Cribbage, Grog, and the South Side of Fear
Just as the housesitting was coming to a peaceful and tranquil end, things turned weird. I had made everyone in the neighborhood nervous and it was catching up to me in strange ways. There wasn’t much I could do; my hands were tied. I had to go along for the ride. My parents reputation was at stake.
The neighbors were taking notice of some strange behavior coming from our house over the last few days. Their was a huge cache of empty liquor bottles beginning to pile up in the front lawn. Along with about thirty zip-lock bags that held the dogs morning deposits, and some of my darker t-shirts, it was beginning to look like the devils playground. The missus was drying our towels on an outdoor close line in a wind-chill of less than -14 degrees. One neighbor was so disturbed by this he threatened her with a snow blower while removing dry snow off his driveway. Things were beginning to look bad and smell worse. I had to keep my parents name in good standing in this tiny community just west of the great Como Lake.
When one of our nervous neighbors came over to check on us, I quickly invited him in and made rapid and polite conversation. I offered him some Grog and we got down to playing a game of cribbage. That calmed him a bit. His deal was that he hated Saddam Hussein and had lost his job recently. He was working part-time now but his new boss was worried about the whole Iraq “war thing” and wouldn’t hire him full-time until something was figured out. Something final. We’ll call my new neighbor “Steve”.
Steve is a full blooded Minnesota Warrior and took well to both the Grog and the cribbage. His politics were not welcomed however and that made the mood very edgy. But I had the upper hand in so many ways. You see, Steve was a man looking to fill huge gaps of time. He talked a lot about his dog, which was a magnificent great dane — a horse really — three times the size of our own dog. She made impossibly loud guttural Wookie noises anytime she saw us. She was the kind of dog that you immediately feared but for no good reason. She was sweet.
Steve mentioned that to fill his time he had begun playing cribbage in a South Saint Paul Bar League and was looking for a substitute for Thursday night. I wasn’t immediately warm to the idea of leaving the comfort of my fort for a night of cards, gambling, and booze — hell, I can do that here I thought — but I could tell the missus was in need of a break from my constant pacing and manic behavior for one night, so I conceded to help Steve out with his problem. Again, I had to think of my parents. I was a professional housesitter here. I couldn’t let them down. So I agreed. I’m sure he could tell from our quick game that I was a commanding player. I was more than a substitute. I was a ringer.
Thursday night came and we set out with another friend of Steve’s — Randy, who owned the Dairy Queen that was just up the road on Larpentuer. Everyone admired Randy because he only had to work nine months of the year and was said to gross over $150,000 after taxes from the revenues of Blizzards and Dilly Bars. It was a “good business”, Randy said, “I like ice cream quite a bit”.
After getting humorously lost in South Saint Paul we fell upon our first destination. Marv’s Corral and Bar. Marv’s was our dinner spot. You don’t dare hit a long night of cribbage and boozing on an empty stomach. Marv’s was unlike any bar I had been to in the Twin Cities. I both loved and feared it. It was straight up Wild West; I felt like I had traveled back in time. Marv, the proprietor was a huge, mean, and ugly German. There wasn’t anybody at the bar that looked under fifty. These were serious people with deadly agendas. There were cribbage boards on tables inside and I thought of warming up with a couple of quick hands but I was told that those boards were for two other teams playing in the league that night. I was advised very strongly not to touch them. I headed it. I was on foreign ground — out of my element. I had lost my upper hand. Besides, Marv had guns on the wall behind the bar — older relics, but a sign above the bar that read “We Don’t Dial 911”, made me think some of those pistols still shot true. It was probably the fear of the guns that made me break a life long vow of vegetarianism right then and there. In hindsight…I still don’t have any. All I know was that the force to gnaw on raw meat was so much more than simple peer pressure. The pull was galactic. I couldn’t escape. Before we even arrived at Marv’s my compatriots were talking large about the Burgers and fried onions that Marv served up. I paid little attention and thought only about the chance of booze and perhaps a side order of fries that might get me by. When we arrived and I saw what I was up against, I was able to take no comfort in a menu that offered the following items: hamburgers, cheeseburgers, and hot dogs. And so, without even thinking, when I was offered the choice, “you want a burger or a cheeseburger?”, I said – Cheeseburger. And just like that — a decade of carne avoidance — ended in a pathetic and scared last stand. But it was no time to take stock of my moral failures. I had more immediate concerns, namely, that this burger was going rip through my stomach (or visa versa) something awful. Coming to grips with my weakening spinal cord would have to wait. I knew this day would come and I was prepared.
I ate the burger, self medicating myself as much as possible for what I thought would be a bad night of toilet trips. But we were having a good time. Again, the talk had turned to politics and I bit my burger instead of biting my lip. A drunk Native American hooker, who had been dancing around the bar, trying to find some work, accidently elbowed me hard in the back of my head. I shot out of my chair and turned to my assailant thinking I was being attacked. She grabbed me and apologized, “I am sooooooo surrrry. Ha!. Woww…how tall ar’ ya?” Still sore from the blow, I knew where this was going and turned quickly so she was smiling only at the back of my head. The talk at the table got back to hoping the war would start in the next day or two. I could see that Steve had drawn a permanent straight line between his unemployment and Saddam. The PR engine in Washington was doing a fucking amazing job.
We left Marv’s full of animal and drink and headed straight up some winding hill to our cribbage destination. We were the ‘away team’ tonight and we were heading to the Polish National Alliance Club (the Pee-En-Eh). I knew things were bad when we pulled onto a residential street and found that PNA was no more than a big house with both a Polish and POW flag flying proudly in the lawn. The club was in the basement. That’s where PNA lodge 1033 got things done on a Thursday night. It was a huge basement horribly lit with fluorescence. The walls were covered with old lodge charters, flags, plagues, photos, and other assorted gimcrack. It was an alarming site. On a small jukebox, the anthem, “Poland is Not Lost” was playing at high volumes.
The tables were all set up with boards, cards and booze. I met the rest of my team. Apparently, we were the rogue team of the league and had been operating for quite some time without a bar or lodge sponsor. But our luck had changed and as of last week we had a new sponsor – the Mississippi Bar, which, I of course had never heard of. “Ohhh the Mississippi Bar…nice place”, was the common response when people learned of our new backer. I’m told it’s next to the strip club — The King of Diamonds. So it must be classy.
We got down to the cribbage and more drinking. My partner was Laura, an 86 year old mother of three, grandmother of eight, and great grandmother of six. She was sharp as a tack. A damn good cribbage player and a beautiful drinker. Laura has been married for 55 years, That floors me. I raised my glass at least 10 times to that. It’s almost twice as long as I’ve been alive. Think about it man. Wow.
Our start was good and I was winning all kinds of weird beaded necklaces every-time I got a hand of 16 or more. At the beginning that was often. The betting was moderate. Our opponents were all of good Polish stock. They were fierce, heavy drinkers and sharp cribbage players. They were settled and witty. They were working men and women. Their fingers were the size of sausages and twice as big as mine. They all had short, one syllable names: Bob, Dan, Ed, Jud, Deb, Lee, Joan. In the end Laura and I ended up splitting our winnings. We went five for ten. But the last game is a haze of polish drinking music, brass cribbage pegs and plastic green beads. I don’t recall if I played well or cheated.
In the end, my stomach behaved — or, at least it was distracted. I didn’t have any problems. I was returned home late and the liquor bottles in the yard had mysteriously been picked up or removed. The dog shit was still there though. I’m glad the housesitting is coming to an end. It’s a full time job, Jack!
