A few days before an election

The Boston Red Sox cost me a lot of money, a bit of self-respect and my sense of security. The election that followed the World Series left me a shell of a man, mired in anxiety, pulsing with paranoia. Now, more than ever, I am glad to be bearing arms. I don’t leave my bedroom. I clutch the cold steel of my handgun and rarely answer the phone.
Intellectually speaking, I didn’t believe in the curse. I just thought the Sox would fold. I thought the Sox, presented with an opportunity to vanquish decades worth of pain and anguish, would crumble. I thought the Cardinals would show up. I thought their potent lineup would smash line drives around the ballpark and send New England into a manic-depressive tailspin.
The strange victory over the Yankees instilled a newfound, and I thought reckless, confidence in the Red Sox and their nation of fans. Every freak and degenerate gambler in New England seemed eager to bet his paycheck on the Red Sox to win the World Series. I obliged.
I had lost quite of bit of money on the Yankees and it hurt to pay up. One bookie showed up at my apartment at 2:30 a.m., hours after the Yankees had savaged the Sox 19-7 to go up 3-0. He was with a small blonde girl and he offered to let me touch her breasts if I would forget about our $1,000 bet. She seemed willing, but I wasn’t that interested. I had been up drinking Irish whiskey, listening to 80’s music and staring at an electoral map of the United States from the 2000 election. I saw red. I told him to get the fuck out of my sight and shot a hole in the trunk of his 1989 Oldsmobile. He burst into tears and handed me an envelope. A few days later, the Yankees having been emasculated and left in a crumpled heap on the side of the Jersey turnpike, he returned. This time with a black girl and two heavily tattooed male-friends, perpetually smirking. He smelled of Vodka and smashed my mailbox with a hammer. He demanded his money and when I wouldn’t answer the door he threw the hammer through my landlord’s window. She was unimpressed and if I hadn’t had her legs up on my shoulders at the time, she might have called the police. Eventually, gun in hand, I came to the window and tossed an envelope out to the street. He picked it up, shouted a few obscenities and sped off. I went back to my landlord. We each took a Xanax and she lit a joint. At least I won’t have to pay rent for a few months.
I knew that I should stay away from the Red Sox action once they made the World Series. I was running pretty hot in the NFL and should have tried to settle up. I was distracted by the impending election. My roommate was volunteering in Kerry’s local office and he was in my ear each night, telling me he would win.
All the bookies were hungry for red meat. They wanted bets against the Sox and Kerry. They kept calling me late at night and offering Bush, plus three points. There was strange karma at work and I didn’t like how it was affecting the market. I had to stay off Bush, but I wanted to spite the Red Sox. It was a foolish decision.
Down 3-0 heading into game four I was desperate. It was dark at 5:15 and I knew we were due to lose another hour in a few days. I was laying quietly on my couch. It didn’t seem likely but I thought the Cardinals might come back, maybe not to win, but at least make it a series. I delighted at the thought of the horrible fear and loathing that would course through Red Sox nation if they lost game four and maybe even game five.
It was a bit delusional, but these are strange and ironic times. Outside the windows of my apartment the trees were still exploding with color, but it was tenuous. The wind was sharp. The crisp air moved over and through the streets, sending businessmen home to dinner, clutching their jackets and grimacing. I was confused, disconsolate. I couldn’t cover my bets and felt anxious. The political situation only made things worse. The soon to be bare branches drifted back and forth in the wind. Then a cardinal appeared outside the window, sitting on a thin branch. A small red bird, red hot against the sad, yellow leaves. Just past its head, a full moon was beginning to slide up and over the slanted roofs of the neighborhood. It was almost Halloween. I should have known that it meant nothing. I should have continued to wallow in cynical nihilism, assured myself that the cardinal’s appearance didn’t portend anything. I picked up the phone.
“Andre?”
“Fuck you, Jack, I don’t want to talk to you,”
“Just relax for a minute.”
“I’m busy, I don’t want to talk to you until after this game, until after you fucking pay me.”
Andre was anxious and didn’t want to talk to me about gambling. I had surprised him with several bets on the Giants and actually erased more than half of my debt by betting on them to lose against the Detroit Lions. It pained me to do it. I had vowed, when I got into gambling, that I would never bet on the Giants. Once I started, I said I would never bet against them, but I had to. I had bet heavily on the Yankees and once they started imploding I needed to play the market. I couldn’t cover without a few wins. The Giants were seven point favorites, at home, against the feisty Lions. The Ukrainians couldn’t believe I would bet against the Giants, and holding quite a bit of my debt they were amenable to a large bet. I knew it was a trap game. It pained me to do it. But I had to. I was informed and needed to use my competitive advantage to get back to even. It was however, a double-edged sword.
Now that I had bet against the Giants, the Ukrainians would never trust me again. I had exposed myself as a desperate man with no allegiances. Previously, they had preyed on my devotion to the Giants, and establishing myself as a loose cannon would only discourage them from doing business with me. It was a dangerous time in my betting career. I had burned several bridges and was in danger of being stranded with a few thousand dollars of debt.
“Look, I want to double-down on the Cardinals.”
“What does this mean, double-down?”
“What am I out right now?”
“2800.”
“2800, I took eight on the Lions.”
“Yes, thank you Kasparov. I can do the fucking math.”
“Well fine, let’s put 400 of that on the Cardinals, to win.”
“This is fucking stupid, Jack. That debt isn’t worth shit, you are a fucking degenerate.”
“Look 400 on the Cardinals, and let’s put the other 8000 on the Giants.”
“Jesus Christ, I am to going to cut off your fucking earlobe if you don’t pay by Thanksgiving. You better write an article about a homeless man and sell it to a magazine. You can maybe write a profile of your trip to the hospital or the fucking welfare office.”
“Fuck off.”
Andre unleashed a maniacal laugh and hung up the phone. I didn’t appreciate that he never specifically acknowledged my bets, but by now I was familiar with their idiosyncrasies. The Giants were going into Minnesota, getting seven points. I knew they would win, and it pleased me that the bet would infuriate Andre. I was after all his mentor.
When the Ukrainians arrived in Portland, they moved in two floors below me and I met them one day while they were moving a decrepit couch into their apartment. They were chattering incomprehensibly and we exchanged non-verbal pleasantries. A slight nod, subtle lip movement and nothing more. They didn’t seemed predisposed to idle neighborly small-talk and eyed me suspiciously.
A few days later, Alberto, an Italian-shop keeper who takes bets for friends, introduced them to me. He said they were eager to get involved with numbers and had an uncle who was an associate of his and could get them connected. The problem was that they knew nothing of American sports, particularly baseball and football.
I agreed to help the brothers, Andre and Slava, learn about the NFL and each Sunday they would come to my apartment with a few Valium, a bottle of vodka and a pack of cigarettes. We spent most of the 2002 season watching the Giants and whatever other games were on television. It was a bizarre twist but the excitable Ukrainians were now taking most of my bets, mostly because they remained loyal and considered themselves indebted to me.
Of course the Red Sox won, but so did the Giants. I managed to buy some time and when it came time for the Giants to play the Bears I was again in a desperate situation. They were giving nine points, at home, against a team that was starting a rookie quarterback, a fifth round draft pick that had seemed dazed in his first few starts. I didn’t think Andre would take the action and he was skeptical when I called.
“What don’t I know about this shit Jack.”
Andre was always a little self-conscious and suspicious when I proposed what he considered to be strange bets. He got defensive, because inherently, he didn’t know much about the NFL. As a bookie though, he really didn’t have to. A good bookie always evens things out and takes his 10 percent right to the bank.
“I saw your Giants play Minnesota, they should murder the fucking bears like a castrated Communist.”
“Do you want this or not, I called you first.”
“Don’t fuck with me Jack, you owe me $2,400. I take this bet, but if you lose, no more until you pay, you little American bitch.”
He hung up, laughing deep from his belly and up through his throat. It was as I expected. He was going to strand my debt and if Giants beat the bears by ten points I was would be out $4,800.
That’s why Andre took the bet. He is a masochist at heart and as such a strange gambler. He knew I didn’t like betting against the Giants and that’s why he let me. The beautiful moment would come for Andre when I bet against the Giants and they managed to win and cover. He knew how depressing this would be for me and it amused him.
Luckily, the Giants lost to the Bears, which was depressing, but now I am even with the Ukrainians. I still owe one Red Sox fan $500, but haven’t heard from him. I imagine he’ll call a few days before the inauguration.