I came downstairs this morning to find Sneakers dealing what was apparently another round of cards in what was apparently a bridge game that was apparently interrupted by bouts of rose-snacking. I know this for a fact because just as I hit the bottom stair I heard Galoshes call, "You can't trump me!" and when I turned the corner I noted that Slippers was lying on her back and downing rose petals much the same way you or I would chow down on a bag of jujubes or heavily salted popcorn. Her lips were bright pink and her purring could be heard all the way across the street at the corner store (more on that another day).
I decided to sit there quietly for a few minutes, incognito as it were, as I had not yet before seen them all together like this over a card game. Other things, yes -- skiing, snow boarding, all the water sports, and of course the winter sled team, but never at a table in an attitude reminiscent of those awful velvet paintings. I don't know much about the trump games, either, and I have a hellish memory for cards that have already gone before my eyes in any given game. Mind you, after watching that bunch I'm not sure I figured out anything.
They seemed more preoccupied with social niceties than with actual learning. Sneakers, in fact, was dootied up in his silk bathrobe, reminding me a little of a portlier Orson Welles, and oh my god -- the cigar smoke! (And all this at eight o'clock in the morning. No doubt this was a holdover game.) He kept belching into his lapel, then grinning maliciously at Galoshes, who was himself quite a spectacle, his goggles draped around his neck like Howard Hughes and his back legs up on the table -- crossed. I don't typically think of Galoshes as arrogant, but I have to tell you, he cut quite a pose there at the dining room table.
"You can't trump me, I said!" he said, at which point Boots squished up his triangular face (and I can't even repeat who he reminded me of) and hurled an epithet or two toward his partner.
"Do you even know the rules of this game?" asked Boots (which were the exact words I had in my own head), at which moment Ralph interrupted, "Let's be adults about this, shall we, and get on with the game."
I could hear that he intended this as a command, too, not as a question.
Slippers rolled over beneath the arching baby's breath, practically cooing, and Galoshes yelled at her: "Haven't you any sense of decorum?" and Sneakers, who had by now gone into the kitchen and come back out again, carrying one of those bowls from the 1960s meant for chips and chip dip in which he had somehow concocted an Orange Bavarian Cream, shouted, "Heads up!" and I had no idea what he meant until I peeked through the rungs of the stair railing and saw a mittful of mandarin flying over the poker chips (do you need poker chips for trump games? I asked myself) landing in Galoshes' lap.
"Quit picking on me, all of you!" Galoshes yelled back, "and let's get on with the game."
Heavy smoke filled the air, and I coughed quietly into the sleeve of my nightgown and missed half of what Sneakers was saying -- something about synthesis, whereupon Boots roared, "For gawd's sakes -- are we going to have to sit through another dialectic diatribe from you? Thesis. Antithesis. Synthesis. Who bloody cares? I'd be happy if someone at this table knew how to play this game properly, and to hell with philosophy!"
Ralph interjected, "Speaking of philosophy, how do you feel about being written about? I had a look at one of the short stories which she claims is for the baby, but you know as well as I do that there are other venues and other babies and yeah, sure, it might be that this is all intended for a modest audience, but you know how those things go."
"I, for one, certainly do." Boots hissed spit as he spoke. "I have been the subject -- or should I say victim? -- of some of her other so-called work, and it's none too pleasant being depicted as an anal retentive bore."
"If the catheter fits," muttered Galoshes, and Slippers sat upright, several shiny petals falling from her tiny mouth. "I think you mean enema bag," she said, and Boots hissed again. "Whatever," he said. "Whose deal?"
I sat there, my arm going numb from leaning into the railing, wondering why they seemed so angry with me and why I hadn't shaved my legs in so long. Hadn't I done my best for them? Had I not taken them in off the streets when no one else wanted them? Wasn't I timely with food and water and treats? Hadn't they slept on my face for all these years?
God knows what I had had to sacrifice in the wake of their dilemmas, and yet, clearly, they didn't seem to care. I tried not to feel hurt; to understand that here in the early morning they, at the very least, were spongy tired and likely hungover (fully aware as I was of Sneakers' penchant for brandy and Ralph's longstanding [and some would say kindred] relationship with Austrian beer).
The next thing I knew one of them had leaned over and had turned on the stereo and they were humming along to Carly Simon's song about the Carter family -- and then I found I missed her... mor-or-or-ore...than I'd ever have guessed -- and I peeked through the bars and saw Boots chucking Ralph under the chin and Sneakers handing a cigar to Galoshes. "She's not so bad," Boots said, and I thought, "Ah, there's synchronicity for you," and I looked again and saw that Slippers had lain back down under the roses and seemed to be counting the remaining petals.
The dog, apparently, slept through the whole thing.
<:^)
[Archived] Tuesday, December 22
Posted by Jennifer Coffey at 9:38 AM
Labels: Puzzles and Games
