Lucky Guy

One

Jesse interrupted her morning routine, toothbrush in hand and minty foam on lips, to give Matt grief about going down to Atlantic City for a weekend of poker.

“I expect better from you,” she said, although given his commitment to becoming a professional gambler it was hard to understand how she could have expected anything different.

“It’s sort of an add-on, after I see Apá,” Matt explained. “After Sofia and I meet the social worker.”

“Which should be over by noon,” she said. “I’d rather you come home.”

He couldn’t meet her eyes. “Going to the casino is what I do now, like you going to work.”

“I go to work to earn money, not to lose it.” She shoved the toothbrush back in and retreated to the bathroom, closing the door with enough emphasis to make Matt wince.

When she came down the hallway, buttoning her coat, Matt was on the living room couch in the thin grey sweatpants and faded red Phillies tee shirt that served as his favorite pajamas. Coffee in his favorite old Crystal Cave souvenir mug was propped on his knee.

“I gotta go see my dad,” he said, as if that was the controversy.

“Not relevant. I’m glad you’re visiting him, though, it’s the right thing to do.”

“You’re dressed nice.”

“Thank you, also not relevant.” She grabbed her bag from the kitchen table. “I’m worried about the money running out.”

“I know. But I’m lucky about this stuff. Something will break my way, it always does.”

“You persevere until something good happens, which is not the same as being lucky.”

“Perseverance is an outstanding character trait.”

She sighed. “The way it has to work, the rewards need to be a lot more than the time and effort invested.”

“I can’t win all the time,” he said. “There’s ups and downs, but my luck always comes through.”

“Matt, if you were smarter about things, you wouldn’t get into fixes in the first place,” she said, hand tight on the banister. “Then you wouldn’t need to be lucky.”

“But I am lucky.”

“You make a lot of poor decisions and hope it will work out.”

“And it does work out,” he said. “Usually.”

“We can’t stay here on my salary alone.”

“I know.”

“It’s a pleasant apartment and I like it. I don’t want to move.”

“I enjoy living here too.”

“We need to be responsible and think about the future.”

“I know.”

“You’re nearly thirty years old; it’s time you got your act together.”

“And become like you?”

That startled her. “What’s wrong with me?”

“You’ve changed with this job. Now you use words like purview and how you agree with something one hundred and ten percent.”

“What’s wrong with that?”

“You can’t agree one hundred and ten percent, one hundred is the highest you can go.”

“It’s a phrase, Matt. You’re being too literal again.”

She left.

Her exit was abrupt, in his opinion. He stood in the empty living room, grateful for the quiet. Unclenching his hands, he focused on breathing, his eyes closed. These confrontations were stressful, exhausting, and made him feel a little outside of his body. He needed to drink a glass of water and have something to eat.

Jesse was a lovely person, and he appreciated that. She was smart, and fun when she wasn’t so worried. Sometimes when he looked at her, he wanted to kiss her for hours, or eat her whole, or squeeze her in his arms forever under a starry summer night sky. But lately she was killing his vibe.

Keeping Jesse happy and their relationship intact was one of his two major life goals. She was the most important person in his life, more important than his sister. He felt tethered to her and should that line ever break he was afraid he’d spin out into space, never to find his way back. The other goal was to make a living playing poker. In his daydreams those goals dovetailed, he and Jesse traveling the country as he played high-stakes tournaments, meeting interesting people. It would be an ultra-cool existence.

Unfortunately, he had nearly burned through his gambling stake. He and Jesse had agreed that once it was gone, he would give up the poker career. Of course, when he made that deal, he didn’t think he’d ever run out of cash. He anticipated a boulevard of green lights leading to consistent triumph at the tables.

That wasn’t how things worked out.

Becoming a successful gambler was going to take longer than expected. Now his immediate need was to find enough funding to keep going. He had to stay in the game long enough for his luck to turn. Unless he had an exceptional idea, however, or the courage to openly betray his promise to Jesse, he would need to give up on his dream. He would have to admit he was a failure.

It was a source of considerable pain that his lack of accomplishment at the poker table threatened the sanctity of his relationship. He feared if he didn’t start winning soon, she would be exasperated and throw him out. If he took money from the remaining inheritance, breaking his promise, she would be furious and throw him out. He wouldn’t have enough time to turn his poker fortunes around unless he increased his stake, and the best way to increase his stake was the thing that would upset Jesse the most.

He quickly downed half a glass of water and thought about how badly he was in a bind.

He made himself toast with butter and jam, along with plain Greek yogurt topped with a little honey. Another cup of coffee. He showered and handpicked his clothing: jeans, black Nike Air Forces, a chocolate henley sweater over a performance tee. Topped by an olive field jacket, a denim ball cap, and sunglasses he liked, knockoffs of Ray-Ban Clubmasters. He thought of this look as his poker uniform: cool guy on the weekend with a touch of business casual, not intimidating, quite forgettable. The idea was to be unnoticeable until he stealthily emerged as the big winner.

Other players made a statement with their clothes. Some dressed with flair, such as sequined jackets and bold-colored cravats, to distract opponents. Some dressed like Latvian assassins in bad spy movies, all black leather and sunglasses, hoping to intimidate. Some looked like they were attending a Halloween party: the faux cowboy in the ten-gallon hat, the babe in the tight top and overstuffed bra, the bro in the hoodie and backward ballcap, the accountant in tie and glasses, the goofball in the sports jersey and earphones. That sort of thing wasn’t for Matt. He didn’t have the knack for performance, and he didn’t like attention.

He packed his overnight bag, put on his hat and jacket, and looked at himself in the mirror. Not bad, he thought. He headed out to embrace his day.

On the agenda was a reluctant last visit with his dying father.

Two

There were twenty or so miles between Tohickon in northern Bucks County, where he lived, and the town where he grew up, Norristown, the seat of Montgomery County, crouched on the eastern bank of the Schuylkill River. The landscape between those towns used to be an undulating plain of farms, mostly corn and dairy cows and horses out to pasture, with the occasional orchard. Now condos and apartment complexes much like his own cluttered the view, along with gas stations to feed the cars, fast-food chains to feed the people, and big box stores to feed the lifestyle.

He thought about the argument with Jesse all the way down, replaying it in his mind. Intimate conversations didn’t come easy for him, especially if they involved conflict. He tended to overlook, or misunderstand, important moments. Particularly things that were assumed or left unsaid.

Matt entered Norristown at the northeast corner, made his way down Markley Street past his old neighborhood, past his grade school, and on to the river. The town looked shabby; it had been in disrepair for a long time. Even with the train and the nearby expressway for commuting into Philadelphia, and old mansions ripe for renovation that could be had for a song, it had resisted gentrification. Investors had gone elsewhere. A population of about thirty-six thousand people, with nearly twenty percent of them living below the poverty line.

He pulled into the three-story garage that bordered the northern edge of one of the few areas of redevelopment. It was a mix of new businesses and an apartment building, sitting on a long, narrow strip between the river and the railroad tracks. The land was once occupied by breweries, garment and cigar factories, and metal works, when Norristown and the much smaller Bridgeport across the river were thriving business centers. That was all long gone.

The sun was out and strong, and the day was quickly warming, so Matt left his jacket and cap in the car. He crossed the small plaza to Riverside Care, a new, sleek medical facility. His older sister Sofia put their father into palliative care there, after that last stroke sent him into a coma he never came out of. Since Apá still lived in Norristown she thought friends might visit. No one came, as far as Matt and Sofia could tell, and they concluded he no longer had friends, which was sad but not surprising considering the kind of man he had become at the end. He had a sister somewhere in New York State, but she couldn’t be bothered to make the trip. When it was clear to everyone he was past the point of no return they moved him to hospice.

Matt did not want to be there. He would have preferred not seeing his father at all, and he found hospitals simultaneously chaotic and dreary. But Sofia said the appointment with the social worker was important, and he had to come.

A sign in the lobby stated the facility was part of the Schuylkill Health System Medical Group, whatever that was. The place appeared modern and clean, but visitors always saw the best sides of hospitals. When he entered the hospice wing, however, it was like stepping into a different world. Soft carpeting with a tasteful abstract design. Color-coordinated, cushioned furniture, and curtains framing the windows. It was quiet as an abandoned church. All of this was for the benefit of grieving relatives; the patients were beyond caring about carpet pile size.

The reception desk wasn’t some dented steel thing, but a wooden structure the color of autumn. Behind the desk sat a young woman far prettier than necessary. She appeared calm and sympathetic, but Matt thought he saw lines around her eyes and mouth, a tenseness to her jaw. Maybe sharing space with those a step away from heaven wasn’t such an easy gig. She warned him his father was unconscious, sedated, and wouldn’t hear him or even know he visited.

He nodded with what he thought was appropriate deferential sadness, crossed the floor to the room, and hesitated a beat before entering. Enrique Martinez, known as Apá to Matt and Sofia as well as to some of his friends and most of his employees, was on his back, blanket to his chin. His eyes were closed, his lips parted. Tubes entered him in several places. He looked thinner and frailer than the last time Matt had seen him. An old man in a coma waiting for his body to completely give out.

“Hi, asshole,” said Matt.

For a few minutes Matt sat in a chair and looked at his father. There was a period when Matt had loved and idolized him, Apá the restaurant owner and family man who had space for Matt, had taught him golf and stole time from the restaurant to attend all the games when Matt played pee-wee football. Those early years were the good ones.

Enrique had always been a heavy smoker. While Matt never witnessed it as a kid there was also a lot of drinking. In later years, when people told him the stories they kept from him when he was younger, Matt heard about his father getting drunk at the restaurant, his philandering, his scuffles with men who got on his nerves. But that was his outside life, away from home.

When Matt’s mother passed away, however, his father let the demons take control. There were a few periods of tentative sobriety, when Apá was in and out of Alcoholics Anonymous. Other than that, the tobacco and bourbon carved a convenient path for the diseases that put him down, rendering him the quietly wheezing, shrunken simulacrum in the bed.

“I arrived early,” said Matt. “Sofia will be here soon. I wanted to spend a little alone time with you. For a proper goodbye.”

He closed the door to the room. He paused and sighed. He took out a folded piece of paper on which he had written notes about what he wanted to say, so he didn’t forget anything.

“Do you remember the last big fight we had?” Matt asked. “You accused me of trying to sabotage your business, though you couldn’t say sabotage, you were too drunk, I thought you were saying ‘cabbage.’ I laughed at you, which was mean, I admit. You slapped me. Then you threw me out of the house, but I was already on my way because that slap was the final insult I was going to tolerate.”

Matt put his right hand on his left forearm and squeezed. Physical repetition calmed him. He referred to his notepaper and started again.

“So I left. Then I found out you told everyone I was a terrible son, a backstabber. You said I was the reason your restaurant was failing after all those successful years. Not your lousy attitude, not your drinking, not your abuse of the staff. Somehow it was my fault. You thought I wouldn’t know, but I heard.”

Matt paused and looked at the floor, then back at his father.

“All this time has gone, and we’ve never talked about it. Now we never will. All I can do is tell you what a piece of shit you became, and how disappointed I am in you.”

He watched the old man’s face, his closed eyelids, and the fingers of his exposed hand, for some gesture, some sign that he was conscious enough to have heard, but there was nothing.

The receptionist knocked on the door, and stuck her head in. “Your sister is here. She asked me to let you know.”