISSIPPI RIVER. Mark Twain. Deep water. Jim calling Huck honey to come onto the raft. I pulled into the right lane so I could get a better view. There were no rafts. There were plenty of freighters. A tugboat pushed a large barge in a straight line. Cargo cranes that could hoist a hundred fat men lined the far shore and it was not unlike the row of chairs I faced when I sat in my own row before the match began, when the warm-up was over and my muscles were loose and I’d put a sweatshirt on and a wool hat to keep my body warm and I’d look at my hands made mattress strong as I waited for my turn to be called to the mat.
The river itself was dirty gray. Thick looking and polluted. A clogged major artery moving through the States, falsely depicted as a bright blue line that cut the colorful map squares until it emptied into the Gulf. Still it was the Mississippi and I felt like I was somewhere. I kept looking out the side window to see how fast the current was moving but I couldn’t tell. I would have to pull over, stop, stand at the bank that was once wild. I would take off my shoes and test the water and if I had time I would wait for night to block out everything except the river but I didn’t have time or at least Gary didn’t. The paved river of Interstate 70, cutting across instead of up and down, stretched ahead.
11
&n
bsp; I HAD THE TWO decks out and was playing hands of blackjack, being both player and casino, the player’s cards on one leg, both facing up, the casino’s cards on the other leg, one down and the rest up. I was pretending to play ten dollars a hand. I’d dealt myself two blackjacks. I’d pulled a five on sixteen when the dealer had a seven showing and won just like Gary said. I’d won a lot of easy hands, a lot of twenties where all I had to do was flip over the dealer’s down card to make the win official unless the dealer pulled to twenty-one, a lucky pull but not completely. The dealer was the casino and the casino didn’t operate on luck. For the casinos every day was a good day. I was trying to keep the count and play by the rules of basic strategy. When I had to refer to the book, Gary made me recite the play out loud, testing me like a true teacher while his eyes scanned the highway.
We drove. Evening became night. Gary told me gambling stories to pass the time. He’d probably told the stories so often that he’d perfected them. I had been well trained by my parents not to believe everything he said but I played along, expressed disbelief at the right moments. He told of a time he’d won twenty-five thousand dollars at Aqueduct Raceway betting on a long shot he was sure had Mafia backing. The horse’s name was Corleone, the jockey’s name was Sal Salamino and the horse’s colors were red and green like the Italian flag. Gary said he put all three things together. I knew he was stretching it when he said he actually jumped for joy.
He told of a roll on an Atlantic City craps table. He was just passing through the Showboat Casino, looking to win a couple of bucks for a meal, when the stick man handed him the dice. He described how he felt a heat in his hand like a sixth sense while his lunch money turned into eleven thousand dollars. He treated his buddies to a feast and he himself ate two New York sirloins and an eight-pound lobster served in a chafing dish it was so big. I could picture Gary with a giant bib on, cracking claws, forking out meat, dunking it in drawn butter and sucking it all down.
He told me about a collector named Blue who wore blue sunglasses all the time and was so expert at breaking people’s kneecaps, legs and hands that the doctors kept X rays of his work as exemplary models of broken bone to be used in the medical textbooks they were writing. Gary told me of Blue’s more creative ways to collect owed money. Blue sometimes branded people’s asses with a dollar sign so that every time they sat down to read the sports section they’d remember the importance of paying debts. Gary told how Blue once held a guy by the foot over Yankee Stadium’s roof and threatened to let go if the guy didn’t hand over his bankcard. The guy literally shit his pants. When he had to visit the guy again, Blue made the guy wear a diaper before he executed the more conventional task of breaking a knee.
I asked Gary if he’d ever met Blue and Gary laughed it off, said he’d never had the good bad pleasure, he’d only heard the stories and seen a few limps.
“The guy’s supposed to be a real character. If you were casting a movie and looking for a guy who broke kneecaps, he wouldn’t be the typical guy. You usually picture some no-neck in a three piece suit. The blue sunglasses are a good hook, a good detail that works against type.”
“He still breaks kneecaps.”
“That’s his job. The people who pay him don’t care what he looks like as long as he collects the money or breaks the bones. What he looks like is his personal choice. What’s the worst you ever did to someone?”
“When I wrestled?”
“When you danced ballet.”
“I broke a guy’s thumb once. I broke another guy’s collarbone. I reversed him, lifted the guy up, expected his leg to wrap around me, but his leg never came and I took him down hard, heard a crack. Injury default is the official call. I took it. A win’s a win. What about you?”
“I’m a lover, not a fighter. Me and the ladies, we get along great.”
“Didn’t you break some kid’s nose in sixth grade and get suspended for a week?”
“Yes I did.”
“I remember that story.”
“So that’s how you see me.”
“I see you as the cousin my brother and I liked best.”
“Keep it that way.”
Gary flipped through the radio stations listening for sports scores. A commercial came on for a home appliance holiday sale replete with Christmas sounds, sleigh bells and Santa ho-ho-hoing.
“That’s how I still see you,” I said. “From the eyes of a little kid. Cousin Gary.”
“I still see you as a little kid too. My little cousin. The only difference is that I don’t remember you wearing a garage uniform back then.”
Gary flashed his brights and the car in front moved over. The driver kept his right blinker on until he was squarely in the next lane, playing it extra safe.
“So what are your adult plans? Just curious. No pressure.”
“No pressure,” I said. “Did you used to feel pressure when my dad came down hard on you?”
“He still comes down hard on me,” Gary said. “When I called to find out where you were working he asked what I was doing and then gave me one of his lectures. Your folks must use me as an example of how not to live your life.”
“That’s why we look up to you.”
“Great. Your dad didn’t sound too pleased with you either.”
I looked in the side mirror. The headlights of the passed cars diminished. A thousand flicks of the eye. That’s what my dad said when he taught me how to drive. Rear view. Side view. Straight ahead. A thousand flicks. He’d never been in an accident. I totaled our Volvo the day after I graduated from high school. It was my fault but that didn’t stop me from throwing the driver of the other car against the Volvo’s crumpled hood. He had been driving straight. I had made the turn. The insurance company said I was the one to blame but when it happened all I saw was the driver’s eyes looking at me like I was stupid. With him facedown on the hood of the car, I didn’t have to look at his eyes.
“I told him not to worry,” Gary said. “I told him you were finding yourself.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He asked if I’d found myself yet.”
Gary flashed his brights. The car in front moved over. The Jaguar’s rpm needle jumped.
“Do you ever take your dad’s advice?” Gary said.
“I listen.”
“He always says I should use my skill with numbers to advantage and get into accounting. He’s still pissed at me for not getting my college diploma.”
“He helped you get in.”
“That’s between me and your dad.”
“You can always go back. You only needed three more credits.”
“Fuck that. I don’t exactly see you making your dad proud.”
“My brother makes them proud.”
“You’re lucky. I don’t have any brothers.”
I tightened the rubber band around the two decks of cards and threw them on the dash next to the disposable camera.
“Then you have no one to look bad against.”
“And no one to worship me,” Gary said. “Derek always followed you around.”
“Not always.”
“When he was young he did.”
“Once he started school, that stage of his development came to an end.”
“He grew up. You don’t want him to be a sheep his whole life. He’s a good kid, your brother.”
“I just don’t want him held up as a model son.”
“Don’t worry. I’m sure your parents still love you. He’s great at school. You’re great at beating the shit out of people. Everyone has their own unique strengths. If your dad needed somebody’s arm broken, he’d turn to you.”
Gary was smiling. I turned and looked out the side window. The cars in the right lane were hardly moving.
“Every now and then I get an application in the mail for the CPA exam,” Gary said. “I know it’s your dad who sends the applications because I never wrote away for them and no one else would take the time to do that. He still has hope for me.”
“Really.”
“I open them up when they arrive, look them over, think about it for a while. Then I picture myself having to go to an office every day and I put the forms back in the envelope. For some reason I never throw them away. I have some applications that must be collector’s items they’re so outdated.”
We saw some flashing lights ahead and Gary slowed. It turned out to be a tow truck picking up a broken-down car. Gary got back to speed.
“I’ve done all right,” Gary said.
“My brother and I used to think you were a millionaire.”
“Not yet.”
“How come you’re going to Las Vegas this time?”
“Something to do.”
“Something to do for the holiday season.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll get you home for the holidays.”
“I’m not worried.”
“I’ll put you on a plane if I have to. My treat.”
“We can drive.”
“Maybe I’ll cash my car in for chips.”
“You’re kidding.”
Gary smiled his smile and didn’t say a word. He flipped through the radio stations. Most of the AM stations were preaching Jesus, not sports. He switched to FM. Cheryl Crow was singing about leaving where we were going.
“Does your dad still sing that shaving cream song?”
“Not in a while.”
My dad used to sing to us in the car when he drove the neighborhood kids to school on snowy days. I knew his songs so I never fully appreciated them like the other kids.
“I loved that song,” Gary said.
He started to sing it. He had a nice voice, not nasal at all. It was as if singing made the fat behind his nose disappear and his words came out clearly.