Cribbage

“Fifteen for two.”

I took my back peg and leap-frogged the leading peg two holes.

“A ha!” she said. “Twenty for two.”

Horse’s ass. She always has my number.

We played out the hands and took our points. Once again, with a cute sort of victory smirk, she had won. The notches under the board were favoring her by a couple, although it was clear that on occasion of a victory for me, I was skunking her rotten. Take that as you may.

It was my deal last so she dealt the first hand of the next game. If you happen to leave the cribbage arena, a.k.a. the table, stool, or any other varietal of surfaces on which a game of cribbage might be enjoyed, for any length of time, the deal is dead and you must re-cut for it. I wasn’t going anywhere. I needed a “W” for the sake of my ego.

And so it began. While pegging the first hand I smote her Jack with a Jack of my own and drew first blood. Although this is generally a moment to briefly relish, my shack of confidence was quickly toppled when she counted her two hands and gained a 16 point early advantage. But ah! Determination ever present I shuffled fluidly and doled out the cards, certain, without a shred of evidence, that I had given her the worst kind of garbage. My own hand was looking swell and bolstered by the cut 8 of hearts, I felt keen to the task.

She played a 7 and I countered with an 8, taking two holes and praying she’d bite the bait. She did, and after playing her own 8 and taking her measly two I made my move.

“31 for eight!” I exclaimed, dispelling the last of the 8’s and advancing my little green soldier accordingly.

We counted our hands and I found myself in the lead by a considerable margin despite my previous lollygagging. But oh! The whims of the cruel goddess of cribbage are not to be trifled with! She takes you for a ride as she pleases and leaves you up, then down, then mired in disrepair, your best friend a 5 for which she’ll give you no 10’s! No, this deity is not to be underestimated, with her constant bedfellows Luck and Skill, neither of which she prefers.

A few more hands were played out and I retained my lead. I was determined not to stall out in the home stretch as had been my peculiar curse since my days of European cribbage had begun. But my headstrong woman, ever the competitor, was giving me fits. Seemingly finding diamonds in a salt mine she threw down for a quick 18 pointer and was just like that, nipping at my heels; and in the driver’s seat, no less!

It was her crib and it was not only a time for action, but a time for prudence. I carefully selected the cards I would give her.

“Feed my sheep,” she egged me on, tapping her fingers on the crib cards in a cribbage move made popular by my cribbage-dominating father.

“I hope your sheep have an appetite for arsenic,” was my reply. I deposited a 4 and a Queen and got down to business.

We pegged and counted our hands. My lead was still safe but both of us being less than ten holes from the finish, and my rival to count her hand first on the next round, I was concerned about my odds. She had clearly been trained too well.

I shuffled and shuffled and shuffled some more in an effort to appease that cribbage goddess and curry her favor. I knew the deck held a hand in it that was absolute rubbish and it was this hand, which once given to my opponent, that would spell my victory. I held my breath and dealt the cards. Funambulating, we each put in to the crib. The deck was cut and up came a 5! Great graciousness but what a time for that! If she had anything in her hand at all, she must certainly have a ten!

I could feel the pangs of defeat, once again, as we pegged our way through the hand and she, revealing her previously meaningless Jack-Queen-King run of three, came within four holes of the finish. It was her count and it was her game. Frustration led me from the table, where I left my bruised and salted ego for another time and another game.

An Apartment Dinner Scenario

I sipped whiskey for the first time in well over a month abroad. It slid, like napalm, through my innards. I was staring out our new window and admiring the view and feeling rather European about the whole situation; except for the whiskey. Whiskey always takes me home.

“What should we do about dinner?” I said, pouring another drink.

“What should we do? I told you to eat earlier at babcia’s. I’m not hungry.”

I grunted and shuffled through the fridge locating the kielbasa behind the bread and taking the bread as well. I fished in the breadbox for an onion and smartly sliced it. I sent the butter into the pan with the charge of frying the bread, kielbasa, and onion. As the pan began heating up the smell was permeating the apartment and my clothing and her clothing too. God, she hates that brand of smell on her clothing. I was ready for an issue to develop and took a strong pull of the whiskey. I could swear someone cut the whiskey with vodka. Maybe I’ve been drinking too much vodka.

“Can you shut the kitchen door?” I heard from the other room.

“Of course; you sure you don’t want any?”

“Uh huhh.”

I smiled and mixed my sputtering dinner pushing the door closed with the side of my foot. I turned the bread, now toast, with a fork and mixed the onions and sausage around. I was certain that bread, or potatoes, accompanied by onions and sausage were a king’s meal. I felt like a thief in a royal kitchen and had another whiskey to celebrate.

Our floor boards were old and worn and creaked when walked upon. The whole place has a feel of history to it and you could almost pretend you were watching 1940’s Poland from the warped and scarred windows. I chewed on that thought and on my food as well, taking special delight in the fried toast. Cleaving it with knife and fork, I admired my own cleverness.

The rugs were well worn too and threadbare at spots on the edges. I could imagine the many pounds of dust that had been ground into the fabric and knew that it could never all be removed. They were one and the same now, the dust’s soft gray history and the fibers of the rug. The rich smell of onions, butter, and kielbasa had recently joined that parade although I suspected it was not the first time.

I tidied up the kitchen and sucked down the dregs of my glass. I stood looking out the window, engaging my mind’s eye in a European exercise. I imagined the summer and I imagined teaching. I finished the bottle and read a few pages of Twain’s Connecticut Yankee. Now there’s a guy who’s got it together, thought I.

I sighed and climbed the stairs to the loft where my lady laid waiting.