This Time For Real

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Tuesday, November 29, 2016

Gambler's Anonymous

Anthony had just left the Gamblers Anonymous meeting, his new 6 month chip jangled against his key as he walked. He had parked on the street, and was just getting to his car, when a black Lincoln Towncar pulled up to the curb in front of him. The tinted back window was rolling down, and inside was an older gentleman sharply dressed in a dark suit. He had a neatly trimmed white Van Dyke and a silk kerchief square in his pocket.

"Excuse me," he asked in a clipped, foreign voice. "Do you know where there is a Gambler's Anonymous meeting nearby? I thought it was close to here, but I'm afraid that my driver is not too familiar with this area." The man spoke fast. It was a little difficult for Anthony to follow.

"Yeah, it's right there," Anthony said, jerking his thumb in the direction of the VFW. "We meet every Wednesday, but you missed our meeting tonight. We meet from eight to ten. Come back next week at 8." Anthony pulled out his keys, and started unlocking the driver's side of his dented Ford Taurus.

"Yes, yes, but so, you were just there? You are a gambling addict?"

"I'm not going there for fun, let's put it that way."

The man's pink tongue darted around his lips. "Do you owe money?"

At this, Anthony straightened. He walked around his car, and leaned his meaty forearms on the Lincoln. "It ain't your business, bub. Just who do you think you are anyway?"

The man pulled out his handkerchief and patted his forehead. "Yes, yes, I too am a gambler. I cannot stop. The stakes, when they are high..." He shook his head. "You know what it is like. All gamblers know what it is like to owe -- something."

Anthony straightened. "Well, geeze buddy. I thought you was some bookie or something. Yeah, it's a tough thing. You gotta hang in there, you know? Listen, what's your name? I'm Anthony Visorelli, but everyone calls me Tony." Anthony reached out his hand. The small man shook it. He was wearing a leather glove.

"My name is Bernard... Bernard Jurgen."

"You German or something?"

"Austrian."

"Yeah? Bernard, huh?"

The man nodded.

"Well, Bernard -- come back here next week, and you'll be able to meet some of the guys. It's nice to meet ya."

"Wait--please. May I ask you something?"

"Yeah sure."

"What if I told you I could erase your debt?"

"I'd tell you pigs could fly."

"No, please, I am serious. I can erase your debt."

"You don't even know how much I owe. More importantly, you don't even know who I owe it to -- and he ain't the forgiving type."

"I could pay him."

"And why would you do that?"

"You would do a favor in return for me."

"A favor, huh? Sorry bub, I'm not interested. Come back next week for the meeting, ok?"

"Please. It is a simple favor. I will pay double your debt."

"You don't know what my debt is."

"It does not matter." The man leaned forward and spoke to the driver in a harsh, guttural tone. A briefcase was passed back. The man undid the clasps and showed it to Anthony. It was filled with stacks of money, each wrapped with a purple and white striped band. "Luck has been with me lately, you see?"

Anthony's mouth was suddenly dry. "How -- how much is that?"

"How much is your debt?"

"I owe $34,000."

The man picked up four of the stacks. "This is $40,000. And I'll give you 6 more after. One hundred thousand dollars."

"What do I have to do?"

"There is something I owe. I need you to deliver something for me."

"Why don't you drop it off yourself?"

"I do not trust those whom I owe."

"What's the catch?"

"How did you fall into debt?"

Anthony looks confused. "What?"

"How did you fall into debt?"

"Gambling."

"Yes but -- was it the casino? Was it the horses?"

"Boxing matches."

"Ah, I see. A betting man. That is good."

"Why?"

"Because they may shoot you. Then again, they may not. It is because of this that I need a betting man. The odds are 40/60 in your favor."

"Are you being serious right now? Is this for real? This like a test or something?"

"No, I assure you this is real. You can wipe out all your debt and more."

"You're a betting man. You do it."

"No, I gamble, but I do not bet. It is the casinos for me. Blackjack."

Anthony looks around at the wet street. It had rained during the meeting. "How'd you figure those odds?"

The man smiled darkly. "Past experience. Three of the last five they did not shoot."

Three out of five.

"Is it drugs?"

"It is not drugs, but please do not ask me what it is. I cannot tell. You must accept it without knowing what it is. It does not affect the odds though."

Three out of five. Anthony could feel his neck flush. He knew what this meant. He reached for the money. "Let me see it."

The man handed the four stacks of bills to Anthony. He flipped through them. They were hundreds. The four bundles were surprisingly light. They did not seem like $40,000. He hefted them again. Three out of five.

"When?"

"Excellent," the man said, opening the door. "We go there now."

================================================================

Anthony got out of the Lincoln. He was standing in front of a single story motel.

The man thrust a small white envelope out of the window. it was sealed with red wax. Anthony took it.

"I just give them this and say 'I'm here to deliver Mr. Jurgen's payment?'"

"Yes, yes. That is all."

Three out of five.

Anthony crossed the street. He walked around to the back of the motel, and stood in front of room 19.

Three out of five.

Anthony knocked. Nothing. He went to knock again.

The door opened and a man grabbed Anthony and dragged him in. Another man, holding a gun, shut the door. The first man frisked him.

"I'm -- I'm here to pay for Mr. Jurgen."

The man frisking him pulled the four bundles of cash from his pocket. "That won't cut it."

"No..." Anthony handed the man the envelope. "Here."

The man took the envelope and opened it. He read the note inside.

"You're here for Mr. Jurgen?"

"Yes."

"For his debt?"

"Yes."

The first man looked at the other. "Where does he find these people?"

The second man shrugged, and then hit Anthony on the head with the butt of his gun.

================================================================

Anthony woke up in the bathtub. It was filled with ice. He was shivering, and his mouth was dry. He lifted his arms to grasp the side of the bathtub, but pain flashed into his back. He moved slowly, and lifted himself from the tub. He was nearly breathless from the effort. He sat on the counter. He noticed his boxers were pink in the back. He looked at his reflection, and saw a long, red arc on his back left side -- newly stitched, still oozing blood.

Tuesday, September 13, 2016

Future Brian

Turns out I used to write stuff... Sometimes even just for fun. I hadn't turned on my computer in --four? i think it was 4-- years. Going through some old stuff, and found this. I present to you... Future Brian.

FUTURE BRIAN

Brian's phone simultaneously buzzed and chimed. It was a text message -- a text message from "Future Brian."

'Hey,' it read. 'What's up?'

That's odd, Brian thought. I don't remember putting a 'Future Brian' into my phone.

He quickly scrolled to his list of contacts and found 'Future Brian.' The number was his own.

Someone was playing a joke on Brian, and he was going to ignore it (though he had to admit that it was a masterful prank).

Another buzz and a chime. 'Not a joke,' it read, 'though it would be a masterful one.'

Brian was still puzzling over the second text when the third arrived with another annoying buzz and a chime. He silenced his phone.

Who keeps texting you? his girlfriend asked. Should I be jealous?

No, someone from work.

Tell them it's Saturday, and you're spending the day with your lovely girlfriend.

Brian barely heard her. He was still trying to understand how someone was texting him from his own number.

'I just got the newest iPhone,' the text said. 'You can send texts to the past.'

This is bizarre, he thought. Very, very bizarre. That almost sounds like something I would say, if I were texting myself from the future. I'd be funnier though.

Buzz -- no chime. 'LOL. I remember getting that last text and thinking that I'd have 10 years to come up with a better joke, but honestly -- that's all I've got.'

Buzz. 'You still don't believe me, do you? Text me back!!! This really is Future Brian!'

Brian had been running through the list of people that knew him well enough to do this joke. It was a short and improbable list. They were either too old to be sufficiently adept technologically (his parents) or too dull (his friends). It wasn't his girlfriend (though she was masterfully witty in her own right), she was cooking green curry and hadn't picked up a phone during the entire exchange.

He texted back two words, 'Prove it.'

How exactly would one prove to oneself that they were from the future? Brian mused. He was interrupted by another buzz. As Brian read the message, his face paled.

There was a secret about Brian that only three people in the world knew, his mother, his father, and him. The doctor who delivered him knew as well, but was long since dead. It was a horrible, awful secret -- a deeply embarrassing secret (though it was due to no fault of his own). He had never told anyone his secret, not even his sweet, sweet girlfriend. Brian read the text message again, 'We were born with a tail.'

This was true. Brian had been born with a slight tail, a one and a half inch, fleshy extension protruding from his tailbone. The doctor had neatly clipped it off with a pair of bone shears, and asked the parents if they wanted to keep it.

Whatever for? his horrified parents had asked.

Some think its lucky, responded the doctor. I never understood that myself.

He threw the tail into a nearby waste receptacle.

Anyway, these things happen. Mums the word, eh? He winked slyly and moved on to his next delivery.

When his mother finally broke down and tearfully confessed to Brian that he had been born with a tail, she wasn't crying because she was horrified or concerned about what else might be different about her boy. She was crying because she felt incredibly guilty that she had allowed to doctor to throw his tail away.

You're such a good boy, she sobbed. We shouldn't have wasted a single piece of you. I'm so sorry.

The then 6 year old Brian had assured her that they had made the right decision. He had honestly never thought twice about the smooth scar near his tailbone. He had always assumed it was from some childhood accident. Years later, he had told as much to his girlfriend, after the first time they had made love. He'd said that he'd been running around without his diapers, and had fallen backwards onto the edge of some concrete steps.

Lovely, just lovely, his girlfriend had said, her hand resting lightly on his tailbone. I'm glad you have that scar. If you didn't, you'd be perfect -- and perfect is really not so perfect, do you know what I mean?

Brian had not known, but had nodded his accord nonetheless. It was an uncomfortable topic for him, and he was blushing. His girlfriend had assumed that it was because of her compliment, but actually, it was because Brian was deeply ashamed. It was a twofold shame that he felt -- first, for being born with a tail, and second, for lying to the love of his life. It was the only lie he had ever told her.

Who knew his secret? Brian felt nauseous. It could not have been one of his friends. It was not his parents (even if they had figured out how to text, they knew it was too sore of a subject for joking). Brian texted back, 'Is this God?'

The thirty seconds that passed before Brian received a response seemed eternal. He spent the time trying to reconcile his monolithic and faceless image of God with this new pleasantly jovial God.

Buzz. 'Ha. No. Well not yet, anyway. Our future is good, but not that good.'

Puzzled, Brian responded, 'Not yet?'

'Well, you convert to Mormonism. It's difficult to explain over text.'

Brian had met a Mormon only once before, a shy girl in his college physics class. He thought it odd that a 20 year old would still be in braces.

'Mormon? How many wives do I have?'

Buzz. 'No, it's not like that at all. Listen, when two 20 year olds named Elder come to your door, just let them in. You'll like them. This is beside the point.'

'What is the point?'

'Well, I guess there really is no point. I just wanted to see if this 'text the past' thing worked.'

'Am I married?' Brian snuck a hurried glance at his girlfriend. She caught his eye and smiled.

Currys almost ready, dear.

Buzz. 'Of course, and you have 3 beautiful children. A fourth on the way.'

'Who am I married to?'

'Who do you think?' Brian's face reddened as he realized that he did already know. He could not imagine his life without her.

His heart was thumping. 'Am I happy?'

'Absurdly so. Anyway, I have to help round up the kids for dinner. Nice talking to you.'

'Okay.' Brian paused in his texting. What does one say in this situation? 'Thanks,' he typed, pausing again. 'Does she know about the tail?'

His girlfriend set a steaming pot of curry on the table. Brian, let's eat. She started setting the table with plates and cups.

Buzz. 'Of course.'

Brian set down his phone. His head was swimming, but in a good way. He was not sure if he was hallucinating or not -- it did have the feel of a kind of delicious dream. He walked into the kitchen, and caught his girlfriend in his arms, and gave her an enormous kiss. I love you. He kissed her again. I love you so much.

Well, she said, slightly surprised. I should make curry more often.