Charlotte has brought to my attention that my previous post against Jon Spencer may be incorrect. When Jon Spencer wrote "Sybil," he may have been referring to a 1976 made-for-tv movie by the same name, about a woman with multiple personalities. If this is the case, do I owe Mr. Spencer an apology? I would sooner die. The fact that he trumps a 33 year old movie that never appeared in theaters over classic mythology is perhaps worse than mistaking who the sibyl is in the first place. By the beard of Zeus, Mr. Spencer, you are out of order!
When I was a child my father told me a lot of old myths before I went to bed. He'd sit down in a rocking chair and tell me how Apollo wept after accidentally killing Hyacinthus, how Dryope accidentally plucks the Lotus and is cruelly turned into a tree despite her pleading, or how Orpheus was so sad his head sang when he was decapitated by crazed women. Sammy says this should mean that I like to read, but I said, No, it only makes me want to rock in a chair.
***
Rather than interpreting someone else's dream, I thought it would be enjoyable to post one of my own dreams to let people interpret. Who knows, maybe there is a shy reader out there who wants to take a stab at my brain (note: jokes about mad cow disease will not be tolerated). Here's the dream:
I was in a hotel skyscraper with Boyce and Sammy. A giant ufo flew over top of the city and parked itself above the tallest buildings, as seems to be the polite thing to do according to movies and television shows. Well, we all knew this wasn't a good thing. That's when we saw the aliens descend from this mothership, except they descended in hot air balloons that were shaped like silhouettes of people's faces. All the balloon-faces had rather large noses. Their method of descent was particularly bothersome to me, and I ran around the room trying to figure out how we might lock ourselves in the room while the coming slaughter ensued.
Have a crack at Cyrus, and email me your interpretations!
Friday, November 13, 2009
Tuesday, November 10, 2009
Take Note, Sports Editors!
Sammy and Boyce spend more time than I do in the world of sports, but they nevertheless sometimes send me links to interesting things. Lately, they’ve sent me the editorials of an Ohio-based writer who is nothing short of baffling. I tried to look away since I don’t care about sports, but like with the misguided use of the word "literally," I must make a stand against one Jon Spencer. Bear in mind, his sports opinions are irrelevant. His pistol-whipping of the English language, however, is not.
On November 2, he wrote an article called “Return home to be biggest test for Pryor.” Maybe it was a test. I don’t really care one way or another. He doesn’t speak about what Ohio birds eat from the buckeye tree, so my interest often waned. Nevertheless, I did note he said the following:
3. "Let's not go there.” Apparently, "too much information" and "talk to the hand" were already used in previous articles.
Just today Sammy sent me another article, this one called, “OSU's future finally looks like Roses.” I understand this means that they will play in a football game more special than other football games. Yet, when the game is over they will still depend on birds to help continue mammalian life. What I don’t understand about this article, however, could fill a dump truck.
Spencer writes, "That's what happens, JoePa, when you fill your non-conference slate with Larry, Curly, Moe and Bart Simpson." This is odd to say the least. It’s like saying lions, tigers, and bears, and monitor lizards, oh my! All carnivorous diets, but one doesn’t fit. Also, it would be theoretically possible to exhume the bodies of the actors who played Larry, Curly, and Moe, re-animate them through lightning or necromancy, and get them to play football. This is not possible, however, with Bart Simpson. Someone could dress up like him, but we couldn't really say he was Bart Simpson.
He later writes, "Not only will these Buckeyes get to California, their defense and special teams -- the real heroes Saturday -- will give them a fighting chance against the Pac-10's representative. Go ahead and diss the Big Ten, but that Left Coast conference is filled with a bunch of Sybils."
First, Spencer stops to state that the "real heroes" are defense and special teams, assuming other people were claiming that the offense were the heroes. Given the fact that thus far Spencer has only spoken about the offense, I assume the other people he’s railing against is himself. Second, to call one group "real heroes" assumes another group are imaginary heroes; but in this context, this amplifies the fact that Spencer believes football players are heroes. They may be, but not because of football. You could better say that the flightless Southern Cassowary bird (pictured right)
is a hero since it provides an “irreplaceable role in ecosystems,” as was reported in 2004 to the National Academy of Sciences in a report called “Ecosystem Consequences of Bird Declines.” Just try to tackle yourself a sustainable ecosystem!
Second, let’s address this issue of sibyls: (a) when referring to the mythological figures, it is spelled “sibyl.” Only when referring to a woman’s name is it spelled the way Spencer spells it. Perhaps he means that the “Left Coast” conference is populated with women named Sybil. (b) Sammy would like it pointed out that sibyls were prophetesses in different mythologies. One of these is the Cumaean sibyl, who forgets to ask Apollo for eternal youth when she asks for near-eternal life. Apparently, Spencer believes the “Left Coast” is full of slowly decaying mythological creatures who have lost the ability to die.
May I suggest to Ohio newspapers that Sammy, Boyce, and I could together write exceptional football articles. Our articles would also include informative asides about ornithology and gambling techniques, which I believe many degenerate sports gamblers may be interested in. Write me, newspaper editors: cyruswetherbee@gmail.com
On November 2, he wrote an article called “Return home to be biggest test for Pryor.” Maybe it was a test. I don’t really care one way or another. He doesn’t speak about what Ohio birds eat from the buckeye tree, so my interest often waned. Nevertheless, I did note he said the following:
"Bad Troy wouldn't be seen again through 19 consecutive victories until his bloated body got chomped by some desert Gators. Let's not go there."A few points. 1. "Bad Troy?" Is Bad Troy an alternate personality to Good Troy? Is this how you conceptualize what I assume are the complexities of football? Is this akin to saying roulette is just a matter of Red and Black? 2. "Bloated body?" This is a dubious modifier. Was this college football player drowned? Or lying on the side of the road like a common white tail deer half-filled with fly larvae? Are these gators so malnourished that they feed on clearly diseased corpses?
3. "Let's not go there.” Apparently, "too much information" and "talk to the hand" were already used in previous articles.
Just today Sammy sent me another article, this one called, “OSU's future finally looks like Roses.” I understand this means that they will play in a football game more special than other football games. Yet, when the game is over they will still depend on birds to help continue mammalian life. What I don’t understand about this article, however, could fill a dump truck.
Spencer writes, "That's what happens, JoePa, when you fill your non-conference slate with Larry, Curly, Moe and Bart Simpson." This is odd to say the least. It’s like saying lions, tigers, and bears, and monitor lizards, oh my! All carnivorous diets, but one doesn’t fit. Also, it would be theoretically possible to exhume the bodies of the actors who played Larry, Curly, and Moe, re-animate them through lightning or necromancy, and get them to play football. This is not possible, however, with Bart Simpson. Someone could dress up like him, but we couldn't really say he was Bart Simpson.
He later writes, "Not only will these Buckeyes get to California, their defense and special teams -- the real heroes Saturday -- will give them a fighting chance against the Pac-10's representative. Go ahead and diss the Big Ten, but that Left Coast conference is filled with a bunch of Sybils."
First, Spencer stops to state that the "real heroes" are defense and special teams, assuming other people were claiming that the offense were the heroes. Given the fact that thus far Spencer has only spoken about the offense, I assume the other people he’s railing against is himself. Second, to call one group "real heroes" assumes another group are imaginary heroes; but in this context, this amplifies the fact that Spencer believes football players are heroes. They may be, but not because of football. You could better say that the flightless Southern Cassowary bird (pictured right)
is a hero since it provides an “irreplaceable role in ecosystems,” as was reported in 2004 to the National Academy of Sciences in a report called “Ecosystem Consequences of Bird Declines.” Just try to tackle yourself a sustainable ecosystem!Second, let’s address this issue of sibyls: (a) when referring to the mythological figures, it is spelled “sibyl.” Only when referring to a woman’s name is it spelled the way Spencer spells it. Perhaps he means that the “Left Coast” conference is populated with women named Sybil. (b) Sammy would like it pointed out that sibyls were prophetesses in different mythologies. One of these is the Cumaean sibyl, who forgets to ask Apollo for eternal youth when she asks for near-eternal life. Apparently, Spencer believes the “Left Coast” is full of slowly decaying mythological creatures who have lost the ability to die.
May I suggest to Ohio newspapers that Sammy, Boyce, and I could together write exceptional football articles. Our articles would also include informative asides about ornithology and gambling techniques, which I believe many degenerate sports gamblers may be interested in. Write me, newspaper editors: cyruswetherbee@gmail.com
Monday, November 9, 2009
Life in These Weekends, Part II
It’s been a while since I wrote, and I kept my promise to Harris Ames, the man in the cowboy hat from the Indian casino. But now all proverbial bets are off and I can say what I need to say about what happened to us.
Harris Ames, the man in the cowboy hat, followed us out as we were escorted from the Indian casino. We didn’t mind leaving since we had money for a really nice tombstone for Hank’s grave. He pointed at the two journals we had of Hank’s, and said he bet those were worth a lot of money. I told him they were priceless, and he said especially when you don’t get caught.
I told Sammy and Boyce that he was going to take us to the Green Bay Packers vs. Minnesota Vikings game. They couldn’t understand why, so I said because he’s rich, which means he’s eccentric. As we parted ways with Harris, he grabbed me by the sleeve and said maybe on our way to Green Bay I could tell him about the secrets in those books, but I told him the secrets were beyond us, and he laughed the way rich people do, and said, “I bet they are,” also like rich people do, who always assume there’s something they can know that other people can’t.
He picked us up in one of the biggest non-limo cars I’ve ever seen. Boyce said there should be bull horns on the front. When we got in everything was leather and smelled real new, like Ames had never took the car out before. He told us about his family company started by his ancestor Dalton Ames, but I wasn’t listening to anything he was saying. Boyce had just told me before we got in the car that when he went to get us tickets for this game a couple months ago, seats were going for over $2,000. That made me think Harris Ames was psychotic, so sitting in the passenger seat I didn’t bother listening to him—instead I just watched his hands to make sure he didn’t pull out a knife or a cup of his urine.
We were around Chicago when Harris Ames started asking if we brought the books. I said yes, and explained that they belonged to the recently departed Hank Gradowski. Harris said he must have been a very intelligent man, and I said I’m pretty sure he was. Harris asked how he came across his system, and I told him there wasn’t a system. Harris said sure there wasn’t, and then tried to elbow me without letting go of the steering wheel. Harris asked if I would read from the books. So I read: “HALLELUJAH union scabs union scabs sing in the choir Trouble AHEAD?????”
I’m not sure what Harris was expecting, but he started to get real uneasy. He asked me to read from another part, and I read, “The measurement of a dolphin’s skeleton can’t be done with forceps and the blood of the damned.” Harris got real pale. I thought I should read him the part where he mentions me, but I didn’t want to share that. Harris asked me one more time to read from another section, and I said, “There's a Scylla in the palm of my hand and he's fed from the wheels of the children cry cry cry children of the waterlily mister man WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE???????????”
At first I thought Harris had a stroke. Then, after swallowing like a hundred times and pulling at his collar, he asked what the big idea was. What were these books? I explained to him that they belonged to Hank Gradowski, who had recently died of mad cow disease. Harris looked at me for a real long time, and I was afraid he was going to drive us into the back of a semi. Sammy piped in and said, “We thought he might have written us a code in the midst of his madness,” and Boyce then said, “or corrected his journal as a ghost from beyond the grave." Harris immediately hit the brakes and pulled off on the shoulder. He wouldn’t look at us and just kept screaming, “Get out of my car. Get the hell out of my car.” We got out real slowly because there were a lot of cars and trucks whizzing by. I told Harris this was no place to leave us, and he said, “You bunch of idiots. I’m sorry boys, but you’re all idiots. Here, take it.” And he threw us a whole bunch of cash he got out of the console. He didn’t say goodbye. He just screamed that if I told anybody about this before he did, he'd come take away my manhood. Then he screamed like a really fat man getting a tooth pulled and pulled back onto the interstate, ran over the median, and went the opposite direction. For a second his car was spinning its wheels in the grass of the median, but Harris was so angry I think he screamed his car into not getting stuck.
Boyce, Sammy, and I walked a couple miles to the nearest exit, and from there rented a car to get back home. The money Harris gave us was more than enough to pay for the car, so we actually came out in the positive. Sammy and Boyce also got something new to make fun of me for. Plus, I learned something: the next time someone wants to take you to an expensive sporting event in exchange for your gambling system, make sure they know that your system comes from the crippled scribblings of a recently deceased man suffering from major neurological decay.
Of course, we never got to the Packers game. That’s okay, though, since I would have just wanted to talk to Rachel about it. Besides, I don’t think I could stand to see Bart Farve in The Minnesotas' blue.
Harris Ames, the man in the cowboy hat, followed us out as we were escorted from the Indian casino. We didn’t mind leaving since we had money for a really nice tombstone for Hank’s grave. He pointed at the two journals we had of Hank’s, and said he bet those were worth a lot of money. I told him they were priceless, and he said especially when you don’t get caught.
I told Sammy and Boyce that he was going to take us to the Green Bay Packers vs. Minnesota Vikings game. They couldn’t understand why, so I said because he’s rich, which means he’s eccentric. As we parted ways with Harris, he grabbed me by the sleeve and said maybe on our way to Green Bay I could tell him about the secrets in those books, but I told him the secrets were beyond us, and he laughed the way rich people do, and said, “I bet they are,” also like rich people do, who always assume there’s something they can know that other people can’t.
He picked us up in one of the biggest non-limo cars I’ve ever seen. Boyce said there should be bull horns on the front. When we got in everything was leather and smelled real new, like Ames had never took the car out before. He told us about his family company started by his ancestor Dalton Ames, but I wasn’t listening to anything he was saying. Boyce had just told me before we got in the car that when he went to get us tickets for this game a couple months ago, seats were going for over $2,000. That made me think Harris Ames was psychotic, so sitting in the passenger seat I didn’t bother listening to him—instead I just watched his hands to make sure he didn’t pull out a knife or a cup of his urine.
We were around Chicago when Harris Ames started asking if we brought the books. I said yes, and explained that they belonged to the recently departed Hank Gradowski. Harris said he must have been a very intelligent man, and I said I’m pretty sure he was. Harris asked how he came across his system, and I told him there wasn’t a system. Harris said sure there wasn’t, and then tried to elbow me without letting go of the steering wheel. Harris asked if I would read from the books. So I read: “HALLELUJAH union scabs union scabs sing in the choir Trouble AHEAD?????”
I’m not sure what Harris was expecting, but he started to get real uneasy. He asked me to read from another part, and I read, “The measurement of a dolphin’s skeleton can’t be done with forceps and the blood of the damned.” Harris got real pale. I thought I should read him the part where he mentions me, but I didn’t want to share that. Harris asked me one more time to read from another section, and I said, “There's a Scylla in the palm of my hand and he's fed from the wheels of the children cry cry cry children of the waterlily mister man WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE???????????”
At first I thought Harris had a stroke. Then, after swallowing like a hundred times and pulling at his collar, he asked what the big idea was. What were these books? I explained to him that they belonged to Hank Gradowski, who had recently died of mad cow disease. Harris looked at me for a real long time, and I was afraid he was going to drive us into the back of a semi. Sammy piped in and said, “We thought he might have written us a code in the midst of his madness,” and Boyce then said, “or corrected his journal as a ghost from beyond the grave." Harris immediately hit the brakes and pulled off on the shoulder. He wouldn’t look at us and just kept screaming, “Get out of my car. Get the hell out of my car.” We got out real slowly because there were a lot of cars and trucks whizzing by. I told Harris this was no place to leave us, and he said, “You bunch of idiots. I’m sorry boys, but you’re all idiots. Here, take it.” And he threw us a whole bunch of cash he got out of the console. He didn’t say goodbye. He just screamed that if I told anybody about this before he did, he'd come take away my manhood. Then he screamed like a really fat man getting a tooth pulled and pulled back onto the interstate, ran over the median, and went the opposite direction. For a second his car was spinning its wheels in the grass of the median, but Harris was so angry I think he screamed his car into not getting stuck.
Boyce, Sammy, and I walked a couple miles to the nearest exit, and from there rented a car to get back home. The money Harris gave us was more than enough to pay for the car, so we actually came out in the positive. Sammy and Boyce also got something new to make fun of me for. Plus, I learned something: the next time someone wants to take you to an expensive sporting event in exchange for your gambling system, make sure they know that your system comes from the crippled scribblings of a recently deceased man suffering from major neurological decay.
Of course, we never got to the Packers game. That’s okay, though, since I would have just wanted to talk to Rachel about it. Besides, I don’t think I could stand to see Bart Farve in The Minnesotas' blue.
Monday, November 2, 2009
Life in These Weekends, Part I
It was two weekends ago that we went to the Indian casino in order to win enough for Hank’s gravestone. Boyce and Sammy were armed with Hank’s two journals, determined that they had found a code. We agreed to split the night between roulette and blackjack, beginning with roulette. I asked them how the journals would know when the games were switching, and they both told me that any code written about the future, or altered from beyond the grave, could anticipate a switch in tables.
Surprisingly, Boyce and Sammy didn’t attract immediate attention at the roulette table with the journals. They appeared to be reading both the previous number as well as how other people were betting. They’d scan the table, then seemingly flip randomly through the journal pages. After whispering over one another’s shoulders as though they were counting money on their laps, they’d produce a number. It was always one number. I explained to them that this was madness, a waste of their (and my) money, and then Sammy said that’s exactly the way someone like Hank would have wanted it.
Their bets were wrong, of course. I think this is why the dealer didn’t care they had illegal materials at the table. Every time they bet they lost and their pile dwindled. My own pile was staying steady with a minimal growth, but in a few more bets Boyce and Sammy would have nothing. Then Boyce said, “Let’s do it. Right now, let’s do it. Do you feel it?” “I couldn’t be happier,” Sammy said. “I feel it, too.” Still wanting to show some subtlety, they slid the journal to me and pointed at a page. What I saw made my chest cave in a bit. The only time I’d ever felt that before was when I saw an injured bird in the grass with a neighborhood cat slowly approaching it. When it was only feet from the disabled bird, other birds began swooping down from the tree tops to attack the cat. The cat tried to fight back for a moment, then realized better and sprinted away. Some of these avenging angels returned to the treetops as though scouting for more predators, while others created a perimeter around the disabled bird. Most amazing was these birds were all of different species. It would be spectacular enough to see birds defending their own kind. Here, though, it was warblers and robins and buntings and grosbeaks all defending a meadowlark. When I saw it I sat down on the grass and felt like there wasn’t time anymore. That’s how I felt when I saw written in Hank’s journal “0 Cyrus 0.”
At first I didn’t know what I was so thrilled about: being in Hank’s journal, or having what may be a real code. I thought of Rachel a lot right then, like I couldn’t see straight. “Double zero or single,” Boyce asked me. “Which does it mean?” I didn’t even hesitate. Single zero. They put their entire pile onto single zero. I didn’t bet. I couldn’t see straight and wanted Rachel to come walking in the door. The dealer spun the wheel and dropped the ball in. Sammy said, “Single zero, right? Single not double.” I nodded, and felt like I was going to throw up. The dealer said all bets in. And it came up red 32. We watched the dealer take away all of Boyce and Sammy’s money. Typically, Sammy said, “At least it wasn’t double zero. That would have been tough.”
They told me it was up to me to win money for Hank’s gravestone, and as the dealer opened the table, I pushed all my money onto single zero. They both asked what I was doing. Sammy pleaded with me, saying, “There’s no code. I saw your name with a zero next to it—maybe it’s the letter o. There’s no code, Cyrus.” He was talking frantically and Boyce had stood up and took my shoulder and told the dealer not to take my bet. I squiggled my shoulders and told the dealer to take the bet. “There’s no code,” Sammy said again. Not only the size of the bet, but the altercation between the three of us was attracting a crowd. Even a man with a cowboy hat came over to see. Generally, people with cowboy hats are very focused.
As Boyce and Sammy kept trying to push me away, I didn’t say anything to them. I told the dealer to ignore them and keep the bet. “There’s no code! Cyrus, we were having a good time. This isn’t your bet!” I knew it wasn’t my bet, though. I didn’t think I was going to win. I just didn’t care. My head still hurt bad from seeing my name in Hank’s journal, and I couldn’t see straight for wanting Rachel to come in through the doors. The dealer dropped the ball and Boyce, really angry, said, “Cyrus, stop it.” But I didn’t, and the dealer said no more bets. Everything got real quiet. I could hear the sound of the casino, I could feel Boyce and Sammy holding their breath, but all I really thought about was my name 0 Cyrus 0 0 Cyrus 0 0 Cyrus 0 and maybe it was the letter o, and he was calling out to me the way I call out to Rachel. And then there was a loud crash in my head, and I felt my body whipping back and forth. It was Sammy and Boyce: they were shaking me as the whole crowd was screaming. It came up single zero.
Boyce pulled me off my stool and flung me around in his arms like a rag doll. Sammy kept trying to kiss me on the cheek and laughed hysterically, screaming, “My god! My god! My god!” Everyone was clapping and the dealer was smiling real big. An official had to come unlock a table because the winnings were so big. I watched him real distantly though, like when I woke up after that time my dad let me have a few drinks. So I didn’t mind when that official, with long black hair in a ponytail, came up to us with two security guards and said, “Come with us.”
Boyce and Sammy knew exactly what it was about. The journal. They immediately went into their persuasion mode. This is absurd, though. Persuading casino security is like persuading a wall. They did convince them to leave me out of this for a moment, and Boyce and Sammy walked off with the official. I sat back at the table with all my winnings piled in front of me, but I didn’t make any bets. The dealer didn’t mind though. He smiled at me and you could tell he felt real fine about what happened.
That’s when the guy in the cowboy hat came up to me and told me that this was his single favorite moment in a casino. He said he’d like to get to know me and my friends, maybe have that little crib sheet rub off on him too. He asked me if I could tell him what was in the book, and that even if the casino wouldn’t let me keep the winnings, he’d like to know how we did it. He said he’d like to help us if we could help him. I told him we could use three tickets to see Green Bay versus Minnesota. He laughed real loud, like people in cowboy hats do. Then he said he’d make it four.
That’s when Boyce and Sammy came back. The man in the cowboy hat took a step backward and let us talk. He saw the journals were still in Sammy’s hand, so he was licking his chops. Right behind them were the security guards who leaned over me and took all my winnings, leaving me with what I had before the magical bet. I didn’t even flinch, though. Some of the crowd that was still there moaned and booed, but I didn’t do anything. Then Sammy opened one of the journals and gave me a check that was written out to Artisan Monuments in the amount of 1,700 dollars. It was enough for a granite headstone and engraving for Hank. Sammy said they weren’t going to get the winnings, but the head casino director believed in ghosts, believed in noble things, and apparently “believed in crazy shit too, because he cut us this check.” It was about 3,000 dollars less than my winnings, but I didn’t mind. I hugged Sammy and Boyce. Then I told them we’re going to Green Bay to see Bart Farve play. The guy in the cowboy hat made a funny face, but then he smiled real wide and licked his chops again.
But I’m tired, especially after what happened this past weekend, so I’ll finish later…
Surprisingly, Boyce and Sammy didn’t attract immediate attention at the roulette table with the journals. They appeared to be reading both the previous number as well as how other people were betting. They’d scan the table, then seemingly flip randomly through the journal pages. After whispering over one another’s shoulders as though they were counting money on their laps, they’d produce a number. It was always one number. I explained to them that this was madness, a waste of their (and my) money, and then Sammy said that’s exactly the way someone like Hank would have wanted it.
Their bets were wrong, of course. I think this is why the dealer didn’t care they had illegal materials at the table. Every time they bet they lost and their pile dwindled. My own pile was staying steady with a minimal growth, but in a few more bets Boyce and Sammy would have nothing. Then Boyce said, “Let’s do it. Right now, let’s do it. Do you feel it?” “I couldn’t be happier,” Sammy said. “I feel it, too.” Still wanting to show some subtlety, they slid the journal to me and pointed at a page. What I saw made my chest cave in a bit. The only time I’d ever felt that before was when I saw an injured bird in the grass with a neighborhood cat slowly approaching it. When it was only feet from the disabled bird, other birds began swooping down from the tree tops to attack the cat. The cat tried to fight back for a moment, then realized better and sprinted away. Some of these avenging angels returned to the treetops as though scouting for more predators, while others created a perimeter around the disabled bird. Most amazing was these birds were all of different species. It would be spectacular enough to see birds defending their own kind. Here, though, it was warblers and robins and buntings and grosbeaks all defending a meadowlark. When I saw it I sat down on the grass and felt like there wasn’t time anymore. That’s how I felt when I saw written in Hank’s journal “0 Cyrus 0.”
At first I didn’t know what I was so thrilled about: being in Hank’s journal, or having what may be a real code. I thought of Rachel a lot right then, like I couldn’t see straight. “Double zero or single,” Boyce asked me. “Which does it mean?” I didn’t even hesitate. Single zero. They put their entire pile onto single zero. I didn’t bet. I couldn’t see straight and wanted Rachel to come walking in the door. The dealer spun the wheel and dropped the ball in. Sammy said, “Single zero, right? Single not double.” I nodded, and felt like I was going to throw up. The dealer said all bets in. And it came up red 32. We watched the dealer take away all of Boyce and Sammy’s money. Typically, Sammy said, “At least it wasn’t double zero. That would have been tough.”
They told me it was up to me to win money for Hank’s gravestone, and as the dealer opened the table, I pushed all my money onto single zero. They both asked what I was doing. Sammy pleaded with me, saying, “There’s no code. I saw your name with a zero next to it—maybe it’s the letter o. There’s no code, Cyrus.” He was talking frantically and Boyce had stood up and took my shoulder and told the dealer not to take my bet. I squiggled my shoulders and told the dealer to take the bet. “There’s no code,” Sammy said again. Not only the size of the bet, but the altercation between the three of us was attracting a crowd. Even a man with a cowboy hat came over to see. Generally, people with cowboy hats are very focused.
As Boyce and Sammy kept trying to push me away, I didn’t say anything to them. I told the dealer to ignore them and keep the bet. “There’s no code! Cyrus, we were having a good time. This isn’t your bet!” I knew it wasn’t my bet, though. I didn’t think I was going to win. I just didn’t care. My head still hurt bad from seeing my name in Hank’s journal, and I couldn’t see straight for wanting Rachel to come in through the doors. The dealer dropped the ball and Boyce, really angry, said, “Cyrus, stop it.” But I didn’t, and the dealer said no more bets. Everything got real quiet. I could hear the sound of the casino, I could feel Boyce and Sammy holding their breath, but all I really thought about was my name 0 Cyrus 0 0 Cyrus 0 0 Cyrus 0 and maybe it was the letter o, and he was calling out to me the way I call out to Rachel. And then there was a loud crash in my head, and I felt my body whipping back and forth. It was Sammy and Boyce: they were shaking me as the whole crowd was screaming. It came up single zero.
Boyce pulled me off my stool and flung me around in his arms like a rag doll. Sammy kept trying to kiss me on the cheek and laughed hysterically, screaming, “My god! My god! My god!” Everyone was clapping and the dealer was smiling real big. An official had to come unlock a table because the winnings were so big. I watched him real distantly though, like when I woke up after that time my dad let me have a few drinks. So I didn’t mind when that official, with long black hair in a ponytail, came up to us with two security guards and said, “Come with us.”
Boyce and Sammy knew exactly what it was about. The journal. They immediately went into their persuasion mode. This is absurd, though. Persuading casino security is like persuading a wall. They did convince them to leave me out of this for a moment, and Boyce and Sammy walked off with the official. I sat back at the table with all my winnings piled in front of me, but I didn’t make any bets. The dealer didn’t mind though. He smiled at me and you could tell he felt real fine about what happened.
That’s when the guy in the cowboy hat came up to me and told me that this was his single favorite moment in a casino. He said he’d like to get to know me and my friends, maybe have that little crib sheet rub off on him too. He asked me if I could tell him what was in the book, and that even if the casino wouldn’t let me keep the winnings, he’d like to know how we did it. He said he’d like to help us if we could help him. I told him we could use three tickets to see Green Bay versus Minnesota. He laughed real loud, like people in cowboy hats do. Then he said he’d make it four.
That’s when Boyce and Sammy came back. The man in the cowboy hat took a step backward and let us talk. He saw the journals were still in Sammy’s hand, so he was licking his chops. Right behind them were the security guards who leaned over me and took all my winnings, leaving me with what I had before the magical bet. I didn’t even flinch, though. Some of the crowd that was still there moaned and booed, but I didn’t do anything. Then Sammy opened one of the journals and gave me a check that was written out to Artisan Monuments in the amount of 1,700 dollars. It was enough for a granite headstone and engraving for Hank. Sammy said they weren’t going to get the winnings, but the head casino director believed in ghosts, believed in noble things, and apparently “believed in crazy shit too, because he cut us this check.” It was about 3,000 dollars less than my winnings, but I didn’t mind. I hugged Sammy and Boyce. Then I told them we’re going to Green Bay to see Bart Farve play. The guy in the cowboy hat made a funny face, but then he smiled real wide and licked his chops again.
But I’m tired, especially after what happened this past weekend, so I’ll finish later…
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