Published: March 05, 2007 08:40 pm            

WHITE-WALKER: Making trump out of trash

When you have the pressures of cranking out a weekly column, working at another job and producing plays on the side, you long for a mindless activity where automatically you’re just there and it requires little or no effort. C’mon guys, it’s not at all what you’re thinking.

What was meant to be relaxing, fun and a diversion has turned into something that has taxed me far more than if I had a daily column — playing cards. Truth is I take it far too seriously, and don’t think people won’t think less of me when I admit that I’m a very poor sore loser. Where’s it written that I must win every game? On my husband’s stoic face, that’s where. Reluctantly he had taken me on as a partner both in life and at the card table, and why I subject myself to such grief, I mean, glee, would make a psychologist filthy rich.

“Run ‘em,” and just the authority in his voice stifles my shuffling and dealing. “Hold the cards down,” he’ll order while I’m dealing. “Hold the cards back!” when I’m picking them up. If I held them any tighter to my body the cards’ faces would be imprinted on my sagging chest. The name of the game is Euchre, and I would have written about it sooner only I didn’t know how to spell the stinkin’ word. It’s not at all the way it sounds, and my husband and I aren’t at all the way we appear playing cards — The Ugly Americans. If I make trump, it’s always in the wrong suit and I haven’t ‘hit’ my partner. If I don’t made trump he’s sitting there seething that I always have my mouth going except now when I should have it opened. If the opposition makes trump and I have a fist full in another suit, I secretly imagine a drive-by and they’re not aiming at me.

If you make trump, the Jack in that suit (say it’s hearts) is always the highest card — the right bower, and I’ve been given strict instructions never ever to order up that right bower up if my husband deals — hence I’ll ruin his possible lone hand. A lone hand is when he doesn’t take me with him as a partner (he can dream, can’t he?) and he gets all five tricks alone. Well, that isn’t the way I play. Invariably I’ll order up the right bower if I have that suit in my hand. You’re delusional if you think I have the guts to look at that face and his reaction.

How pathetic that we must subject loving decent human beings to such tension. I’ve noticed that those at our table tend to drink more — thus fantasizing themselves. Really, it would behoove them to remain cold sober and have all their faculties while playing, because it simply kills me when a spade is played, everybody follows that suit except the last player and unbelievably they’ll ask, “What’s been played?” Don’t tell me four spades aren’t a definite clue. And they call themselves card players? Well, they call my husband and I cheaters because we win quite a bit. I don’t take it personally, because they call everybody that who wins.

“They must stack the deck,” they’ll mutter to one another. Stack the deck? I can barely shuffle! And they repeatedly cut my husband’s card and when the opposition deals, they give him tremendous hands, but they never think of that.

“They must have signals,” some opponents insist. Heck, if I’m never looking at the man and we don’t believe in acknowledging or touching one another in public, what signals? But hey, the minute you start defending yourself that gives the immediate impression of guilt. But impressions aren’t important, true character is.

“I wish you and I were flawless like diamonds, devoid of all clubs for possible weapon use, possess hearts of a winner and courage in life to call a spade a spade,” I confided to my husband. “ Correction, you call a spade a spade more than anybody I know.”

“Knock off that crazy card lingo,” he gruffly replied. “No more card playing for you.”

Yeah, like I’m going to listen to, gee I’m really tempted to say, listen to some joker, but then he would be furious. I’m saying it anyway.

Karen White-Walker is a Wilson resident. Her column appears every Tuesday.

        

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