Stud

Septimus S. Schwartz looked all around him as he scurried from his car to the door. He was convinced that someone was watching, that someone was plotting against him, even now. There is no way that anyone could know, but he still felt the piercing of others’ eyes boring into his skull. Even when he couldn’t see anyone at all.

He kept his coat close around him, hands clenched in his pockets in his mad dash for the apartment. Many of his neighbors were out in the hall, as the mail carrier had just delivered their social security checks. There was already wagering going on, and from what he heard, and the vast amount of cat food the cat-less Mr. Murphy brought home in the later half of each month, the high stakes card games were just about to start. He had heard that some folks never even cashed their checks; they just signed them right over at morning’s light.

One might think that 2 weeks of eating Friskies (by the box, not the fancy, expensive canned stuff—would be a lesson in restraint, but it doesn’t appear so. Each month it was the same old crunchy story.

Except this month, he ran right into it just before the evening’s festivities got under way. The last thing he wanted was a boatload of seniors watching his every move tonight. Damn. He should pay more attention to when the checks come out and the corresponding craziness of the seniors. In addition, it was a full moon tonight, which meant double the fun. May as well call the ambulance now, as someone is bound to choke on their teeth at the very least.

Someone was taking odds that Mrs. Simone will snarf down Mr. Pudgele’s nitro pills again—she can’t see for crap and keeps mistaking them for Mikes & Ikes, despite the pill bottle. Mrs. Simone even bet on herself eating the nitro. Once she’s downed a few of those, the muumuu comes off and that usually ends the party. Especially for the ambulance people. There’s no way they get paid nearly enough to carry ancient, 400 pound, naked, hallucinating ladies down 4 flights of stairs.

Septimus realized that the seniors, of whom he wasn’t nearly one, were his best defense. Now that he had finally bit the bullet, and was carrying the priceless package around, he found comfort and safety in their ranks. As long as Mrs. Muller didn’t try to feel him up, no one would know what he had. And they would both be safe for the night. No one would think to look for him amidst a poker-playing, feeding-frenzy of Metamucil popping, horny seniors. They were the best camouflage ever and he would have to keep that in mind for future reference.

He stopped through his apartment to lose his coat, and put the package somewhere that no one but Mrs. Muller would think to look. If she felt for it there, well, she might have a heart attack, and if she didn’t, she would never stop leering or groping him. However, she wouldn’t risk sharing her prize, so she wouldn’t mention it to anyone.

He got his quarters out and a few bills, grabbed a coke and headed out to the poker table. He soon found out that these folks played hardball and that they would not coddle the inexperienced youth. He had been around, had played the tables in Vegas plenty, but that did not prepare him for the viciousness that was the senior’s tour. The first table was $20 a hand. He had to go get more money, and as he didn’t have a social security check to hand over, he had to use cold, hard cash.

When he lost his initial stake of $200, he started auctioning items from his apartment, as he could not afford the risk of going back out, especially at night. His nightlights sold for the most money. They were hot commodities. Ditto the magnifying glass, the fuzzy slippers and robe that was not yet ensconced in old-lady-smell. His books didn’t sell, just a few for paperweights. They kept asking if he wanted to sell his teeth, not grasping, no matter how much he told them, and then showed them, that they were still attached to his body. No one wanted his brush, comb or any other personal hygiene products. He had eyeglasses, those magnifiers you can get in the drugstore; those bought him some extra time at the table.

The card sharks played him like a marlin. They hunted as a group and never missed an opportunity to rip a chunk out of him. You might think that peer pressure would have faded by the time folks are 90, but they knew how to pour it on. Poor Septimus, only forty years their junior, could not believe that he could lose, nor that they could be so bloodthirsty. It became a mob, and progressed to a hungry mob.

In order to score one more hand, one that he was sure he could win, he handed over his keys and they had his freezer cleaned out in no time. Mrs. Shufler could eat ice cream by the gallon without teeth to slow her down. He lost again. There was nothing left, but the clothes on his back and his favorite Jackson Browne CD, Lawyers in Love. He decided to part with the clothes first, forgetting his package. He just could not part with the album, it brought back memories of such happy times. They wanted the clothes more anyway, as they had been washed in the past year and weren’t yet threadbare.

They stripped him down in order to give him one last chance and he began to wonder if Meow Mix was better than 9-Lives. He realized that he may find out.

It was his last chance, last hand. They had discovered the package (and had all done way too much groping in the process). He was now playing for his wife. If he lost this hand of five-card-stud, then they would have a runoff to see whom he won. If one could call that winning. They had placed the ring in with the ante and were chanting--a freakish sound that scared him more than anything he had ever heard. He crossed his fingers as his cards were dealt. Everything else was already crossed. He peeked. Jack-high.

He knew it was over, knew he had lost everything. Then a voice in his head, a voice borne of a thousand generations of survivors spoke to him. He lunged for the ring in the middle of the table and did the only logical thing left to do- he swallowed it. He was too quick for them, by the time they realized what he had done, it was on its way down.

He began to gag, softly at first and then with feeling. The seniors watched curiously. They called dibs on who got to dig the ring out of his throat after he was done. As he lay on his back, still not believing this could be his fate, he saw the large mirror over the table. It all made sense. Maybe it wasn’t the voice of a thousand generations of survivors after all.

He clutched the broken CD case tighter.

Copyright 2007 Antigone Lett. All rights reserved. This material may not be published, broadcast, rewritten or redistributed.