The Pussy Train

I’m an attractive man in my upper 30’s. I live in a quiet mid-west city of about 15,000. It feels like the kind of place where everyone knew everybody else. There’s very little crime and what crime there is is minor. I teach calculus to advanced 11th and 12th graders at the local high school. I have a number of close friends; the kind of friends I can confide in about anything. I love my life.

I have one particularly close friend named Robin. We’ve known each other for more than 15 years and we know everything about each other. I helped him after his divorce and he did the same for me after mine. Lately, though, Robin’s been acting a little strange. Finally one day I corner him about it one day.

“You’ve been kinda weird lately, dude. Is something up?’ I ask.

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. You just seem different than usual. I can’t put my finger on it. Just different.”

“Everything’s fine with me, bud. I don’t have any idea what you mean.”

“My bad. It must just be me.”

“No prob. It’s nice that you care, but I’m cool.”

I shrug it off, but then Saturday rolls around. We play in a local poker league with another 19 guys every other week. Robin and I have been playing together for almost the whole time we’ve known each other. He knows all my moves and I know all his. We love playing and it’s usually an 8-10 hour evening. When we get eliminated we always play in the cash game afterwards. The cash game is where the big money is. We play $1-$2 no limit and the numbers can get pretty big some weekends. One Saturday I went out of the league in 16th spot but after the cash game I walked out with over $2000. Today, it’s a different situation.

Robin’s out in 19th spot; his worst finish in over 2 years.

‘Shit. Poor guy. He must have missed a sure thing to go out THIS early,’ I think.

“Well, thanks guys. I’ve got to be going,” Robin says.

My head snaps in his direction.

“Dude! The cash game!”

“Not today, bud. I’ve got to get going.”

“Wait a sec.”

I’ve suited 8-10. The flop came up 6, 7, 9. I hit the straight, but I fold. I have to talk with Robin.

“Dude, wazzup? We never miss the cash game.”

“Gotta go, bud. I’ll call ya in the morning.”

“But…”

“Seriously, bud. Gotta go.”

And with that he’s out the door. My head’s not in poker mode and I’m eliminated in pretty short time. I didn’t care. Something’s up with Robin and it really bothers me.

I don’t see Robin again until Tuesday, but when I do I want to know the truth.

“Dude. What was that crap on Saturday?”

“I just had to do something.”

“What?”

“Just something.”

It bothers me that he won’t tell me.

“Whatever.”

The next poker night comes around in a few weeks and Robin and I are at the same table. In the second hand, I fold and get up to get a drink. When I come back I catch a glimpse of Robin’s cards as I sat down. He’s got 3-9 and the four community cards on the table are 10-K-A-J. Robins goes all-in. This shocks me. He never bluffs without at least having a shot at hitting SOMETHING. He’s called and the river’s a 7. The other person has a Q and he was out.

‘Damn!’ I think. ‘He lost on purpose.’

“Gotta be off. Thanks guys,” Robin says.

I catch him at the door before he goes.

“What’s up, Robin? I know SOMETHING’S happening. I want to know. I think you owe me that, dude.”

“I can’t. I want to but I just can’t.”

“Whatever!”

With that he was off and I was pissed. I finished the game in 15th place and didn’t stay for the cash game.

The next day I got up and drove over to Robin’s first thing. After about 30 seconds he eventually answers the door.

“Hey,” he says, barely able to keep his eyes open.

“Hey? That’s what you’ve got for me? I want an explanation. You’re a different guy. I don’t care what you say. I think you owe it to me!”

“I can’t.”

“Fuck it with ‘I can’t’.