Dead Man’s Hand

The accompanying twangs of a certain song paired with his looking at the array of poker tables at Cymax Stores to jar his memory. So long ago, but the memory was so poignant it rushed back with a decided clarity and weight...

It had been a cold and blustery night, par for early February in rural Wyoming. The snow was not falling, but rogue flakes swirled in the air disturbed from their drifts by the intermittent gusts. Nothing projected to be extraordinary as he pulled his pickup off the interstate into the parking lot of yet another non-descript roadside bar. The old Chevy protested its misaligned timing belt as it sputtered to a halt while he made his way to the door.

His opening it coincided with a powerful surge of wind. The frigid blast roared into the dimly lit room, disturbing the single smoke-yellowed chandelier on the high ceiling enough to make his entry as noticeable as it could be for the small handful of inhabitants. Peanut husks crunched beneath his feet as he sauntered to the counter, and it was just then that the strained notes of a tack piano raced from the far wall to seemingly take him back in time.

Perhaps he had dismissed the sign outside that read “Newell’s Saloon” as novelty too soon. This place was something straight out of the Wild West; the walls were bare save a few similarly nicotine-stained oil paintings and a single wood stove tucked into a far corner was approaching a smolder. Only two tables were occupied, and the ones that weren’t featured long-dried spills and dusty bohemian stemware that suggested the place hadn’t had so much as a once-over in months. A number of disinterested can-can girls and you would have thought it was a slow weeknight in an early 19^th century boomtown.

He approached the suspendered and bespectacled barkeep wondering if his ordering a scotch would have him be presented with a bottle of rotgut. The man seemed to look at him vacuously as he continued to wipe over a snifter that was as clean as it was going to get considering the bar rag in his hands. Sure enough, he was presented with a muddy-toned glass bottle and a single glass and not so much as a word from the keep. Not quite firewater, but it carried quite a roughly distilled taste that was strangely agreeable on such a cold evening.

It was as he turned from the bar that the moment found its zenith. The two seated patrons were as far apart in demeanor as were their tables. One gruff sort tapped his heavy boot on the floor, surprisingly in time with the distinctive tune considering the near empty bottle in front of him belied the stupor making it increasingly difficult to keep his head up. The other rugged character appeared as fully cognizant, despite an equally depleted bottle at his side as well. His piercing eyes stood out on his bearded face and had an ominous quality beneath the brim of his black hat.

He sat at a table that was emphatically similar to the Northwoods Billiards Log Poker Table that was now staring back at him onscreen all these years later, a beautifully rustic piece that was now all to fitting considering the retro-sensory old world overload that had been the last few minutes. Log-hewn and suitably unfinished, it had an immediate presence that grew out of its weathered bulk and the number of cigarette burns along its edges. The nostalgic value this poker table took on from his memory made it impossible for him not to be drawn to the “Add to Cart” icon at the right side of the page...

There was something about this character and the moment as a whole that beckoned him towards the table without so much as a word being spoken. The man merely nodded, lit a cigarette and drained his half-full glass before cutting the cards methodically. The meek piano man finished his tune and shuffled off into a back room hurriedly and the interlude made clear the wind had picked up as it bullied the window panes. The silence was broken temporarily as the drunkard’s head thudded to the table, but as the first card flew from the man’s hands heavy footsteps could be heard approaching the door. He waited to turn over his cards, and upon doing so read them clearly - aces and eights.

Time to go