Tommy Angelo

I’ve been rummaging through dozens of ancient folders on my hard drive, full of half-started articles and unexpanded ideas.  I found a few unpublished finished works that I had totally forgotten about.  “The Guiltless Gambler” is one of those, from about ten years ago.  Enjoy!

The Guiltless Gambler

Rick Strenson inventories his hundred-dollar bills, quickly touching the bulges. 20 in my wallet, 50 in my breast pocket, 50 in the left sock, 50 in the right. Then he returns to the airplane window.

Rick and Bonnie Strenson live the Noah’s Ark version of the American dream: two cats, two kids, two cars, too good. Their youngest won a science fair; their oldest has perfect teeth. Bonnie runs the household, runs a bridge club, and runs through the park each morning.

Rick earns six figures as regional vice president of a plastics company. He often makes business trips to Cleveland or Pittsburgh or Detroit. Once each year he goes to a convention in Los Angeles. Before that trip, Rick always does business with his old high school-buddy, Howard Skleep.

“Hey How-weird. It’s that time of the year again.”

“Wuddayasay Rick, you sneaky dog. I seen your outfit on the news the other night. Something about a stock split or sumptin. Nice job, ya lucky buck.”

“Hey, I gotta make a bundle in order to pay your prices.”

Howard comes back smoothly, “You get whatcha pay for, Ricky old boy.”

And Rick gets plenty from Howard. He gets real airline tickets and fake ones, real car-rental receipts and fake ones. Rick always returns during the wee hours so he can take a cab home instead of being picked up by Bonnie.

When Bonnie is dropping Rick off at the airport, she asks an uneasy question, quietly, with trust.

“What do you do in San Diego from Wednesday night to Friday night?”

“Well, we golf some, and eat, and mostly gab. See, after the official stuff is out of the way is when we make some real progress.” Rick’s rare lies are convincing. “What brought on that question? You usually aren’t much interested in my work.”

Bonnie is slightly embarrassed. “It’s nothing dear, really. I happened to see the itinerary for the convention on the kitchen table and I noticed that the last event was Wednesday afternoon. That’s all. I was just wondering.”

At the plastics convention in Los Angeles, Rick wears his official, confident smile through seminars and meetings. He recognizes almost everyone and almost everyone recognizes him. But no one knows anyone. It is the plastic people gathering.

At 2:00 p.m. Wednesday, Rick is at the front desk of the Los Angeles Hilton. He slips four $100 bills and a phone number to Mr. Stimple, the hotel manager.

“The usual arrangement please. I will be leaving tonight around seven.”

“Very good sir. Thank you sir.”

Mr. Stimple briefs the three shift managers in turn. He hands each of them $100, and tells them that if Rick Strenson gets a phone call from his wife Bonnie, they are to put Bonnie on hold, then return to her and say that Mr. Strenson is not answering. Then immediately call this number (the one that Rick provided), and leave a message that Bonnie called.

At 6:30 p.m. on Wednesday, Rick is at the airport. He never tires of flying. Always a window seat to prop his head and gaze at the surreal world unfolding below. Every cloud and landscape are familiar, but always fresh. Within minutes Rick is in a trance. This is his time, his alone.

He thinks about retirement and the leisure life and unborn grandchildren. He imagines he can feel the rotation of the earth and its movement through space. He ponders technology, and plastics, and he doesn’t take airplanes for granted. But on this trip his thoughts visibly reach for his destination, when he feels for his wallet, touches his socks, and puts his hand over his heart.

Years ago, Bonnie was rummaging through a wastebasket when she came across a stack of scratch-n-win lottery tickets. With sincere curiosity, she asked, “Honey, when did you start playing the lottery?”

“Huh?” Rick was off guard. “Oh, I got those during lunch the other day. I cashed one in for $5,” he boasted, knowing how silly he sounded.

Bonnie didn’t mind, since there was always ample money in the checking account. Plus, if Rick got lucky, there might be lots more. Whenever the lottery drawing was on TV, Rick was always watching, acting like it didn’t matter much, like he was just betting a couple bucks.

Rick has all the symptoms of a controlled, frugal man; he buys sale items, he hardly drinks, and he doesn’t smoke. But he loves to splurge occasionally with money he can afford. Once he went months without buying anything, then came home with a new lawn mower, an exercise bike, jewelry for Bonnie, and all sorts of gizmos for the house.

Bonnie was overwhelmed and ecstatic; “Did you win the lottery?”

“Nope. Just feeling good.”

On the plane, Rick runs through the numbers one more time. “I put away $300 per week for 51 weeks. That makes $15,300. Plus the $3000 bonus after the Dayton deal. That makes $18,300. Minus $400 for the hotel folks in Los Angeles, minus $900 for Howard. That leaves me $17,000 flat.” He touches again.

Rick feels the airplane slow down just a bit and this gives him a buzz. The speakers click on, “We have begun our initial descent and the captain has turned on the safety-belt lights. We will be landing in approximately 30 minutes. The local temperature is 86 degrees. Thank you for flying with us and enjoy your stay in Las Vegas.”

I was 14 years old in 1972 when astronaut Harrison Schmitt aimed a Hasselblad camera out the window of the Apollo 17 spacecraft on its way to the moon and took a photograph of the full earth from 25,000 miles up. NASA dubbed that photo “The Blue Marble”. It showed the world the world, with surprisingly sharp edges against the even more surprising darkness of space, with white clouds and blue water, stark, round, real.

That was also around the time when small appliances started to breed, evolving wondrous species such as the digital radio alarm clock. Digital still meant digital back then, as in “with digits”, as in numbers, as in “Look mom, no hands!” My folks had one. The appeal for my dad was no more squinting at toothpicks on a dial, and for mom it was waking up to music.

It was Christmas morning by the tree. A big cardboard tube had my name on it. I pried off the plastic cork and pulled out a giant roll of stiff paper that unspun itself a little upon birth. Then it resisted any further unrolling as if shy. My brothers took the corners and held it so I could see. It was a picture of Planet Earth, southern hemisphere, African side. There’s the north coast of the Sahara Desert, and the entire Saudi Peninsula, looking just like on a map, and lots of white streaks below that. Must have been a clear day in Madagascar because there it is, right where it belongs, and below that is the huge white smear of Antarctica, and all over the world is water, and clouds, all a swirl, timeless, like it really is raining, and sunny, somewhere, everywhere, always.

The next gift I opened was a digital radio alarm clock. This was not just any digital radio alarm clock. This one had a light in the top that shined up, projecting the time, in digits, on the ceiling. I didn’t have to fake that I liked it.

Saving bests for last, as was our custom, mom handed me a box. “It’s for all of us, but you open it,” she said. I opened the box and pulled out the gift that bent my young path toward a deliciously derelict life of poker. It was a brown cylinder, squatty, a little smaller than a soccer ball, with a handle on top poking through the cover. I removed the cover. Inside was a rack of poker chips that spun around. Eight column-shaped slots held eight stacks of poker chips, four white, two red, two blue, still wrapped in clear plastic. Two rectangular slots in the center of the rack held two decks of cards, also wrapped in plastic.

I unwrapped a stack of chips. They were the super-cheap ultra-thin chips, with the shark-toothed edges that lock together after a slight rotation. They even sounded cheap, like a kid’s toy, but I adored them anyway.

I unwrapped a deck of cards. They were nothing at all like a kid’s toy. They were top quality, made of 100% plastic. It said so on the ace of spades. And they were washable. It said so in the instructions. This was some severely modern space-age shit. I had never seen or heard of anything like these all-plastic playing cards. For me, for us, back then, a deck of cards was a good deck if it was all there. Marks? Of course. Rips? No problem. Spots worn off from playing endless hours of euchre at the park on a picnic table made of concrete? Normal. Cards was cards and they were not expected to last.

(This was roundabout the time I realized that Euchre was a dumb game. First, there’s the name. Euchre, pronounced yooker. What’s up with that? Trying to hide a lame game behind a chic name? Henceforth it shall be called yooker, a silly-looking name, for a silly game. And what’s up with the Jacks? The bowers. The what? Left and right? Huh? And the dumbest thing of all, yooker uses only the upper half of the deck, thereby filling the world with decks of cards that are half-pristine and the other half worn out.)

But these new all-plastic cards, these Christmas cards, they had a special feel, in my hands, a stiffness, when shuffled, a satisfying flexing resistance. And with each shuffle came the perfect-riffle sound, much louder than paper cards, with a distinctive ending. And you could shuffle them end to end, endlessly, without trashing the edges. I even liked the smell. By then I had become the greatest card player in the world so it seemed right that I should now have the best cards in the world. I will care for these cards like a pet. They will be the immortal indoor cards. Their faces will not get roughed up. They will get put away. And they will not be used for yooker.

At noon, the gifting was all done and the big meal was hours away. I was in my room, energized, with my presents. Tape, got it, poster, got it, wall, which wall, that one, the main one, down comes the cork bulletin board, up goes the poster, slowly, carefully, as I was taught, with reinforcement taping on the back for longevity. I stood back. Yes.

Try to understand, Walter Cronkite was the President of the Actual Universe and the space program was the next best thing to Star Trek reruns. And here was the Earth, on my wall, just as it looked to the lunar-mission astronauts from three diameters away, spectacular and bright, surrounded by the flattest of blacks.

I sat the digital radio alarm clock on my bedside table. Just how does this thing work anyway? Get screwdriver, which kind, flat one, undo screws, remove bottom casing, more screws, top comes off. Check it out! It’s got thick plastic ribbons inside, with numbers cut out of them, stencils, that turn, passing above the light bulb, sending the time, in digits, eternally into space, or, more mundanely, onto a ceiling, if one happens to be in the way.

I could not resist tinkering with those ribbons of numbers. I pulled on them and stretched them and generally tormented the ribbons until time stood still on this clock, for good. So I yanked the ribbons of numbers all the way out. Now I had a tinny-sounding radio with a flashlight on top.

I put the casing back together, and, oh my, what is this? Without the stenciled ribbons to block most of the beam, the bulb projects a perfect circle of light onto the ceiling, a circle that is remarkably similar in size to the Blue Marble, and, here we go again! Remove poster from wall, get tape, stand on bed, can’t reach the ceiling stably enough, move the bed, get stepladder, climb ladder with tape and poster, struggle, but eventually successfully tape poster to ceiling, carefully, to last. Remove ladder, reposition bed, place thin book under edge of the alarm clock and adjust arrangement until the beam shines directly on Earth. It doesn’t look like much right now. It’s too bright in here. But tonight.

That night, I lay in bed awake. My eyes were fixed on the big picture, Planet Earth, as it hung on my ceiling as if in space, with blackness everywhere except for directly on the blue marble, lit by the alarm clock’s solar rays, my brain convincing itself into space. I was shuffling a deck of cards on my chest, end to end, without looking, finishing with a perfect brick of plastic every time.

Staring at the Blue Marble seemed to help me see things better. If my vision got too narrowly focused, if I got too carried away, with a thing, or an event, or a game, I always had the Blue Marble, waiting for me at night, to bring me back to earth. Now, the alarm clock is long gone, and the cards didn’t really stand a chance of surviving an entire adolescence. But thanks to cardboard tubes, I still have that poster of Earth. It’s buried in the basement somewhere, but never too far out of mind. I’m going to go dig it out right now, to get another glimpse at just how small the big picture is.

I moved to California on the third Saturday in November, 11 years ago.  I planned it this way, so that I’d always automatically remember my anniversary.  On the third Saturday in November, every year, Ohio State plays Michigan.

11 years ago, I went straight from a Michigan game party to the airport with a one-way ticket in hand, two lumps in my throat (we lost the game and I was scared) and also a joyous sense of adventure in my heart.

It so happens that 11 years ago, the third Saturday in November fell on the 22nd, and that yesterday, it did so again.  Which makes yesterday like a doubly accurate anniversary.  And when you throw in the fact that the sun spot cycle is also as it was eleven years ago, well, what can I say, I’m feeling extra sentimental, so here’s a mushy little poem I wrote about the move, and about how miraculously lucky I was after I got here.

i was upon an oarless raft

ill water all around

when on a sunny shore I moored

and there by Kay was found

The year: 1978.  I was 21 years old. The place: Big Bear store #1.  It was a huge oval building, originally a barn, then a roller rink, then in the 1930’s, it was the first building in the Midwest to have meat and produce and dairy and dry goods for sale under one roof.  There was an actual bear there during the first few years — an attraction.  Hence the name.  Big Bear grew into a large chain of grocery stores.  Hence the number.

I was one third of the three-man stock crew that remained unchanged for six years.  I have to think that that could be a record for the lifespan of a stock crew at a major grocery store.  We each had our aisles.  We stocked ‘em, we cleaned ‘em, we did the price changes, we did the ordering, we did the sale-item displays — it was like each of us had our own little kingdom within the domain.

Every week, items would come and go.  The three of us would sit in the break room on Fridays and complain about the weekly list of new and discontinued items, and the burdensome changes in the space allocation we would have to make on our beloved shelves.

Store Number One was (it was torn down in the 80’s) on Lane Avenue in Columbus Ohio, right across the street from Ohio State University.  Our top selling items were beer, potato chips, Kraft macaroni and cheese dinners, and beer.  We didn’t sell very much olive oil.  Which is why I practically had a seizure when I saw the new items list that Friday.  We were going to be carrying a new size of olive oil.  Gallons.  For sixteen bucks each.  That made it the most expensive item in the store intended for human consumption.  And one of the heaviest.  Given our clientele, I expected them to sell at a rate of approximately never.  Yet I was going to have to make space for this monstrously bad use of shelf space in my oil section anyway.

One week later, a case of gallons of olive oil arrived.  There’s no way to stop that.  They always send at least one case of new items no matter how stupid they are.  After that, the power is all mine.  The case had four rectangular one-gallon cans it in — they reminded me of gas cans.  I already knew I would never order another case, even if all four cans from the initial case sold.  I was frowning when I made room for one row of the new item on the bottom shelf by taking some space away from two products that never got dusty: Crisco oil and Wesson oil.  (We sold a lot of popcorn too.)

The next day, I went to work, and I walked down my aisles to get a view of the past, and plan my attack for rebuilding my aisles to pristine condition after they had been viciously violated yet again by all those damn customers.  I walked by the oil section.  You have to understand the degree to which it is possible to become one with something like an oil section.  I could see all and know all with just a glance.  I knew what sold, when it sold, why it sold, what they were wearing when they bought it, and which kind of popcorn they intended to use it on.  Right away, I noticed something odd, like there was a tooth missing.  On the bottom shelf, right in front of three huge cans of olive oil, there was an empty space.  Somebody had actually bought one of those suckers!

This was about a year after I had moved away from home.  Not that far away.  About a mile.  And the family homestead was very near the grocery store.  So I often stopped by there after work.  You know, the free food and all.  Apparently I had the poker-pro gene activated inside me all the way back then.

I walked into the family homestead and I headed straight for the kitchen.

And there.

On the counter.

Was a rectangular can.

With a little sticker on top that said “$15.99.”

That I had put there.

Yesterday.

She came in.  I said, “Hi mom.”

“Tanoose, look at this!”

She was the only person who ever called me that.  It was her grandfather’s name.

“I’m looking!”

“This much olive oil would cost three times as much in those 16 ounce cans!”

We watched the can for a few seconds, each amazed in our own way.

“How long will it take you to use it all?” I asked.

“Not as long as you might think.”

“Great.  Would you mind buying the other three?”