Grinder

1. Duchess' Boy

A grinder's life is slow, short, and full of nothing. Before Vic, I was a grinder.

The casinos were still running, back then we were just calling it a 'depression'.

This one wasn't busy.

There were no windows- but a hard fluorescent betrayed the night outside: evidence of fatigue, stress, and drug use testified in the not-quite-daylight. A leather faced guard pushed me forward, I emptied my bag. Its contents- shades, a music player, a second sweater, a bagged lunch, a notepad- presented in ritual. This, to me, was the closest I'd get to clocking in.

And it looked like there'd be a long night of work ahead. Most tables were closed, those open were crowded with grinders. Used to be the Depression would bring in business: desperate hopefuls tossed savings to chance, divorced dads tried to reclaim what they'd lost; we were the easy way. Time and success betrayed us, a man could only lose so much. No jobs, and it all flowed downhill, the rivers were dry.

So I bought my chips, sat left of a nit- and let the hours pass. Whole table were nits, nits and tags and not a leak in sight; without a miracle, we'd all be treading water, only the rake would win. And then came a miracle.

Her name, I later learned, was Duchess Victoria Evans of Wales. She wasn't Welsh, though- I don't think she was a Duchess, either. She was, however, rich and dumb- that I kenned straight off. Rich enough to own a mink, dumb enough to wear it here. She took a seat, turned to me, and smiled.

She sold herself to me on that table, and for a little while, she was mine. She dragged me out of nothing.

Under bilious cloak- a mound of clothes, dizzy makeup and perfume- her skin was warm.

But now I know, nothing is not nothing. It tears the roads apart, crushes cities and mountains; it has weight, it has a colour. Life is only borrowed from it.

***

Today I can barely remember her.

That's how it goes, my neural Net; a caravan of neurons loaded up with scenes of Vic, I wanna remember. But the roads are cracked, and broken- highwaymen wait in the bushes...

"Duchess' boy. You're in a bad way."

By now the room is spinning, but Sol's face never moves.

"We can fix you, Bull. Repair your neural break."

I look up, Sol used to be my dealer, now he might as well be God. His word is ancient law.

"You help us, and we'll see it done. You have my word."

I can barely face him. The merchant caravans have stopped, backed up against a thousand broken roads, drenched in Nothing.

"That's all we want, just one small tell..."

Vicky's skin is warm, inside she's soft and wet. Her face... I cant picture her face.

I could have died, just then. He talked some more, I didn't care, the sale was made. One way or another, I'd never grind again.

***

That walk home wasn't easy.Though I just woke up, I couldn't wait to sleep.

Vic is waiting on my bed, a blurry apparition of memory.

"You're not gonna take that job."

I collapse on the bed, the night is loud, but I leave my window open: it's raining and I like it.

She's nestled in the sheets. I roll over to face her, and pull them in close: between my thighs, against my chest. I close my eyes, and try to remember what she smelled like.

"I gotta take the chance. If they can fix my Net, I gotta try."

"They're using you, you've seen it before. Anyways you cant be fixed. You haven't been yourself in ages."

"I haven't been myself in ages."

I say the words aloud.

And then,

"Do you think it was the drugs? You know, that did us?"

I open my eyes, she's on the window now, mouth agape and a vacant stare. A cigarette hangs limp, stuck to her chapped lips. Her skin is asphalt black, cracked and dry, there are track marks on her arm.

"Did what?"

I watch her face transform. She's got devils horns, now she's a black cat purring.

"Nothing I guess."

I light a smoke myself.

"Bull, get real. I was never gonna stay, we spent some time together and it was the best part of your life. There's nothing else to it, you're just filling in the blanks."

She's scowling, I think. Its fuzzy. I could really use a drink.

"But you've got a lotta life left left to live..."

"Unless I take this job".

I say the words aloud. It's not funny but I laugh.

She does have a point- it wasn't just the drugs. Now that she mentions it, I don't even think she was black.

How about that drink...

2. Money

"Bull?"

She's swimming now, deep undersea.

"Bull, that you? Come here."

Her eyes are obsidian black, pupils dilated and unfocused; under a cloudy film, the black accepts no light. It's like staring out a window into space.

"Come here, baby, let me touch you."

She thinks shes reaching out. She rocks in place, melts into the bed. I can't stand it.

"Your move."

Oh, trust me, I'm getting there.

"Bull! Actions on you."

Damn.

I'm at a game...

***

...And it's big. The whole casino's empty. A couple cameras, and big money on the table.

Too much money, I shouldn't be here.

"Clock."

I look down, King-Nine suited. Not great, not bad. The dealer's staring at me.

"Anytime now, Bull."

That's my cue. My heart is racing.

"Raise."

I shove some chips forward. Not enough to scare the money, but enough to scare me. Across the table, Money thinks.

"You check raise me, huh? Maybe I'm trapped."

I'm stone cold nothing. Dealer's sweating bricks though, good thing Money doesn't notice.

"I'm all in." He's smiling. What an idiot.

"Call."

All the chips are in the middle. We show our cards. He's got pocket Aces, I've got King-Nine suited.

"Jesus, pal! I'd a felt guilty, but you deserve it. Callin' all in with King-Nine."

He's not wrong. Any other game, any other hand, I'd deserve it. I try to look nervous.

He shakes his head.

"Well, I'm feeling christian. What's say we run it a few times."

We could, but then I'd lose. I sigh, mull it over, count to two.

Then, like a street samurai embracing death:

"No. Let's run it once."

He nods gravely, motions the dealer.


It's a bold move, and I've gotta sell it. Under normal circumstances, what I just did was crazy. King-Nine versus pocket Aces preflop: its financial suicide. When all's said and done, my odds are less than fifteen percent.

For me to even have a chance, the flop would have to be something nuts like...

"Queen, Jack, Ten. Rainbow board."

Money isn't smiling anymore.

Sloppy, dealer, sloppy. You gotta space it out man, make him sweat. Too late now, whole thing's a bust.

"C'mon... King!"

Oh my God. He totally bought it.

"Gimme a king, dealer. A king, or a boat!"

Nothing's coming, that's the point.

Brick on the turn, brick on the river. King-Nine wins. Money can't look away .

I take a deep breath, start stacking my chips. There's enough here to buy a slave.

"Rebuy, sir?"

Dealer's hands are shaking. He's way too young for this, what was Sol thinking.

But Money grabs his wallet. He doesn't care, that's how it goes: Money's money. He-

He's frowning. At the dealer.

"Just a minute, now. Something ain't right."

We're dead.

3. Bridgeport

Life in Bridgeport was slow, long, and full of nothing.

At dawn I'd sweep the floors and fluff the pillows, and try to fight the stench of the Thames. Outside, fishmongers mongered fish.

The people there had no faces: I said their names and knew them not. By day I'd make few memories, at night I'd dream no dreams.

And I got older, and Bridgeport stayed the same.

Now it's time to leave, I hear the city calling.

Say my name.

"Victoria".

She's above me now, suture, mask, and bored concern.

"What day is it?"

"What... day is it."

A sterile hand yanks at my arm, tapping, officious faces huddle over me. I yank back: something pops, a patient monitor blinks in protest.

"Try not to move." "Delta waves at naught point 2. Reset."

The room is lurid white. I smell fish.

"Say your name."

***

Vicky's legs are trembling, head thrown back and moaning. Her skin is slick with sweat, a heavy musk of sex and... and fish.

I hear the river Thames.

Her legs give out, she claws my chest and gasps "Delta one, neurofeedback loop"

***

Say your name.

"Vic- oh God!"

I'm dying. Hot blood like an insult leaves me, I'm getting cold. Sol's kid, what was his name, Paul? Paul's got a hole in his head, his brains and blood are feeding dirt.

His eyes snap up to meet me.

"Action's on you."

***

My spirit floats in space, propelled by the inertia afforded it when my soul left.

I'm trying to remember. To track my soul by the trajectory of that spirit. An asteroid collides, the trajectory changes.

Boom.

Now I'm trying to be myself, but I can't remember how.

Boom.

If nothing is ever created or destroyed, how is this a tragedy?

Boom.

I am a million souls, lost a million years ago, ten years ago. Yesterday.

Boom.

It doesn't matter, I can't remember.

Say my name.

***

"Bull".

I say the name aloud, I don't know why.

The doctor sighs, relieved. My monitor is steady.

"Easy now, Duchess' boy".

The doctor, Victoria, Paul, Sol, Bull sticks a needle in my arm.

4. Bull

The modern world is upside down: the water flows uphill, the rivers are dry yet harvest is plentiful.

And in a burning pit below- the furious, mindless mob churns against the winds of trade: fear, greed, hope, doubt- our grind moves the world.

And all it takes to make it stop is to agree it doesn't exist.

But I want it to exist. I want to be rich.

"Would that be all sir?" A waiter hovers over me, worry setting in.

I've been sitting in the Ocean cafe for three hours.

I have no money on me, but I manage three full meals before the staff catches on- I'm not even hungry. Now they're getting nervous, I chug eight ounces of 1977 Gould Campbell.

"I'm waiting for a friend."

***

I don't remember much, not much is worth remembering.

I grew up here, I think- partied like an animal and thawed out in my thirties. Now I twitch, I'm balding early, and my head's fried like an egg.

But I'm really good at poker, that's my in.

See, I'm fortunate enough to live in a time of great economic turmoil.

They call this one the big one, the book of revelations- but nothing ever ends. Someone's always making money, things always settle into place.

Of course there are casualties, pension loss and suicides, the Gods themselves might change- but nothing is ever created or destroyed, only transferred.

That's where I come in.

Years ago you might have called me a Grinder, when poker was a noble, boring sport. Now its closer to a gladiatorial arena: decadent sponsors host bread and games, while they still have money to waste.

Its a national spectacle, a microcosm of the American dream: face me on the felt, bring all you've got, and if you're good and lucky, you'll walk away rich.

Except that isn't true. Cause we're not playing poker.

You're probably playing what you think is poker: two hole cards, against 5 community; best combo of 5; your hand vs your opponent's; your edge determined by your ability to hide your emotions and detect theirs. You think you're reading me.

You're not playing poker. I'm playing poker.

I'm not even looking at your face. I'm trying to remember how often you've folded on the river after three successive bets; your preflop ratio of calls vs raises. I'm looking inward, calculating the equity of my hand against your range; I'm looking at the board, quick pot odds and stack to pot ratios. Fold equity, implied odds, your effective stack of 100 big blinds, topped with some fat chips you bagged off the roulette table. Don't tell me your name, I know who you are: you're 60% VPIP with a 10% PFR. You're meat.

It's a good time to be poor. Everybody's poor, and poor men like to gamble; it's enough to make a living.

But I don't want make a living. I want to be rich.

***

I'm hiding in a dumpster.

Cops prowl the street outside, halt the cabs and block the roads. They even check a limo.

I never really got that, why don't they check the dumpsters? If I need to dine and dash I probably don't own a car.

Now it's starting to kick in, and I can hear my blood. Sol's shit is always prime; I kind of feel like God.

I probably could take those cops, but I choose to wait it out. I've got an evening tryst with Vic, and I want to look my best.