The Electric Woman: A Memoir in Death-Defying Acts(98)
Jack is a boss here, owns a bunch of the games, and just bought a house with his lady, he tells us. “You know why I love having kids?” he asks. “Because I get to watch cartoons and not have anybody look at me funny. Like Madagascar. It’s so good. Madagascar 2 is even better than Madagascar 1. You know why? Because it’s in the circus. You fucks should like that,” he says, offering Spif a cheers.
They begin a new game of poker. There’s another guy at the table with a suitcase full of money. People hand him bills, and he hands them chips for the poker game. The marine with the spiderweb tattoo deals the cards, and I stay close to Lola, quietly chatting with her so it won’t look like we don’t want to talk to anyone, but keeping my ear to the conversation at all times, both fascinated and nervous about what I might hear. This is about as far from my childhood’s twirling women with armpit hair as I can get.
Someone starts talking about a ride malfunction at the last spot they played, and the man holding the briefcase slips Jack something under the table and the guy with the wide plastic-frame glasses says, “Hey, man. I saw that. You passing cards here?”
People get quiet.
“No, fucko,” Jack says. “I dropped my card and he handed it back to me.”
Another guy at the table stands up, and he’s huge and hovering above the game, and he starts pacing. A young pale guy beside him with rotting teeth and two fat pockets of eye gunk says, “This is supposed to be a clean game, don’t worry, man,” and he’s trying to pat the big pacing guy on the arm as he passes, but the arm is just past his fingertip range. “It’s cool, man,” he says, pawing at the air.
The pile of chips in the center of the table is big. “Keep playing,” Jack says to the other guys in the game, and they do, adding their bets or dropping out as they go around the table. “Sit down, brother,” Jack says to the pacing guy. His tone is very even, but strong. That he is a boss here seems very, very clear.
“He passing you cards?” the pacing man asks, and the air seems to tighten as jaws clench all around. Eyes move sharply between Jack, who does not move from his seat, and the standing guy. The young guy keeps reaching out and trying to touch the angry man, but still can’t make contact.
“Sit. Down,” Jack says to the man. “Ante up or get out.”
The angry man looks down at his shoes. Shakes his head. All the faces are turned toward him, Lola’s and Spif’s and mine as well, waiting to see if this will grow into a brawl we’ll need to leave quickly. He calculates.
“All right. Fuck. Okay,” he says, sitting back down.
“Rat crew won’t cheat their own,” Jack says, offering a shark’s grin all around the table.
“Yeah,” the man says.
Jack shows his hand. “See, man?” he says. “I don’t have shit. I was just bluffing. Chill out,” he says, laughing, slapping the guy on the back.
The man in the thick-frame glasses wins and collects the pot.
“The thing is, man,” Jack says, leaning back a bit to include us in what he’s saying, “I used to have a lot of hate for a lot of different kinds of people. Like that. If some fuck tried to call me out, I’d teach him a lesson. A lot of hate. I did some bad things to them. Y’all know about that already.” A few guys laugh. “But now I just don’t have hate for anybody anymore. I love everyone. Everybody.”
He pulls a T-shirt from a bag beside him and puts it on, covering up his jersey, and hiding the white power tattoo, along with most of the swastikas. With some of those hidden, what becomes clear is the huge cross surrounded by wings tattooed across the back of his neck. I’m not sure how much he’s saying for our benefit—if he cares about us being there at all—but he does seem to want everyone here to have a good time.
“I’m just a love man,” he says. “A love man trying to look good. You think I look good?” he asks, turning to face Lola.
She shifts in her seat, fake laughs once, and takes a sip of beer.
“Thought so,” he says. “You know what I need, though? What’s the freshest? A purple leisure suit. I’m serious. All purple, with one of those white Kangol hats and white shoes. Everything else all gold. Maybe a tie. That’s what I’m gonna buy next. After my next come-up.”
“That would be tight,” Spif says, buying more chips. I try not to think about how each week I watch him get a draw on his next pay period before the week comes, how I hear him complain about child support for his baby daughter. Because it isn’t my business. Not at all.
“Gonna get this fuck to come work for us next summer,” Jack says, nodding toward Spif.
“Straight flush,” Spif says at the end of the next game, throwing down his hand.
“Almost, man,” Jack says, laying his cards down. “Royal flush. Tough shit,” he says, pulling the pile of chips toward him. “But here, brother. Take these, and stay in the game,” he says, sliding a few chips over to Spif. “Always stay in the game.”
*
“We have with us today the Pain-Proof Man,” I say for the sixth time that morning, about a minute into the bed of nails act, after I’ve explained how sharp the nails are, how I’ve personally filed them to painful points. I don’t realize I’m saying anything at all, don’t even notice I’m onstage in front of an audience until a small girl, ten or eleven years old, in the front row shouts.