Chapter One “Brilliant, just brilliant. You stupid overgrown apes.” Stan screamed at the television set. “Louder Stan, I don’t think they could hear you.” Jack taunted. “These guys are not only going to cost me twenty-five hundred dollars, but they are forcing me to watch possibly the worst game in history.” “I’m sure it would have been a much better game to watch if you had bet the Giants.” “Screw you Jack.” “Hey, don’t get pissed at me, I told you not to bet on the Eagles. Besides, if you can’t afford it why do you keep betting so much money?” “Because it’s only money, that’s why. What really sucks is the fact that I wasted three hours waiting for this to turn into a game so I could get a little bit of my money’s worth. Shit, I need to figure out how I’m going to pay Freddie this week and pay my mortgage as well.” “I can loan you again, Stan, if you need it.” “Naw, I’ll figure it out. I already owe you three or four thousand anyway.” “Five, but who’s counting?” “Five? Are you sure? Damn. Yeah I guess it is five, don’t worry Jack I’ll get it back to you soon.” “I’m not worrying Stanley.” “Thanks Jack. Hey, I’m gonna go. I’ll call you tomorrow about going to the game next Saturday. Say good-bye to your lovely wife.” “Don’t forget your coat, I hung it up in the closet. No way you’d think of looking for it there.” “I got it. See ya Jack.” “Drive safe Stanley.” Stan got in his car and drove home. He obsessed about his latest loss and schemed for ways to delay payment to Freddie. Freddie had been Stan’s bookie for years and knew every scam there was, but he would wait for the payment just the same. Stan spent the rest of the night swearing to himself that he was done gambling. The half-hearted debate finally dissipated and sleep knocked him out. He woke up on the couch with the television running replays of great championship games from the sixties. Stan got up and made his way to the bedroom where he fell back asleep in his bed. Chapter Two “Come in and have a seat Jenkins.” Stan looked up from his stack of papers, glasses on the tip of his nose and he motioned with a twitching index finger for Jenkins to hurry and sit down. “So what is it Jenkins, you can see I have a lot to do.” “Well, Mr. Wright, George Thompson in shipping said I should talk to you. It’s about an order that did not get sent on time to Masters Inc.” “Are the parts ready to ship?” “Yes, they’ve been ready since yesterday.” “So why didn’t they ship? What’s the problem here? “Well, sir, I…” “That’s all Jenkins, go back and tell Thompson to drive the God damn parts to Masters himself. And shut the door on your way out.” Stan put his head down and began writing on the legal notepad. He wrote for a few moments and then realized the door was still open. He raised his head and glared at Jenkins. “Jenkins, why are you still here? Was I unclear about something? Do you need me to give you directions to shipping?” “No sir, it’s just that, well, we can’t find the parts.” “What do you mean we can’t find the parts? Didn’t you just tell me they have been ready since yesterday?” “Yes, sir, they were ready to ship yesterday. But this morning we could not find them. We have scoured every inch of the warehouses, the docks, and the production floor and there is no sign of them.” “Jesus Christ Jenkins, pallets of product don’t just disappear. Have Thompson review the security tapes from last night and I want you to personally interview anyone that worked yesterday or this morning for clues to where these parts may be. What does the purchaser at Masters know?” “Nothing. I told him I would find out what happened and we would get him the parts.” “Good Jenkins, never panic to the customer. Now get out there and find those parts. And close the door when you leave, I still have a lot to get done.” This time Jenkins stood up and walked out of Stan’s office. Stan pulled out a piece of paper from the bottom of one of his piles and began to study it intently. He had work to do; he wasn’t lying about that. He needed to do important research. After this week, he would be done, he just needed one more week to make his come back. “Mr. Wright, there’s a call for you on line six, a Mr. Jackson from the Mayor’s office”, a voice filled the silent room from the telephone speaker. “Take a message, Shirley and hold all my calls for the next hour.” “What if it’s Mr. Deltoff, should I interrupt you?” “No. No calls at all.” “OK, Mr. Wright, whatever you say.” Stan tapped the “do not disturb” button on his phone and mumbled something about no respect for people’s privacy, then got back to work. He was so engrossed in his analysis of the upcoming weekend’s football games he missed the first three knocks on his door. The fourth knock he heard. He looked at the clock on his desk; an hour had passed. He opened the top drawer, threw the notebook in and slammed the drawer shut, then shouted, “come in.” The door opened slowly and Jenkins walked in. “I’m sorry to disturb you Mr. Wright but I thought you’d like to know we found the pallets.” “The pallets, what pallets are you talking about Jenkins?” “You know the pallets for Masters Inc, they were loaded on the wrong truck by third shift and showed up at another customer.” “Yes, yes, Masters. Well is that it Jenkins?” “Um, yes sir, that’s it, I just thought you’d like to know we solved it.” “You solved it, and you did not need to involve me, I hope you learned a lesson here. Did you learn anything from this Jenkins?” “What do you mean, sir?” “Nothing Jenkins, nothing. Close the door on your way out.” Jenkins turned to walk out when Stan stopped him. “Jenkins, you used to live in Philadelphia, what do you know about the Eagles?” “The eagles, sir?” Jenkins asked. “The Philadelphia Eagles. Are you a fan?” “Oh the Philadelphia Eagles, sure I guess. Why do you ask?” “What do you think there chances are this week against Chicago? Philadelphia’s defense has been gelling, at least until last week, and Chicago seems to be losing momentum, but I just can’t seem to bring myself to take the Eagles and give eleven points.” Jenkins said nothing. He stared at the man who always talked down to him, the man who never asked for his opinion, the man who until moments ago had never spoke about his gambling to a direct report, and now he wanted to know what he, Steve Jenkins, thought about a football game. Stan felt the awkward glare and realized his mistake. Stan said, “I guess you don’t follow football, forgive me,” he paused then added, “that’s all Jenkins”. Jenkins turned and walked out of the office with a strange feeling of contentment. Stan let out a deep breath after Jenkins had gone and stared at his piles of paperwork. He thought about finishing his analysis of the games, but decided to go through his unopened mail instead. Most pieces he threw away without opening. One envelope with no return address caught his eye. At the bottom right corner was a small dollar sign and a tiny football. His curiosity got the best of him and he opened it. Inside there was a white slip of paper with nothing but the following: UCLA –6 Michigan State +16 NY Giants +4 Green Bay Packers +8 Philadelphia Eagles –11 Stan flipped the paper over but the other side was blank. There was no logo, no name, not even a Dear Stan, just the names of the teams and the exact spreads on each game. “Is this some kind of joke?” Stan said out loud to his empty office. He picked up the phone and dialed. “Hello, Freedman and Associates, may I help you?” greeted a voice on the other end of the line. “Hey Mary, is Jack in, I really need to speak with him,” Stan asked. “Hold on Mr. Wright I’ll see if he is available.” Stan stared at the list as he waited. This had to be a Jack Freedman prank. “Hello Stan, this better be important, Mary just interrupted my meeting with the bank. The bastards want to renegotiate my line of credit terms because my payables have got too high. I keep telling them it’s only a problem if I pay. Not one even cracked a smile, no sense of humor those bank boys. OK, what’s up Stanley?” “Jack what’s with the list?” Stan asked. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about Stan, but if they raise my interest by more than a quarter point I’m holding you personally responsible.” Jack responded. “C’mon Jack, are you telling me you had nothing to do with the envelope I received today? The plain envelope with the plain letter listing five football picks for this weekend?” “I swear I have no idea what you are talking about. I think you’ve finally hit rock bottom. God damn it’s about time too, maybe now you’ll go get some help.” “So this is not one of your tricks?” Stan asked again. “Nope. What are the picks? I could use some help for this weekend,” Jack laughed. “Jack, I swear if I find out this is…” Stan started. “Stanley I swear on my mothers grave, I did not send any list.” “But your mother’s still alive.” “That doesn’t prove a thing. Hey I gotta go buddy, and really, I did not send you that list.” “OK. Well, good luck with the bankers. Talk to you later.” Stan said and hung up. Stan studied the picks. A debate began in his head. “What if all these are winners?” “Are you nuts, these are meaningless guesses. We don’t even know who they’re from.” “Maybe not but it may be the lucky break we’ve been waiting for.” “There are no lucky breaks, just another round of betting.” “What if every one hits, we’ll never forgive ourselves.” “We’ll put one hundred dollars on each game, and no more, but this is ridiculous.” “Maybe we should add a five game parlay, what are the odds on that, sixteen to one?” “They should be thirty-two to one, we’ll add a hundred dollar parlay, but that is it.” Stan always called his bookie immediately after coming to a decision. Usually the process took far more time and included much more painstaking analysis. No matter how much work went into the decision, no matter how convinced he was with his picks, the phone call always brought doubts. He never showed it and no one could tell from his manner. He dialed Freddie’s number. Freddie answered on the second ring. “Hold on, I’ll be right with you,” Freddie’s deep voice growled and then could be heard talking on another line. After twenty seconds or so, Freddie came back on the line. “Yeah, how can I help you?” “It’s the King,” Stan replied using his self-given gambling title. Then he paused. He looked at the paper with the picks, hesitated some more, then said,” UCLA giving six for a buck, Michigan State getting sixteen for a buck, the New York Giants getting four for a buck, the Packers getting eight for a buck, and the Eagles giving eleven for a buck.” “Got it. Is that all King? Seems a little light for you,” Freddie taunted. Stan gave no response and the hum of the phone made Freddie think Stan had hung up, Freddie said, “You still there King?” “Yeah, I’m here. Give me a buck parlay on the five games, as well.” “Whadja get a message from God on these games? OK King you got it. Anything else?” “Can we meet next week to settle up, unless, of course I win all of these bets.” “Sure King. Is that it?” “Yeah, that’s it Freddie.” “OK, good luck King.,” Freddie said and hung up. After hanging up Stan stared at the paper one more time, then he pressed the speaker button on his phone and buzzed Shirley, “Any calls Shirley?” “No Mr. Wright, it’s been an uneventful afternoon. Will you be taking any calls for the rest of the day?” It did not seem uneventful to Stan, but he was not going to discuss it with Shirley, “Yes, I’ll be taking calls now,” Stan answered and cut her off before she could get out any more questions. Although Stan’s behavior did not show it, he felt eerily satisfied. He was sure the bets he just placed were winners, never before had he felt like this even when he had handicapped a single game for days. Yet this silly envelope with the simple sheet of paper had some kind of hold over him. Stan began to work, but this time it was company business. He no longer felt like he had to prepare for the weekend. Although he typically bet much more, and this was going to be his last week of gambling, he was content to wait and see what happened with his picks. “Mr. Wright, sorry to interrupt but Mr Deltoff wants to see you right away. He’s in the small conference room,” Shirley said over the speakerphone. “OK Shirley, tell him I’ll be right there.” Stan straightened up the piles on his desk, picked up his day planner and a pen and started towards his office door. As he reached for the doorknob he remembered he had set the paper with the bets by his phone, so he turned and walked back to get it. It was right where he left it and a sigh of relief involuntarily exhaled from his body. He felt almost embarrassed that he reacted like this, he felt like he was a kid in school that was hiding a love note from his teacher. He slipped the bet sheet into his pocket and headed out of his office. The small conference room was furnished with a modern oval table with twelve chairs surrounding it. George Deltoff sat at the head of the far end of the table. George was a thin, balding man who wore the same company uniform he had worn since he began the company 42 years earlier. His hands were still thick and rough from the production work he never gave up. “Please shut the door and have a seat, Stan,” spoke a gentle but firm voice. Stan shut the door and then sat at the chair closest to where he stood, which was at the opposite end of the conference table. A cold tension filled the room. “Stan, how long have we worked together?” George did not wait for an answer. “It has to have been at least 15 years. Now, you know I’m no good at long speeches or playing with words, so I’m just going to say it. It’s time Stan. It’s time for us to part ways. I know you well enough that I don’t need to explain. You know all of the reasons. I have made arrangements for a fair severance package. I wish it hadn’t come to this but you have left me no choice. Please take the rest of the day to clean up your personal things. I’m sorry.” George stared at Stan for another moment or two with genuine compassion, then stood up, walked to where Stan sat, patted him on the shoulder, then opened the door and walked out. Stan did not move. He knew George better than he knew himself, so he knew it was over. There was nothing anyone could say to change George’s mind once it was set. And what would he say anyway, George was right, the time to part had come and there was no reason to fight it. Stan realized he no longer provided any value to the organization. He was surprised this had not taken place years ago. Losing all thoughts, Stan sat in the conference room alone staring at the table. He noticed the way the light seemed to sink into the black matte tabletop. He noticed the seams where the table had been glued together. He looked up and noticed the framed picture that hung at the other end of the room. Although it had been there for at least fifteen years this was the first time he had really looked at it. It was a magnified image of a bolt; an almost flawless bolt polished to perfection. Pride burst from the photograph, a pride he once understood, a pride that had oozed from him day by day until one day it was completely gone. He could not take his eyes away from it. A rap on the open door broke his trance. Stan turned to see Shirley standing outside the doorway looking like an angel. An angel; and all of these years Stan had barely been aware she existed at all. “Mr. Wright, your friend Jack is on line five, I told him you were busy but he insisted I get you,” Shirley said. “Call me Stan,” he whispered. “What did you say Mr. Wright?” “I said call me Stan,” he hesitated and then added, “please.” Shirley said nothing. She stared at him like he was possessed or insane. Stan went on, “please tell Jack I’ll have to call him later.” “OK Mr. Wright, um, I… I mean Stan,” Shirley stammered. Stan waited until Shirley had left then he took one more good look at the picture of the simple blown up bolt and finally got up and trudged back to his office. He packed up his statistic notebooks, a couple of pictures from his desk and the few other personal belongings, then he plodded out of his office for the last time. As he passed Shirley’s desk he said “ Goodbye Shirley”, and Shirley looked up surprised again and said “Goodbye – Stan.” Stan made it outside of the building avoiding eye contact with anyone then absentmindedly made his way home. Chapter Three Stan woke up Saturday morning with a slight hangover. Still, like clockwork, he got out of bed and started to follow his weekend morning routine, gathering then sorting all of his various gambling newsletters, magazines, and postcard picks. He realized he was not going to make any other bets than the ones he had placed yesterday, so in the middle of the process he stopped, got up and got dressed instead. Then he called Gloria, his ex-wife. “Hello,” a bright voice answered the phone. “Hello Gloria, it’s Stan,” Stan said in a monotone. “Hello Stan,” Gloria responded in a slower, less enthusiastic voice. There was an uncomfortable silent gap. Finally Gloria broke the silence, “Stan did you call just to hear my voice or do you have a purpose?” “I’m sorry, Gloria. I was wondering if you could meet me for breakfast?” “What day?” “Today, right now,” Stan answered. “What are you kidding, Stan? Jacob has not awakened yet and I have a lot of work that I need to get done around the house this morning. You don’t call me for over a year, then when you do call, you expect me to drop everything just to have breakfast with you. Jesus, Stan, will you ever learn to put yourself in the other person’s shoes?” “You’re right Gloria, this was a bad idea. It was nice to hear your voice.” “Wait a minute. Why do you want to have breakfast, something must be up for you to call me. Are you sick or something, do you have cancer?” Gloria asked, all of a sudden concerned. “No,” Stan laughed, “I’m not sick, I just have had a bad week, maybe a bad year and you were the only one I could think of to talk to about it. But you’re right; I had no business calling you and expecting you to drop everything to come have breakfast with me. Well take care Gloria.” “God damn you Stan, you still know how to manipulate me. You’re pissing me off but where do you want to meet?” “How about Sam’s Diner at nine o’clock?” Stan said with a note of triumph. “All right, nine o’clock at Sam’s Diner. Goodbye Stan.” “Goodbye Gloria – and thanks,” Stan replied and hung up. Stan had about an hour before he had to leave and looked for something to do to pass the time. He glanced at his piles of gambling materials, but decided he was not going to approach them. Then he noticed his stack of mail on the counter that he had not opened for days and decided to go through it. He brought a wastebasket over to the kitchen table and he sat down and started to sort through his mail. It was all standard operation until he came across an envelope with the same football and dollar sign in the lower right hand corner that he had received at the office. His heart seemed to skip a beat, his hands seemed to get clammy, and his stomach churned, he felt as anxious as when he had $2,000 riding on a hail Mary pass at the end of football game. What if this list was different? He opened the envelope and found a handwritten list of football teams and their point spreads. They were exactly the same as he had received at the office. This was comforting to him, he was aware that his body was beginning to relax and he sensed this was a good omen. Stan was not superstitious but he still believed in omens, or at least he believed in the comfort of omens. He finished going through the rest of his mail, and wrote checks for any bills he could afford to pay. When he finished it was time to go meet Gloria. Gloria was seated at a booth in the back of the diner when Stan arrived. Stan walked towards her drinking in the aroma of fresh baked muffins in the oven and greasy eggs on the grill; a distinct combination that could only be found at Sam’s Diner. The smells triggered the romantic memories of the times he had spent with Gloria here in the Diner. Their first date, it seemed three lifetimes ago to Stan, culminated in the very booth Gloria sat in this morning. The only thing he could remember was how much they laughed and the sparkle in her eyes. “Hello Gloria, thanks for coming,” Stan said and bent down to kiss her on the head. “God Damn, Stan, you look awful. Isn’t anyone taking care of you?” Gloria said. “Just me,” Stan answered and sat down. “Looks like you’re thriving though, maybe even glowing, that Jake must be one hell of a lover.” “After you anyone would seem like one hell of a lover,” Gloria shot back. “C’mon Gloria, when I was sober and there were no games on TV, I wasn’t that bad.” “Probably, but when was there a time without any games on TV, or radio for that matter. I know you didn’t call me up to discuss our old love life. To what do I really owe the honor of having breakfast with the great Stan Wright?” “I don’t know, I guess getting fired yesterday was the final wake up call and I needed to talk with someone about it.” “You were fired? By George? Jesus, Stan, you must have really done something horrendous for that to happen. George loves you, he’s protected you for years, what the hell did you do?” “It wasn’t one thing. It was the culmination of everything. I think he was spent. I think I used up all of his heavenly goodness and if he kept me around any longer he would have to join me in hell. I’m a mess.” “So what’s new, you’ve always been a mess. And you’ll always be a mess unless you quit gambling, but I’ve made this speech too many times and I know what a waste of time it is. Is that what you wanted to hear, my no more gambling speech? Please Stan, tell me there’s another reason.” “I don’t know Gloria, I really don’t know. How about we order breakfast?” “Boy, you haven’t changed a bit. When the conversation turns honest or difficult, change the subject. Stan Wright, the king of changing the subject. Christ. Order me some scrambled eggs and wheat toast. You are a piece of work.” Stan motioned to the waitress with his demanding index finger, like he did the day before with Jenkins, and she came over and took their order. Gloria watched and although it was this type of behavior she had grown to detest while living with Stan, now from a detached view she felt pity more than anything. “Stan, can I ask you a question?” Gloria asked and without waiting for the answer continued, “What really matters to you? I mean, if you died today and had to answer to God, what would your answer be?” “C’mon Gloria, you know I’m no good at answering those kinds of questions.” “You’re right I know that, but pretend for one minute that you had to answer, what would you say?” “I don’t know, I guess I’ve learned to value a good pastrami sandwich, one with hot mustard.” “Stan answer the question, it’s the least you can do since you got me to come here and leave my husband to make his own breakfast.” “Wow, a lover and a cook.” “Stan, answer the question.” Stan knew the look. “Okay, okay. Mr. God, or is it Ms.? or Mrs.?” “Stan!” “Okay, what matters to me… shit I can’t do it. I just can’t come up with anything that you are going to like.” “My God, Stan, it’s not about what I want to hear, it’s about you coming up with an honest answer, one from your own heart. C’mon Stan I want to know what the real you values, what do you care about, what is the meaning of your life?” “My life has no meaning, you know that Gloria. It’s never had any meaning. My life is just a mistake, just an errant mixture of genes that never should have had the chance to survive. It’s just been a bunch of wasted breaths.” “What about our time together? The times we spent here in high school, the times we spent vacationing in Key West, the times we spent solving problems at work, and,” she paused, “and the times we spent trying to get pregnant? Didn’t any of that have any meaning?” “Of course it did, but that’s not what I’m talking about. You were the only thing of value I ever had in my life and I blew it all on sports and gambling. Is that what you wanted to hear?” “You are the most frustrating man in the world. I told you this is not about what I want to hear. Is that how you really feel? I was something you valued?” “Of course, wasn’t that obvious?” “Are you kidding? Would you feel valued if for ten years you spent hours exercising to stay attractive, spent your free time reading about how to please your man, and learned to be a gourmet cook to vie for the attention of your husband, but no matter what you did, he spent all of his time talking with Freddie the bookie, analyzing meaningless games and watching sports on TV? You had a strange way of showing me that you valued me.” “And again we come full circle, I’m an asshole and that’s the bottom line.” “Yeah, you’re an asshole, but for some reason a lovable asshole.” Neither one said anything for a while, then Gloria broke the ice asking, “Have you thought about looking for a new job? Maybe now you can pursue your life long ambition to be a sports announcer.” Stan smiled at this comment and was going to respond, but the waitress had approached with the food and asked, “who gets the eggs?” He lost his train of thought and after that they ate in relative silence. When they were both almost done Gloria said, “Well, I guess I wasn’t as helpful as you had hoped. I’m sorry Stan. I hope you can figure this out for yourself and somehow find the life you’ve been looking for.” “No Gloria, you’re wrong. This was helpful. And I really do appreciate you coming to meet me like this. Not many ex-wives would come out for breakfast with their asshole ex-husbands. I’m going to think about what you said and if I find the answer to your question I’ll make sure you are the first to know what it is.” “Thanks Stan and thanks for breakfast. I really need to get going, can I leave the tip?” “No, no ,no I got it.” Gloria stood up and walked over to Stan and kissed him on the top of the head. She did not say anything else, just walked outside to the parking lot. Stan remained in the booth for another fifteen minutes. Then he stood up, left enough money on the table for the bill and a tip, and walked out to his car like a zombie. Like a zombie lost in thought because he just realized for the first time in his life that he was a zombie. Chapter Four By the time Stan had entered his condo, he once again decided he was going to be a new man. After this weekend, cold turkey, no more betting. He thought about not even watching the games he had bet on. This thought triggered another internal debate. “What the hell was I thinking, betting on games from an anonymous letter. How screwed up is that? What’s the matter with me?” “Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself, life is too short not to gamble every now and then. Besides maybe what we needed was to be a little less analytical in our betting, to loosen up. Betting on those games may be the best thing we could have done.” “This is bullshit, all of this rationalizing. What will I do if I win, I’ll just bet some more. I’ll bet until it’s all gone again and then I’ll bet again to try and get it back. The problem is that that is what I live for, sweating it out when I’m down to my last IOU. But what does it really matter, win or lose I’ll just keep surviving for the next high. Or even better the next low. That’s where I am most alive, most connected with whatever life force there may be. It’s the losing I crave, the deep depression that comes after a big loss. The sense that I put it all on the line and lost but I can still persist. The real me exists only at these times, only at the darkest hours.” “Stop already, you’re starting to depress me.” Stan snapped out of his episode when the phone rang. He did not answer it, but waited for his answering machine to pick up. He listened to the message as it was being recorded. “Stanley my man. The fuckers at the bank came to their senses, I told them you were another bank calling for my business! Hey are you coming over to watch the games? I gotta run some errands and won’t be back until about one, but come on over then. And bring some of those cigars we had last week if you have any left. Over and out.” It was Jack. Was Jack a good influence on him? He couldn’t decide. Jack certainly loved sports and he loved to gamble but at the same time he kept everything under control. No one was more fun to be around than Jack was. He found humor in everything, albeit a strange sort of humor. Jack also had a laissez-faire attitude that worked great for Jack, but probably was a bad influence on Stan. Stan decided that for his first day on his new course in life it would be best not to spend it with Jack. Stan spent most of the late morning and early afternoon trying to avoid anything to do with the football games. He knew Michigan State was playing the University of Michigan and the game was on TV. He had bet Freddie that Michigan State would lose by less than sixteen points. He decided around 2:30pm that it couldn’t hurt to take a look at the score. After all, he had already placed the bet and would have to check it out sometime. So he turned on the TV. The University of Michigan players had the ball on Michigan State’s ten-yard line and were lined up in a pass formation. The quarterback took three steps back and tossed the ball into the corner of the end zone where the wide receiver made a great diving catch for a touchdown. Stan shook his head. U of M made the extra point and the score flashed on the screen. It was the beginning of the fourth quarter and Michigan State was leading by four points, 21 – 17. Stan smiled. He decided to watch the rest of the game. It was a great game with the University of Michigan winning by the score of 27 – 24, but the bet was never in jeopardy. Stan felt good; he just won a hundred dollars. At the same time he was disappointed with himself for giving in and watching. But UCLA was playing USC and the game was scheduled to start in five minutes. Channel five was televising the game. “What the hell,” Stan thought, “I was going cold turkey after this weekend. There’s no reason not to have one last fling.” Stan put on his coat and headed out the door. He got in his car and headed over to Jack’s house. Jack lived in a development in the suburbs. His brick house sat at the back of a three acre lot. The long drive was littered with sports paraphernalia and kid’s bikes. Stan managed to avoid running over any of Jack’s kids’ toys and safely parked near the three-car garage. He got out of his car and walked directly to the back walkway that led to Jack’s famous sports viewing room. He did not bother to knock; he just opened the door and entered. The 62-inch television blared the words of an excited announcer reeling off the yards of a running back on a breakaway run. Jack was screaming, “get him, get him you slow pigs,” and Stan could feel the intoxication. Could he really give up all of this? “Hey Jack, sorry I’m late, it took me a while to navigate through the crap on your driveway,” Stan taunted. “I knew you’d be here eventually, did you bring those cigars?” Stan threw him a cigar, then plopped into a big cushioned chair next to Jack. “So who do you have?” Jack asked. “UCLA ,” Stan answered. “What’s the spread?” “I’m giving six.” “Really? I’ll take USC plus six for fifty. Is it a bet?” Jack smiled one of his Mona Lisa smiles. “Naw I think I have enough already.” “What? Stanley Wright refusing to take a bet. Are you sick?” “I’m just tired of taking your money,” Stan retorted. “C’mon Stan, how much do you have bet?” “One hundred.” “One hundred! That’s it a hundred dollars and you’re not going to take my measly fifty bucks? Are you sure you’re not sick? Okay I’ll take five.” “That’s not it, I’ve just got enough bet for today and I don’t want to bet anymore,” Stan said. “Okay, Okay you got me, I’ll settle for four, but that’s it, that’s my final offer,” Jack came back. “All right, it’s only fifty bucks any way, you got USC plus four,” Stan said rationalizing he might as well splurge on his last weekend of gambling. The two of them watched the game, drinking beers and smoking cigars. At one point Jack asked, “What did you call me about yesterday? What was up with the mystery letter? Did you ever find out who sent it?” “Nope, never did,” Stan answered. “So what were the picks?” “I don’t know, I threw it away when I couldn’t find out whom it was from,” Stan lied. “What? Mr Omen threw away a tout sheet, c’mon Stan how much did you bet this weekend on those picks?” “Nothing. I threw it away,” Stan persisted. “Yeah, whatever…” Jack started to say more but UCLA intercepted a pass and the announcer was yelling so loud it broke his train of thought. The game was a blowout with UCLA beating USC by 28 points. Stan was two for two and felt quite proud of himself. It wasn’t until he was in his car driving home that thoughts of shame returned. He had spent most of the late afternoon and early evening with Jack lost in the hoopla of the moment. He wondered why he had lied to Jack about the list and why he didn’t tell Jack about being fired. Jack was his best friend, but Jack had it all and Stan was a big time loser. Take the sports room, it was for Jack’s enjoyment only; his wife and kids informally agreed to allow him his own space. Of course, the kids had their own playroom with a large screen television, and the family had a huge, comfortable great room with another giant screen TV to hang around in as a group. Jack not only loved his wife but also was still in love with her after fifteen years of marriage. He loved his kids and they adored him back. He had a job he enjoyed waking up to every morning and he was great at it. Stan felt inadequate before but now it just would have been too painful for Stan to tell Jack not only did I get fired yesterday, but I also bet on games from an anonymous source for no other reason than, unlike your life, my life is empty and meaningless. Shame or no shame, he was two for two on his weekend bets. Chapter Five Sunday morning Stan read the local newspaper page by page, except for the sports section. When he finished reading he went back and did the Sunday NY Times crossword puzzle. He finished around lunchtime at which point he realized how many things he had missed out on for the past ten years. Even something as mundane as reading the newspaper and doing the crossword puzzle seemed novel, when analyzing football or basketball or baseball games was all he had done on a usual Sunday morning. Stan decided to get dressed and go out for lunch, then maybe go for a hike through one of the local parks. He felt like a kid that has recently moved to a new neighborhood with a surplus of new territory to discover. Stan returned home around four-thirty in the afternoon. His face was flushed from the long walk in the park, perhaps the longest walk he had ever been on. He felt numb but alive, the cool fall air had numbed his face and hands but the heat from his circulatory system provided the fire of life he had not felt in ages. After hanging up his coat, he went into the kitchen to make a cup of instant hot chocolate. The pouch of cocoa was buried in the back of one of the drawers in the cabinet by the stove. He wondered how old the packet must be; it had to have been there from before Gloria left. He checked for a use by date and found it was best to drink this hot chocolate over four years ago. He decided he wouldn’t know the difference between fresh cocoa and old cocoa, so he boiled some water in a cup in the microwave then stirred in the hot chocolate mix. He took the cup over to the kitchen table, sat down and took a sip. He laughed a small laugh as he recalled drinking hot cocoa as a kid with his older brother Stu. Stu would insist on heaping a pile of marshmallows in his cup and then would eat the marshmallows one by one, most of them never making contact with the hot cocoa. Then when almost all of the marshmallows were eaten he would use a spoon and sip by sip finish his drink. The whole process lasted at least twenty minutes, fifteen minutes longer than Stan could muster. Stu always had more self control and practiced delayed gratification his whole life. Even death was delayed; Stu fought the cancer that would destroy him for at least a year longer than any doctor had predicted. He wished Stu were here now so he could tell him of his new plans. Of course, Stu would never have believed him, but this time Stan would have loved to have the chance to prove him wrong. Stan finished his cocoa, then sat at the table in silence wondering what to do next. He could see the television screen from the chair where he sat. The first set of games was over and the four o’clock games would be on. He felt he had done a yeoman’s job not watching so far, but two of the games he had bet on were settled and he figured he might as well check out the scores. He got up and walked into the other room and turned on the TV. A commercial appeared with a man and a woman doing something strange with a bottle of beer so Stan knew he had the right channel. He pulled out the list of bets from his pocket then sat down on the couch and waited for the game to come back on. When it did come back on the game turned out to be Green Bay versus San Francisco. He had Green Bay plus eight points. The score flashed in the upper left hand corner of the screen; Green Bay 3 San Francisco 14 with ten minutes to go in the second quarter. Not a good sign. Stan watched the game but was really waiting for the scores from the earlier games to pop up on the bottom of the screen. He knew the networks stopped showing scores towards the end of the first half so viewers like him would have to stay tuned during the half time update. He could have called a 900 number for the scores but he thought it was a more positive omen to see it first on TV. The first half ended with San Francisco kicking a field goal, with three seconds left, to go ahead by fourteen points. Stan got up and went to the bathroom, by the time he got back the washed up coaches and old players were analyzing the games from earlier that day. He looked at his list one more time, he needed Philadelphia to win big over Chicago, by eleven points to be exact and he needed the New York Giants to lose by less than four points. The scores lit up the screen. He checked and double-checked. He won both bets. Philadelphia won by 28 points, a blow out, he never would have imagined it. He was now four for four. If the Packers lost by less than eight points he would win every bet plus the improbable five-game parlay. Stan’s mind began to race; he easily slipped into the zone, too easily for a man who was making this his last gambling spree. Had he known earlier, he could have hedged his parlay bet and guaranteed to have won money. If he bet $800 on San Francisco and they covered the spread he would win $800 and lose $100 on his parlay, thus netting $700. If San Francisco did not cover then he would win the parlay for $1600 and lose $800 on the straight bet, thus netting $800. Hedging, he was guaranteed to win, but it was too late, the game was at half time. He wondered what Freddie would say about this, Stan not capitalizing on a hedge bet. All that was left was to root for Green Bay to come back or to at least make the game close and lose by less than eight points. He was getting flushed all over again. At the end of the third quarter Green Bay had cut San Francisco’s lead down to three points. Stan was immersed. Momentum in the fourth quarter seesawed back and forth. With less than two minutes San Francisco still led by three points but they had the ball on Green Bay’s fifteen-yard line. Stan began pacing. If Green Bay just held them to a field goal, he would win his bets. The announcers did their job. “Green Bay needs to make something happen. They still have all three time outs left, but they have to hold them here. San Francisco lines up with two men in the backfield, Morris goes in motion. The ball is handed off to Roberts who runs up the middle for about a one yard gain.” “Green Bay has been tough to run on down here all day, John.” “Absolutely, Al. Well, it looks like Green Bay has called for a time out. What do you think John, would you risk a throw into the end zone to try and put the game away?” “You know San Francisco’s defense has been tremendous, I think I would run down as much clock as possible, kick the field goal and put the game into the hands of my defense.” “San Francisco lines up with two men in the backfield and two wide receivers. Montana fakes a hand off to Roberts and steps back in the pocket. He throws a high lob into the corner of the end zone and…oh my, it’s intercepted! Ray Jackson has made an incredible one-handed interception. Green Bay will get the ball on their own twenty yard line with a minute thirty left in the game. That was incredible, we have to see that again.” Stan clenched both his fists and pounded the air above his head in joy. If Green Bay did not turn over the ball he would win his bets. On first down, Green Bay gained thirty yards against the prevent defense and Stan knew he had won. He watched the rest of the game but it was academic, Green Bay kicked a field goal to put the game into overtime but that meant he was an automatic winner. He had won all five games and the five-game parlay. Five for five. Every pick from the anonymous envelope had won. Stan buzzed for the next thirty minutes. He wanted to share his excitement with someone, but whom could he call. He had told Jack he threw away the list, he couldn’t call him up now and tell him the list had gone five for five. He wished he had bet more. He knew it was a good omen, he felt it, and he needed to trust his instincts more. And though this was to be his last day of betting; what a great way to end it, he decided. While his manic emotions were still charged the thought of calling George to talk about getting his job back popped into his mind. He would tell George that he had changed, he was on the road to a new life. This one last perfect gambling weekend set the stage to start on his new journey. He would apologize to Jenkins and Shirley and all of the others he had treated so badly these last so many years. He went to the phone and dialed George’s home number. The phone rang and with each ring Stan lost a little bit of his nerve. By the time the fifth ring ended he was relieved when the answering machine came on. He didn’t even wait to listen to the announcement, he just hung up the phone. Who was he kidding? George wasn’t going to take him back, there was too much of a history of Stan promising to transform without any results. This time he would have to prove he could change, prove he had control over his actions. This time he would show everyone, George, Gloria, Jack – Stu. This time he would do it. Chapter Six Stan’s first week out of work and out of the sports analyst vocation was monotonous. The fire and energy he had on Sunday fizzled out as a deep depression began to fill the void. He fought the urge to gamble and stayed away from the bars he often hung out at after work, but the time passed so slowly that by Friday he thought he might go insane. Without the usual tasks to pass the time he dwelled on the purpose of his life. At first he analyzed his past like he would a football game, looking for strengths and weaknesses, straining to find a key that would unlock the winning direction to bet on. The harder he struggled the murkier the process became. He found himself drifting, lost in thought and then falling asleep. But it was a restless sleep, and although he was sleeping for hours and hours he remained lethargic during his waking moments. At times a thought would crystallize and he would have a momentary feeling of contentment, but the moment was fleeting. He felt as if he was detoxifying, cleansing his mind and soul and would soon break out, a full metamorphosis into a brand new person. At the same time he felt he was only creating a cocoon that seemed to grow thicker and thicker each day. A cocoon that would soon become permanent unless he could find some way to cut his way through it. He stayed at home, inside all week. He did not answer the phone, he did not check his answering machine, he did not look through his mail, he did not read the paper and he did not turn on the TV. His world was dark and lonely. Friday afternoon he received a surge of energy, a push to do something, anything beside lay around and contemplate his existence. He retrieved the newspapers that were piled up outside and he collected the mail out of his crammed mailbox. Absentmindedly he scanned the newspapers absorbing none of it. Then he went through his mail. He was almost at the end of the pile of letters, magazines and junk advertisements when he picked up an envelope that had a football and dollar sign stamped on the lower right hand corner. There was no return address. He opened it up and found a small folded piece of paper inside. He unfolded it and stared at the single line of print that read: Chicago Bears +3 He started to shake. A battle raged inside and Stan’s will to reform lost. Stan had won $2100 from last weekend, he decided to bet it all. He called Freddie and made the bet. “A rose is a rose,” he thought. “and I am what I am.” Quoting Shakespeare, Popeye and God all at once. Stan did not miss the analytical piece of the puzzle. He found being spoon-fed his bet was just as fulfilling as doing the grunt work himself. As long as he had action everything was fine. The weekend flew by and when game time arrived he was glued to the TV. The Chicago Bears were playing the Detroit Lions, bears against lions, oh my. Stan felt good about the bet but could not grasp why. The game was boring. The Bears destroyed the Lions. Although Stan won easily, he was a little upset that it wasn’t more exciting. The long depressing week before dissolved into a manic search for the source of the clairvoyant tips. Stan analyzed the logo on the envelope for a clue. He could not remember seeing any design like it before. He studied the postmark. It was sent from a local source, however, local in Chicago did not help much. Finally he decided to try and be patient and pray that another envelope arrived by the end of the week. The gambling Gods must have heard his plea because on Friday he found another wonderful envelope. The tip for the week was the Dallas Cowboys –4. However, this time there was a note at the bottom of the paper, it read “We hope you are happy with our picks. To receive another tip next week and information about our uncanny abilities please send $200 to the following address: PO Box 12456, Chicago, Ill, 66578. We must receive payment by Wednesday to assure our tip arrives to you by Friday.” “So there’s a catch,” Stan thought, “there’s always a catch.” Yet what was two hundred dollars when he was already ahead forty-two hundred dollars. Stan wrote a check and sent it in that day, not waiting to see if this week’s tip was correct. On Saturday he called Freddie and placed his bet on Dallas – for four thousand dollars. “Damn King,” Freddie said when Stan told him the bet, “you know somethin I don’t?” Stan replied “I’m the king, Freddie, the king always knows more than his subjects.” “Whatever you say, king, whatever you say.” Stan watched the game on Sunday and was bored by the fourth quarter, even with four thousand dollars on the line. Dallas shut out Houston thirty-six to nothing. Had he really thought about giving up gambling? Stan went out to his favorite bar to think about it. Chapter Seven The following week Stan received his severance package in the mail. True to his word George had been more than fair and had provided Stan with an offer to pay him his full salary for the next eighteen months as long as he did not take a position with the competition. Stan had not thought about taking a job with anyone as of late. He was very happy to wait for his hot tip in the mail each week and make his living from that. On Friday, Stan was outside waiting to greet the mailman. After some quick idle chitchat the mailman handed him his mail for the day and Stan hurried inside. The familiar football and dollar sign insignia brought a smile to his face. He opened it up to find another NFL game tip and a note similar to the week before. This week’s note read: “We know you must be very pleased. To receive another tip next week please send $1,000 to the following address: PO Box 1978, Chicago, Ill, 66531. We must receive payment by Wednesday to assure our tip arrives to you by Friday. As promised, here is our secret. Some games are fixed and we are privy to them. Next week if we receive your payment we will tell you why we are sharing this information with a select few.” “Fixed?” Stan thought, “Could they really be fixed? Yet, how else could they have been so accurate? Picking seven out of seven doesn’t seem probable any other way. But why send me the information?” There was something else that this new information brought. Stan now felt guilty. It was one thing when he thought he was gambling and he thought he had just found an expert analyst. After all he had spent the majority of his life studying games and trying to predict the outcome, he had come to think of the people behind the envelopes as the Einstein’s of football analysis and he admired them. But now they, and he, were just a bunch of cheaters. “Still it had to be somewhat of a gamble, not everyone could have been in on the fix, and things could go wrong. It may be an advantage but it is still a gamble,” Stan rationalized. So he sent in his $1,000 and made his call to Freddie. “Freddie, it’s King.” “King Midas?” “Yeah, I’ve got the golden touch. Give me San Diego +2 for seven thousand smackeroos.” “Whoa King, that’s getting large for a one game bet. I think I can lay off what I need to, though. Are you sure you want to do this? You do remember what happened to the first King Midas?” “The first Midas was out of control, I’m not. Are you taking my action or not?” “It’s a bet, King. Good luck.” “There’s no luck involved, just knowing what to look for.” “Whatever you say King, whatever you say.” Stan hung up from Freddie and decided to call Jack. “Hello, Freedman and Associates, may I help you?” greeted a familiar voice. “Hey Mary, it’s Stan, it’s been a couple of weeks, how’ve you been?” Stan asked. “I’ve been well, Mr. Wright. Do you want to speak to Mr. Freedman?” “Sure,” Stan replied. “Hold on, I’ll see if he is available.” Stan waited wondering how much of an asshole he must have been these past years. “Stanley! Where’ve ya been? I haven’t heard from you in a couple of weeks. Did you get my message last week?” Jack said. “Yeah, sorry I’ve been really busy.” “Busy? I heard George let you go, why didn’t you tell me?” “I don’t know, I didn’t want to bother you with it.” “Bother me? What the fuck are you talkin about Stanley? We’ve known each other forever, you know you can count on me.” “I know. Well, what are you doing this weekend? I thought we could get together for the games on Sunday.” “Sorry man, I’d love to but I promised Katie and the kids we would spend the weekend in the city. I already booked a hotel suite. How about next week?” “Sounds good, Jack. Have a good time, I’ll call you later in the week.” “OK Stanley, that’ll be great. Hey have you started thinking about what you want to do next?” “No not yet, I’m just letting some time go by, then I’ll start thinking about it. But we can talk about this next week.” Stan answered. “Sure. I’ll talk to you next week. See ya” “See ya,” Stan answered. Stan watched San Diego beat San Francisco by a field goal. The game was close the whole time but Stan never got nervous. He watched the whole time trying to see where the fix would occur. The refs seemed to favor San Diego but it may have been more that he was looking for something. San Francisco had a few questionable dropped balls but they could easily have been legitimate misses. However it was done, he was now eight for eight and $15,000 wealthier since receiving his weekly envelope. Chapter Eight Stan met Freddie Monday afternoon to collect his winnings. Usually they paid when the total hit $2,500, but Stan had felt no sense of urgency to get his money. They met at their usual spot, Sam’s Diner, and Freddie handed Stan an envelope with 120 one hundred-dollar bills. They drank a cup of coffee together and Freddie told Stan he could not handle any single game bets over $10,000. Stan said he understood and as the king he would grant him some leniency but asked for another source to spread his bets with. Freddie provided him with three names and phone numbers and said he would set up the connections. These bookies were heavy hitters and could take a single bet up to $100,000 each. Like clockwork, the envelope with the fixed game arrived on Friday. As advertised the explanation of why this information was being shared was included. Stan read, “Thank you for your payments. It’s obvious by now that we have very special information, but why share it with you? The answer is simple – we are greedy. We have access to the information but we needed more money to take advantage of it. So we gathered mailing lists from as many sport gambling magazines and newsletters, then randomly chose a select few whose name appeared on all of them. We figured you would appreciate the information we had and would be able to profit from it and send us a small piece. Everybody wins. We also realized you would never believe us unless we proved it first, thus the slow process of sending winners first before any explanation. We look forward to a long and profitable relationship. Please send two thousand dollars to: PO Box 13447, Chicago, Ill, 66542. We must receive payment by Wednesday to assure our tip arrives to you by Friday.” “Greedy bastards,” Stan thought. “But I guess it’s time to join them.” Stan decided to bet the $15,000 he was ahead plus a large piece of his severance pay. Stan called Freddie and placed a $10,000 bet on Denver –5. Then he called the other three bookies Freddie had set him up with and bet $25,000 on Denver –5 with each of them. Each hesitated but took the bets since they knew Freddie was backing him up. He called Jack at work and they made arrangements to meet on Sunday to watch the game. When Sunday arrived Stan made his way over to Jack’s about fifteen minutes before game time. Jack was already in the sports room sitting comfortably watching the pre-game garbage when Stan showed up. “Did you remember the cigars?” Jack asked. Stan said, “Hello Stanley would be nice.” “Hello Stanley, did you remember the cigars?” Stan threw him his favorite robusto cigar. “Thanks Stanley, you may now join me for todays show.” Stan grabbed a beer from the refrigerator and sat down in a chair next to Jack. “So what have you been up to Stanley, found a new job yet?” “No not yet. I have the severance and I think I’m just going to take some time off and relax.” “Relax? Since when do you relax? C’mon Stanley, you must be up to something. Let me guess, you’ve decided to become a professional gambler and live off of your stellar analysis.” “Yeah, right,” Stan replied. “So you’re really just going to wait to start looking? How long is the severance?” “Eighteen months.” “Wow, George was awfully generous, especially with you being such a fuck up.” “Thanks Jack, you always know the right thing to say. Why is it so hard to believe that I could take time to relax and think about my life?” “Are you kidding me? Since when have you stopped and really looked at yourself? You’re either gambling, analyzing or drinking – unless you count sleeping.” “Well, maybe before, but George letting me go made me stop and look at what a waste of a life I have. In fact, I’m thinking of giving up gambling once I’m done with my current winning streak.” “Winning streak?” “I’ve been pretty hot the last few weeks, I figure if I can keep it going for a few more weeks I’ll just retire and live off of my proceeds.” “Please tell me your not gambling with your severance pay. Please.” “C’mon Jack you don’t think I’m that bad do you?” “Think it? I know it. How much do you have bet on today’s games?” “The usual, a few thousand.” “And that’s what you are going to retire on?” “It was a joke Jack, I know I can’t gamble my way to retirement. Hey, there about to kickoff, let’s just watch the game.” “Are you hungry? I have sandwiches made in the kitchen, do you want me to get you one?” asked Jack. “What do you got?” “Turkey, ham, and roast beef.” “I’ll take a turkey, no mayo.” Jack got up and returned a few minutes later with a couple of sandwiches and the newspaper. “Hey, I almost forgot to tell you, did you read this morning’s newspaper?” asked Jack. “Some of it – why?” “Do you remember a couple of weeks ago, maybe it was four or five, when you called me about the envelope with the list of picks?" Stan waited a moment before answering, “Yeah, I remember – why do you ask?” “There was an article in the local section that some guy sent out picks to 32,000 people on gambling magazine mailing lists. The first time he sent five picks, there’s thirty-two possibilities so he sent each possibility to one thousand people. No matter what one of the combination of picks was going to be correct, so the next week he sent half of the thousand that had won one team and the other five hundred the opposite team. He did it again but started asking the winners for money, telling them the games were fixed and he was letting them in on it so he could get more cash to bet with. He kept asking for money each week, and some of the people must have paid since they found tens of thousands of dollars in his apartment when they arrested him for mail fraud. So you see, it wasn’t me playing a practical joke. Good thing you threw it away.” “So the games aren’t fixed?” Stanley asked. “Of course they’re not fixed, this guy was always going to be correct for half of the people, those poor suckers that kept winning must have thought they had found the pot at the end of the rainbow. I can just imagine what you would have done if you had some guy giving you eight picks in a row, you’d be betting your severance…Stanley you did throw that away didn’t you?” “Jack, let’s hope, no let’s pray Denver wins this game by more than five.”