Poker face

My friend Devan loves my stories. Apparently, I tell a lot of them. “That reminds me of the time…” I say, and start another one. I love an audience.

The older I get, the more stories I seem to have. Devan says I’d better get busy writing them down before they’re all forgotten.

So here’s a story for you:

Back in my 20s, I had a cheap apartment in a rundown part of Minneapolis that had once been a very nice neighborhood in the early 1900s. The houses and apartments were surprisingly beautiful inside — lots of oak woodwork, hardwood floors, and in my case, actual Tiffany-style stained glass doors that opened to a lovely sun room.

There was a big, claw-foot tub in the bathroom along with a functioning gaslight, a built-in oak breakfront with glass panels in the dining room, and even a perfectly preserved oak ice box in the kitchen that had a little door to the outside where a milkman or ice man once made deliveries without waking anyone up. We used it as a cat door.

It took some elbow grease to reveal how gorgeous that place really was but when my roommate and I were done, it was stunning.

Soon, I came across a warehouse of old furniture for sale for practically nothing and furnished the place with a beautiful oak dining table and chairs, an ornately carved oak sideboard, a gold brocade couch, and two oriental carpets.

I still have dreams about that apartment. I dream that I’ve gone back and moved in again. I often wonder what it’s like there now.

But back to the story

Fast forward three years. The roomie has moved on, my heart has been broken once or twice, and a friend named Kay has introduced me to her boyfriend, an ex-con with the improbable name of Stan Crooks.

He’s a weaselly little guy in his 40s who, as his name implies, is not the kind of person I should be hanging out with. But I don’t listen to whatever alarm bells might be ringing in my head.

Stan has the gift of gab. I love listening to his flattery, his stories about his days in prison, and more flattery. He makes it clear that he wants to sleep with me but I laugh and say no, I just want to be friends. He doesn’t give up.

Stan is the superintendent of an apartment building in an even more rundown neighborhood than mine. He and his young wife, Patty, live in a dingy basement apartment with Kay.

There is a weirdly exotic vibe to their place. Patty and Kay act like it’s perfectly normal to be living and sleeping with the same man. Stan acts like he’s the king of the hill, and he is.

It feels very modern and “with it”

More and more, I go over there to smoke pot and listen to Stan brag. Since my last breakup, I have nothing much to do.

One night, I arrive and discover them and a couple other friends sitting around the kitchen table, playing poker. Stan invites me to join them but I demur.

“I don’t know how to play,” I say, but he talks me into it.

Amazingly, I win the first hand, and the second. I learn how to bluff. But I don’t learn about “tells”. I am overconfident and “telling” all over the place. My poker face is pathetic. Everyone is on to me now.

I start losing

When my meager supply of cash is gone, Stan, who has admired my beautiful, thrift-store furniture in the past, suggests I put up my couch. So I do. When I lose, I put up my oak dining table and chairs. Then, my fancy sideboard, figuring I’ll soon win it all back.

It doesn’t take long before I’ve lost all the pretty furniture to Stan, who comes to my place with a truck the next day and loads it all up.

Watching him drive away, I realize I’ve been hustled

That was 46 years ago. I still think about that furniture. I miss it. But actually, Stan the Crook did me a favor. Now, I was no longer weighed down by either relationships or possessions. I was free.

A few months later, my young son and I boarded a plane with just a dufflebag and a bicycle, and flew to California.

It was the start of the rest of my life.