Хелен Девитт - Some Trick - Thirteen Stories

Derek: Yeh, well

Goes back on the phone with Frank.

Dunno, he says, bloke here might be up for it but I dunno, Frank, five, snot much of a game

But Marc is on his feet. This is KEITH O’CONNOR, drummer of the MISSING LYNX —

Marc is not into the pathos of semiotically enhanced footwear, is it a riposte to dualism that the intestines propel partially digested chicken tikka masala into the circumambient air when the eyes pass over the cover of a pb by Tony Parsons? What does it tell us of the human condition if the mind, pursuant to the expulsion of comestibles, explores the opposition between tearjerking & dickjerking — and yet somehow separate from the crap that now is Parsons is the history, the hack cavorting w/ Johnny Rotten, this is a chance that will never

Words come to the plausible mouth.

I can play a bit, he says.

They are looking at the Suit, he should introduce the Suit separately, the estate of Lord Carnarvon had given his wardrobe to the Notting Hill Trust and now a garment that the body of a British aristocrat had worn to the House of Lords in 1953 (where it had excited no comment) had been handed into the keeping of a pleb for twenty quid to walk the world in low company.

And, like, Gerry! Maybe Gerry would like to play.

A sign above the door states that Gerald O’Hanlon is the proprietor licenced to sell intoxicating beverages.

Derek says: Don’t be daft, Gerry’s been up since 6 am, last thing he wants is

Gerry says: You only live once.

He says: Look, Tel should not be on his own.

Marc scents: The money in the wallet, this is the thing they won’t mention.

So it happens. Frank and the fortuitously uncustodised Maury are in their midst, Gerry locks up, there are seven men in a room behind swinging doors back of the bar.

They’re playing Texas Hold ’em because that’s what they’ve seen on TV.

For those who have not seen the game on TV: it’s a doddle. Each player is dealt two cards. There’s a round of betting. Three cards are dealt down the middle — the flop. A round of betting. A card is dealt — the turn. Another round of betting. A last card is dealt — the river. A final round of betting. Each player can combine any three of the cards on the table with the two in his hand to make up a ‘poker hand’; the one with the best hand wins.

Marc has £51.63. The usual suspects are all buying chips for a friendly couple of hundred quid, which Marc reckons is to encourage Keith to do the same. Keith does buy in for a couple of hundred, which means Marc has to buy in for fifty quid. He does not expect to win; if he can walk away without losing more than five quid he’ll count himself lucky. He’s just trying to remember the ranking of hands as seen on TV.

Pair, two pair, three of a kind, Straight is five cards in numerical order. Flush is five cards of same suit, Flush beats a straight? Straight beats a flush? Full house is pair plus three of a kind. Four of a kind. Straight flush does what it says on the tin.

How many poker hands do you want to hear about?

You need to know about 3.

Marc started out with £50. On the third hand he picks up A K of spades. He bets 50p. Maury raises him £1. Frank sees the £1.50 and raises £1.50. Gerry sees the £3 and raises £3. Derek calls. Keith folds. Tel calls.

Marc thinks: Shit.

He calls.

Maury calls. Frank calls. The flop is King of diamonds Jack of diamonds 8 of spades. Marc checks. Maury bets £5. Frank folds. Gerry and Derek call.

Marc thinks: Shit.

He calls.

The turn is the 10 of spades. Marc bets £10. Maury calls. Gerry folds. Derek calls. The river is the Jack of spades. Marc bets £2. Maury raises him £10. Marc calls. Maury has Ace of diamonds Queen of diamonds. Marc wins £113.50.

It is obvious to everyone that Marc does not know what the fuck he is doing. Marc plays cautiously for the next 20 hands or so while Keith loses all his chips and buys in for another £300. There is much face-to-face banter.

Marc has inched his way up to £150. He would like to leave but he sits folding hand after hand. He picks up 8 9 of clubs. He is the big blind. He is in for 50p. Maury, Frank, Gerry, Tel and Keith stay in. The flop goes down and it is 10 7 of clubs J of spades.

Marc bets £2.

Maury raises £2. Frank, Gerry and Tel call. Keith raises £20.

Marc thinks: Shit.

He has seen the hands Keith has been betting on. He calls.

Maury, Frank, Gerry and Tel have seen the hands Keith has been betting on. They call. The turn is the 6 of clubs. Marc bets £5. Maury calls. Frank raises £10. Gerry folds. Tel calls. Keith raises £20. Marc calls. Maury folds. Frank calls. Tel folds.

The river goes down and it is the 9 of diamonds. Marc bets £10. Frank raises £20. Keith calls. Marc calls.

Frank has A K clubs. Keith has K Q of hearts.

Put Frank’s hand with the board and you get A K 10 7 6 clubs. A flush. Which beats Keith’s K Q (hearts) plus J (spades) 10 (clubs) 9 (diamonds). A straight.

After 3 hours Marc is totally confident that a flush beats a straight. So Keith is fucked. And under normal circumstances Frank’s flush to the Ace would beat Marc’s flush to the 10. But Marc, he checks again, yeah, he definitely has 10 9 8 7 6 of clubs, which is a straight flush. So they are BOTH well and truly fucked by the King of the Hacks.

He thinks.

He hesitates to rake in the chips which he thinks are now rightfully his. There may be some arcane fact of poker lore such that if he shows he thinks he won he will look like a twat.

Derek says: I feel your pain, Frank.

Fucking A!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

As it says in the song, you don’t count your money when you’re sitting at the table. Basically Marc has won what is technically known as a shitload. He stacks the unexamined chips at his left.

Gerry says: I been up since 6, mates.

Tel says: You only live once, Ger.

Marc thinks: Shut. The fuck. Up. Just go to bed, you fucking wanker.

He thinks: But I don’t have to

He’s shivering. All he has to do is avoid fucking up and he can walk out with, like, 500 quid.

Marc does not feel he is really engaging with Keith, who seems to be in a chip-scattering bubble of solipsistic frenzy. He is not picking up anything NME-worthy. He feels like a twat in the Suit. It’s also unbelievably boring. But if he can manage to survive the bollocks-withering tedium of the game he can

How many hands do you seriously want to hear about?

They play for another hour. Keith buys in for another £400. Marc tries to play unadventurously without looking like a cunt. Something in the ambience tells him he is not succeeding.

What happens.

Marc picks up 7 of diamonds 2 of clubs. He folds. Derek, Maury, Frank, Gerry, Tel and Keith stay in. The flop: A K hearts 6 spades. Derek is in for £5. Maury, Frank, Ger see him. Tel raises an unfriendly £50. Keith sees him and he is all in, which is to say that the wallet is now empty. There is an adjustment to the ambience. Marc gives it another 10 minutes before they pack it in and go home.

He can see them getting ready to fold, no point sending good money after bad, the hard faces with their pebble eyes assessing the exhaustion of the night’s bounty.

Keith says: Look mate, I’ll give you an IOU.

Ger says: No offence mate but cash only.

And Keith says: Look, I’m with a band. We’ve been signed and that. Four songs in the top 10. Missing Lynx.

Derek says: No offence mate but we would not take an IOU from Mick Jagger.

Meaning they have never fucking heard of the band.

And Marc in his 15 seconds of brain death says: Fucking fantastic band.

Keith turns to him. Maybe Marc is expecting to bond, as Tony Parsons allegedly did with Johnny Rotten and Joe Strummer and the giants of the past.