Thursday, October 23, 2003 | Fiction
Poker
“O.K., I’ll raise you 25.”
“Call.”
“Call.”
“Hey, Bill, what are these drapes made out of?”
“What?”
“The drapes. Is it chenille?”
“Why, yes it is, Doug. I didn’t think you’d notice.”
“Of course, Chenille is a marvelous fabric, isn’t it?”
“I love it. It’s not as grainy as velvet.”
“Um.”
“Hmm.”
“Um, call”
“Yes, call indeed.”
“Two pair.”
“Two queens. I win!”
“How does that win?”
“Two queens wins! Queen of Hearts, Queen of Diamonds. Read ’em and weep.”
“But two queens isn’t anything!”
“Wait, aren’t we playing gay poker?”
“Nope. Regular.”
“Oh. O.K. You win.”
Ray Stillman once killed a man with his bare hands, although he is not one to brag about such things. He is an aspiring screenwriter, an inspiring poet, and a perspiring photographer. Mr. Stillman is an ex-New Yorker who now lives in scenic, sunny, star-saturated Los Angeles, in an apartment building between a bowling alley and a tatoo parlor. He often finds it difficult to resist the urge to ink "Gutter balls" across the knuckles of his left hand. He has made sweet, sweet love with supermodel Heidi Klum many, many times but, again, is not one to brag.