The Day the small time Poker player fell for the shell game

The Day the small time Poker player fell for the shell game

fiction
edward w pritchard


If there was a lief motif running through my years working at night at the hotel as a night auditor it would be sophistication. Between the hotel work which paid well for a college student and the Poker winnings there was enough money in 1971 nothing else being really important. Ending the unpopular war, equality for the Black race in America, full employment for women, and each and all not hassling one and other being mere back ground noise to me at 19 years old.

The main challenge for me was dealing with the Prostitutes who interrupted my revelries after my routine bookkeeping work was competed and before I spent three or four hours untangling the connections between Spartan History in Greece and the Renaissance in central Italy. When it came to a Prostitute at 3 AM standing in front of the Hotel desk shifting from foot to foot and concocting a wily tale to mooch money from me; I never could resist a good story from a Woman.

I should have wrote the stories down, or if I can pronounce an anachronism here and send it back then I wish I could record one of the performances by those ladies in Red on a modern cell phone and post it to face book for all to view. It would produce many likes and few thumbs downs for sure and maybe I could recoup some of the dough I never received back from some of those ancient debts and loans.

First I had to be reminded about the big night I had two Saturdays ago at the Poker tables, that story had made the rounds of the Housekeeping department there at the hotel and was common knowledge.

Then of course did I realize that I looked a lot like a taller version of Omar Sharif the handsome actor? Then when my attention was captured a yarn would be weaved ending in the need for an exact figure of $42.87 no less with maybe ten dollars more in closing for flowers for the unfortunate member of the proletariat injured in the second act of the three act play just recited.

Why I did it was a character flaw, or boredom, or fiscal irresponsibility for later maybe but if only I could remember those stories I would have something to write about people wanted to read, urban legends sell well I hear, and the interest, appreciation and growth of those forgone dollars I never collected would provide a proper nest egg for me now in my lonely golden years.

Ah well, "all the moneys gone no where to go"[1] the day the small time poker player fell for the shell game.

[1] Beatles from "Abbey Road"