Game
The cards arrived with the third bottle of wine.
‘Fraid we’re on the cheap stuff,’ said James, seemingly having undone another shirt button on his return from the kitchen. He proffered a New Zealand Sauvignon that retailed at under £10.
‘What shall we play?’
‘Let the new one decide.’
Andy froze, as the whole table looked at him.
‘Oh,’ he said, playing with the remnants of his lamb, ‘we could play Gin Rummy?’
‘And how does one play that?’
Andy had named the only card game he was aware of, apart from poker, but poker had felt too obvious, like if someone had asked him his favourite hobby and he’d replied, ‘the cinema’. In fact, that exact event had occurred earlier in the evening, and he had decided to proclaim an aptitude at horse-riding, despite having never even mounted a stirrup. While he continued an endless ramble about a fictional horse named Jessica, who he’d known from foal to glue, he’d felt his partner’s eyes resting on him, preparing several disapproving questions for the taxi home. Everyone was looking at him, but Joan was watching him, and every crenelation of his mouth as he tried to explain the rules of a game he was entirely unfamiliar with.
‘I think when you have one card of every suit you shout Rummy!’
An awful minute followed where the other guests attempted to seem enthusiastic about Andy’s version.
‘How many cards do we start with?’ James asked, beginning a smooth riffle shuffle.
‘Well, how many have you got?’
‘A standard pack of 52,’ the host replied, with a slight glance toward the cards, as if ensuring the validity of the information.
‘Oh, in that case, 5 cards each. At least.’
‘Or we could play Porters.’
‘What, Trinity Porters?’
‘Why not?’
This was Morgan’s suggestion. She carried a distinct authority at the table, achieved through a discerning, European glamour that could occasionally morph into outright ferocity. Andy had struggled most with her. Her every expression suggested disdain, except when she laughed, and he was yet to make her laugh.
‘Andy won’t know the rules to Trinity Porters,’ said Rupert, who permanently sounded like he was speaking after a long yawn, ‘why don’t we just sack off cards and play a talking game?’
‘Like what? Never Have I Ever?’
‘Precisely. Never Have I Ever given head at the Atheneum.’
Rupert looked to Joan, who smiled coyly and took a long drink of wine.
‘No, no, that won’t do,’ Faye said, rather forcefully, ‘we already know all our worst stories!’
‘Andy can pick it up. Are you a quick study, Andy?’
Morgan had a way of asking questions that made it clear only one answer would be satisfactory.
‘Yes, I’m sure I’ll get it, once we get going.’
This was good enough for James, who started dealing. The game was of the group’s invention, having been bred in idle afternoons at a favourite drinking spot, a leafy pub that looked over the River Cam. There, the gang had devised the rules, in part as a tribute to their college porter, an unfortunate looking man who took his job very seriously and would bark instructions at them through his remaining front teeth.
‘So the full name is The Trinity Porter’s Quest for Dentures,’ James explained.
‘Yes, who came up with that?’
‘That was Joany, surely,’
‘No, that was mine,’ Faye said, ‘I remember it because when I came up with it you all fell about laughing!’
‘The rules are simple,’ James continued, ‘firstly, you may only communicate in the voice of our dearly departed friend Gary-’
‘Gary the Porter,’
‘Yes, Gary the Porter, who spoke with a kind of cockney lisp.’
James began to adopt this particular voice, creating a sprinkler effect as white spittle started churning from the back of his throat.
‘We all start with bad teeth, do you see?’
‘Then,’ Rupert took over, ‘you have to bid for treatments, surgeries, etc.’
‘And you bid with pairs,’ Faye rushed in, ‘so it’s about who has the best pair,’
‘Only you can bluff! That’s the crucial thing-’
Faye and Rupert were now in a verbal tug-of-war.
‘I was getting to that!’
‘So, say James starts by bidding a pair of eights-’
‘No, but, first, Andy, there’s an auction. A dentistry auction. And the dealer names the item for sale-’
‘It goes like this,’ Morgan cut through placidly, ‘James will name an item. The auction then begins. You can name a pair in your hand. Or you can bluff. If you’re caught bluffing, you lose and must forfeit your best cards. Then the gabble moves right, and we start again. Clear?’
Andy nodded timidly, and then the cards were dealt. He finished his drink and realised that his knees were shaking. It was a sensation that drew him back to sitting exams in the school gymnasium, his thighs feeling both like an overflowing water tank and a charged electric fence. Only now, he was not in a vast, sickly green auditorium, but in a tastefully set out white room, at a large table that looked more apt for hosting woodworking tutorials than dinner parties.
‘Joany was telling us that you make pillows for dogs.’
It dawned on Andy that this question – or rather this statement – was meant for him. He had drifted out of the conversation, briefly taken in by a baroque painting that hung opposite, depicting what looked like a frightened man being devoured by grey matter.
‘Me? Dog pillows? Well, yes-’
He caught Joan’s stare again. This time it was more tired than inquisitive.
‘Only they’re not really pillows, and they’re not for dogs.’
‘Ok, so what are they, and who are they for?’
‘He makes bespoke beds and bedding for household pets, with an emphasis on rabbits,’ Joan said quickly. She sighed and picked up her hand. Andy rifled through his own and found the majority to be clubs, which always looked like the ugly sister of the playing card family, with his top draw being two black sixes. He arranged them at the front of the pack, doing all he could to elevate the timorous pair’s status. Then the game began.
‘First round, we auction one gold tooth,” James said, still impersonating the dead porter. Nobody said a word. At the edge of the table, Rupert frowned at his collection, selected a pair, shook his head, then returned it to the set. Finally, Faye spoke.
‘Pair of threes.’
‘Going once. Going twice-’
‘Two sixes,’ Andy exclaimed, and laid his best hand on the table. Joan kicked him in the shins.
‘It’s a game of bluff,’ she hissed.
‘Shit.’ He flipped the cards round, hiding the sixes’ shame, revealing instead the printed impression of several pink skulls dancing around a roulette wheel.
‘Going once. Going twice. Sold!’
They applauded as Andy mimed his acceptance of the gold tooth. He sat back as the next round was played; this time the item for sale was a complimentary trip to the local hygienist, funded, for some reason, by Lockheed Martin. Morgan was now the auctioneer, and Faye and James went at it for the prize.
‘Notice,’ Joan whispered, ‘that they’re both starting low.’ Andy reviewed his remaining cards. A stray red eight was now the brightest thing in his armoury, flanked by the five of spades, which, in a sign of its own redundancy, was starting to fold in at the edges.
‘Two nines!’ said Faye proudly, as Morgan attempted to conclude the bidding.
‘No. You lie.’ James pronounced the accusation with the surety of a fictional sleuth. It sent ripples down the table. Faye was so put out she smothered the pair to her chest.
‘You accuse me?’
‘The woman does not have two nines on her person.’
Hands banged against the wooden surface in a slow beat that rapidly accelerated. Faye’s expression revealed all before she turned the cards over. She couldn’t hide the childlike smirk that emerges when a fib is thoroughly exposed. A two and a four slid across the table.
‘James, you’re a terrible bastard.’
‘Faye, you’re a terrible liar.’
It turned to Rupert to officiate the next round. His laconic tones strained a little under the weight of the false accent; his attempt at sounding cockney sent his voice up three octaves. As he proposed the next item – mouthwash that slayed plaque like acid – he sounded more like a seal signalling their distress.
‘Now hold on,’ said James, ‘I need Faye’s best pair,’
‘A gentleman usually pays for such things,’
‘Come on love, cough up.’
Faye reluctantly handed over the goods to her antagonist, who whistled with satisfaction at the unknown reward. Then, to Andy’s surprise, James shifted towards him and knelt at his side.
‘I’m deferring my prize to Andy: my new best friend.’
‘Why on earth would you do that?’ said Morgan.
‘He has chutzpah. And also, I kept rabbits as a child.’
The host fanned out the pair for Andy’s eyes only; two jacks, one heart, one diamond, with both knights adorned in the same chivalrous blue silk cape.
‘Consider this my endorsement’. James winked at Andy. He squared his hand then lay two cards on the table, before returning to his chair. There was something undeniable about him; he had the ability to transfer a little of his own charisma onto whoever he was addressing, rendering everyone his partner in crime. Were he a magician, he might be able to convince his subjects that they really did carry coins behind their ears.
‘Who wants the mouth wash?’ said Rupert, in the dying seal’s last breaths.
‘Two fives,’ from Joan.
‘Two tens,’ from Morgan.
‘Two jacks!’
Andy felt a godlike surge within him as he smacked the two cards onto the table. It was such a forceful gesture that it caused his plate to jump an inch towards Joan.
‘Sorry,’ Andy said, ‘but I really would like that mouthwash.’
‘Going once... going twice-’
‘Bullshit.’
He was being challenged by Morgan, who stared him down with such fierce judgement he found himself quivering, despite being certain he was innocent of the charge.
‘But, well, James just gave them to me.’
‘Then let’s see them.’
Andy laughed as he revealed the gifted pair. It was an ugly kind of laugh, the kind one usually associates with adolescents who are yet to know themselves, where a gurgle morphs into a squeak. He laughed again when he looked down at the table and saw that Morgan was indeed correct. Laid before him was a two and a three. He had been swindled. He looked to James, who raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Joan gestured for Andy to sit down.
‘It’s a game of bluff.’
‘So who takes that one then?’ asked Rupert.
‘Me,’ announced Morgan, ‘and I win Andy’s best cards too.’
He was oddly affected by parting with the eight and the five. It conjured scenes from a war film, of a general watching his two best soldiers get left behind. Andy had such plans for both of them, but now they were under Morgan’s command. She tapped her long red nails against their backs, then examined them properly.
‘You can’t be serious?’
The question rankled with Andy on a deeper level. He’d spent many afternoons of his adult life devising precisely how he could become a more serious person. His most recent solution to this quandary was to greet every morning with unsalted porridge and a recording of Brahms.
‘Sorry?’
‘These are your best cards?’
‘Yes.’
‘Andy’s not a threat, then.’
‘That or he’s lying,’ offered James.
‘I would never lie.’
‘You are supposed to be lying,’ said Faye, in the tone a teacher uses to admonish a child for playing with scissors. It was her turn as the auctioneer, and she proved quite Vaudevillian in her take on the role.
‘Lot number 004, Invisalign, the whole package, paid for in full by the Institute of Economic Affairs.’
‘Don’t bring the IEA into this,’ said Rupert, ‘they paid for our kitchen.’
‘And remember, everyone has to bid on this round.’
‘Everyone?’ asked Andy, in barely concealed incredulity.
‘Everyone.’
What was left in his hand went beyond meagre; that was always the way for Andy in this kind of game, from the moment the cards were shuffled, it seemed a basic elemental force did not fancy his chance of winning so dealt him the offcuts.
‘I bid two fours,’
‘Three fours,’
‘We can do triples?’ Andy said.
‘We can do what we like,’
‘Three fives,’
‘Three nines,’
‘Two tens and a big kiss.’
‘Andy?’
‘Oh…’
Some internal mechanism was preventing Andy from lying. Perhaps it was the knowledge that it was a doomed venture anyway, or perhaps it was a genuine sense that he should play the game with greater integrity than everyone else at the table, and that would be enough to shield him from a loss.
‘I’m… empty, I’m afraid.’
‘Empty?’
Joan was trying to mouth something at him. He realised she was saying “come on”, but not in an encouraging way.
‘Andy,’ James said, in a patrician tone, ‘you must bid something.’
He scrambled around in his mind for a suitable alternative. Briefly, desperately, he considered offering his belt. It was made of synthetic leather and was beginning to rust around the buckle, but, on the positive side, his trousers would likely stay put without its additional support. The problem would be removing it without appearing as if he were initiating an erotic dance.
‘I could tell you a joke,’ he said.
‘Oh I love jokes,’ Faye replied, ‘please tell me a funny joke.’
Joan poured herself another glass of wine. In a moment of frenzy, Andy raced through a dozen doctor’s offices, stone-faced barmen and unknown visitors at unsuspecting doorways. He felt certain that it would not be the right time to try anything too blue.
‘Two TV aerials meet on a roof, they fall in love, they get married. The reception was bad, but the ceremony was brilliant.’
Five shared frowns. Andy’s mouth was dry.
‘Sorry. Other way around. The ceremony was bad, but the reception-’
‘Yes,’ James began gently, ‘yes I imagine it was.’
‘So, James won that round then?’
‘Yes. Quite resoundingly,’ Morgan said.
‘Who gets the big kiss then?’ asked Faye, and then she winked at her host.
‘I don’t want to be that guy,’ said Rupert, ‘but should Andy not have to lose something? Given he bid a funny joke.’
It was obvious the room was in favour of this motion, as an expectant pause fell on Andy, and he found himself instinctively moving a hand towards his belt buckle. If he judged the motion well enough, the item could be removed in one swift gesture while keeping his pelvis out of view.
‘What are you doing?’ Joan whispered.
‘Think I’ll give them this,’ Andy said, and attempted the removal. A calculation involving angles must have been misjudged, as the belt only half came off, part of it becoming wedged beneath his posterior. He lifted from his chair to dislodge it further and accidentally slammed his crotch into the table.
‘We don’t want your belt’, said Morgan. Andy nodded and quickly reassembled the garment.
‘No, what should happen is this: James should give the big kiss to Joany.’
‘How would that work,’ Andy sputtered.
‘Their two mouths would lock together-’
‘No, how is that me losing something?’
‘Well, she is your girlfriend, isn’t she?’
‘What do you say, Joany?’ said James, fiddling idly with one of his shirt buttons.
‘It is the game, I’m afraid,’ she replied.
‘Is it?’ asked Andy, ‘is it the game?’
He could feel his face flush red. His cheeks were hot and fuzzy.
‘Not everyone gets the hang of porters straight away,’ said Rupert, gesturing diplomatically to the table, ‘but, that being said, if Andy is so incensed then clearly it does apply as “a loss”’.
James rose and leaned over the table. Joan kicked Andy in the shin again.
‘Smile,’ she hissed, ‘you have to smile.’ Then she stood and gave their host a peck on the lips, and then their three old College friends fell about laughing.
‘I see,’ said Andy, ‘I’m getting the hang of this game now.’
‘Next time,’ James replied, ‘the loss will be far greater.’
And so, the final round began, with Joan taking the helm, instructing the room to start bidding for a spangling, sparkling white pair of veneers.
‘Turkey teeth,’ she said, ‘with chin implants thrown in as an extra bonus.’
‘Paid for by whom?’
‘Exxon Mobil’.
Thus launched the last auction. Everyone but Andy had a trick up their sleave. Rupert dozily summoned two queens, which Faye more than matched with a pair of kings. Morgan chuckled before announcing she had two aces, and, as an extra feather in her cap, she’d been dealt the pair with the prettiest individual designs. Their host, who had sat back in this initial furore, sprang forward to declare he had trumped them all.
‘Mathematically impossible,’ said Rupert.
‘I have two Kings, and two Aces, and three Jacks.’
‘And how is that better than what Morgan has?’ asked Andy, finding himself to be out of breath.
‘Were it Texas Hold’Em, I could rinse the table with that hand,’
‘But we’re playing Porters, not poker,’
‘We’re always playing poker to some degree.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Andy said, the words tumbling out of him, feeling like he had been kicked in the stomach, ‘I don’t understand this game at all.’
‘You have to bid something,’ Joan said, ‘That or you’ll lose-’
‘Lose what?’
‘Best not to find out.’
‘But I don’t have anything,’ he protested, and threw over the last embers of his hand; a few spare clubs littered the table, hopeless in their infant solitude.
‘Can’t you see,’ pleaded Andy, ‘can’t you see I’m all out of options?!’
‘Out of options? No, I won’t hear that!’
‘You could sing us a song!’
‘Give us your favourite Shakespeare sonnet-’
‘Or your favourite stanza of Wordsworth-’
‘No, that’s too easy,’
‘James is right, he should do it in reverse-’
‘Or,’ said Faye excitedly, ‘he could finish his wine glass by lapping it up like a cat-’
‘Or a rabbit!’
‘Yes, be one of your rabbit friends and hop about while getting mad drunk!’
‘Oh I see,’ Andy said, the volume of his interjection cutting through the noise of the table, ‘I see, I see what the game is, it’s like that, is it? Pin the tail on the moron, is that what we’re playing? Make an ass of the new guy, ok, let’s play that version, shall we?’
He got up, leaning over the table, adrenaline crowding into his shoulders and making his torso shake with anger, looking at each of the assembled guests like he might eat them. He grabbed the bottle of wine, lifted it above his head, and poured the remains down his throat. Once empty, he felt the wet patches of his t-shirt then took it off, wringing it like a damp cloth and catching the falling droplets with his tongue. The room watched him in silence.
‘What now?’ he continued, the lack of reply only further conducting his rage, ‘should I crawl around on the floor? Should I suck off Rupert the sad war poet? Should I eat goat’s cheese off of Morgan’s feet?’
It was as if he were yelling into a vacuum. Finally, Joan reached out a hand and pulled him back into his seat. Andy caught his breath back, and, with every other diner glancing only at their empty plates, he quietly put his shirt back on. He was out of words, out of all feeling. In a moment or two, shame would take the place of impulse, and there was a risk he might not speak again.
‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ he murmured.
Joan shook her head. Andy looked into her eyes and saw an absence. She sighed.
‘I keep telling you,’ she said, ‘it’s a game of bluff.’