The Happiest Days of Our Lives (13 page)

“It’s okay,” Ryan said, “but I think I want to take a break.”

“Good idea,” I said. “Let’s pause this, go out for something to eat, and come back later.”

Ryan walked into his room and turned on his shower. I unplugged my guitar so we didn’t have to worry about our dogs knocking it down and restarting the game while we were gone.

In my memory, the next few moments happen in slow motion:

• I pick up Ryan’s wireless guitar controller.

• I hold down the button to get the control screen.

• The dashboard comes up, giving me the option to cancel, turn off the controller, or turn off the system.

• I click the strum bar to select “turn off the controller.”

• I set the guitar on the ground—carefully—and reach up to click the green fret button.

• I hear the Xbox beep.

• I push the button.

• I realize that the beep was the strum bar clicking one more time when I set the guitar down, selecting “Shut Down the System.”

• The system shuts down, taking all of our progress with it.

• For the next 120 seconds, I use every curse word I know—a couple of them twice—until my throat is raw. It takes everything I have not to grab the guitar and get all Pete Townshend on it.

As time returned to its normal flow, Ryan came out of his room. “What happened?”

I told him.

Ryan didn’t freak out or even get upset. Instead, he told me, “Calm down, Wil. It’s just a game. We can do it again.”

Despite his calm, sane words, I was still really upset. Yes, it was an accident, but it was my fault. There were several different ways I could have powered down his guitar that would have been more careful. I felt like an asshole, because I screwed up twice in the game and caused us to fail both times, because I screwed up and lost all the progress we’d made … and mostly because I really wanted to get this particular Xbox achievement with my son. I really wanted that memory.

What I got, though, was better than what I’d hoped for. I saw Ryan exhibit one of the key values I’d raised him with. He kept everything in perspective and found all the good things in the experience: the gold stars we scored, the fun we had playing all the other songs, and the time we spent together. He reminded me that Rock Band is just like rooting for the Dodgers; it’s not about winning, it’s about playing the game.

It felt great to hear my values, not my 120 seconds of swears, come out of my son’s mouth. It isn’t reflected in my Xbox Live account, but the 100G Parenting achievement picked up that day means more to me than anything I have in my gamerscore.

who’s gonna drive you home tonight?

A
nne and I took Nolan out to Glendale for this art thing he likes to do. After we dropped him off, Anne put her arms around my waist, kissed my face, and said, “Hey, I want to have a dinner date with my husband.”

Bonus, unexpected dinner dates are always awesome, so I didn’t even put up token resistance, and we had a wonderful meal together while Nolan did his thing a few blocks away.

When we were finished, Nolan met us in the parking garage and told us that he wanted to drive home. At that point, he’d had his permit for about five weeks, and even though he was a very competent and careful driver, we were both a little nervous about exposing him to the L.A. Freeways at night.

“You’ve never driven on the freeway at night,” Anne said. “Maybe we should just take side streets.”

“But the freeway is much faster, and we have Family Guy on TiVo at home,” Nolan said.

“We’re concerned that you don’t have a lot of night-time freeway driving experience,” she said, invoking the dreaded Royal We.

He put his hand on my shoulder, and quite seriously said, “Wil, how am I going to get that experience if I don’t drive on the freeway at night?”

I looked at Anne. “He has a point,” I said.

I felt like The Old Man, the keys to my car turning into a Red Rider Carbine Action Range Model Air Rifle With A Compass In The Stock And This Thing That Tells Time.

“Okay, just be careful,” Anne said. I can’t be certain, but I think I heard her add, “Just don’t shoot your eye out.”

A few minutes later, as we drove down the freeway, I sat as quietly as I could, gently nudging Nolan with occasional driving reminders. He’s really quite good, and I didn’t have to point out too many things to him, but near one ramp, one of those spiffy milk-carton-looking Scions sped up and cut in front of us without bothering to use his turn indicator.

“You’ve got to watch for drivers like that,” I said. “And remember my fundamental rule of driving, which is…?”

Nolan scrunched up his face like he was thinking and said, “Don’t be a dick?”

“That’s my fundamental rule for life,” I said. “My fundamental rule for driving is—”

“Oh, everyone on the road is an idiot, and they’re actively trying to kill you.”

“That’s the one.”

“I got it,” he said.

“But, you know, you can use them both,” I said.

“Okay, Wil,” he said, patiently. “I got it.”

“If you need them,” I added.

“I’m trying to drive here, Wil.”

“Sorry.”

lying in odessa

T
he club is on the eastern edge of Hollywood, in a pretty seedy area where the cops are too busy busting crack-heads to bother a poker game. To get in, you walk down an alley and knock on the door with the big red bar painted horizontally across the middle. Most of the people who play here are in the entertainment industry, so it’s appropriate that it’s something out of a movie.

I show the doorman a business card with the club’s address written on the back, and he lets me in. I’m here for a no-limit hold-’em tournament. It’s the first time I’ve ever played in an illegal game. It’s the first time I’ve played outside of a friendly home game. It’s the first time I’ve ever played for money.

I buy in and get my table assignment: I’m seat six at table two. We don’t start for about ten minutes, so I get a bitters and soda from the bar and try to act like I belong here.

A few weeks earlier, as we waited for the subway, my friend Shane said to me, “You play poker, right?”

“Kind of. You have a game?” I said. Since I read
Big Deal
, I’ve entertained notions of playing in my own Tuesday Night Game.

“You ever heard of the Odessa Room?” he said.

I shook my head. “I’m spectacularly uncool, Shane, and I live in suburbia. What’s the Odessa Room?”

“It’s an honest-to-goodness speakeasy in Hollywood. Twice a month they have poker tournaments.”

“What are the stakes?” I said.

“You can afford it. Why don’t you come with me next Wednesday?”

“Because I’m not good enough to play for serious money.”

“How much money is ‘serious’?” he asked.

“Any,” I said.

“Come on, don’t be a pussy.”

“I appreciate the invite, but…”

He took out his business card and wrote down the address.

“Think about it. If you change your mind, I’ll see you there. Show this card at the door.”

With a blast of warm, humid air, the Wilshire/Western train pulled into the station. Shane got into the car.

As the doors closed, he said, “Of course, if you’d rather, you can just give me 100 bucks and cut out the formality of playing.”

I laughed and flipped him the bird. He gave it back as the train pulled away.

I turned his card over in my hand. His office at Walt Disney Studios on one side, the address to an illegal poker game on the other.

Sometimes, I love this town.

The Odessa’s illegal nature means its unknown owners have forgone the interior decorating that would make it truly cinematic; the only thing of real value is a sound system that rivals any Sunset Strip night club. Three well-worn area rugs cover most of the cold cement floor. The indirect lighting is provided by those halogen uplights that were popular in the ’80s. Twelve of them line one wall, and large cathedral-like candles sit in sconces that are nailed to the other walls. There are several enormous Samoan bouncers who watch over the entire place with bored expressions that make me a little uneasy.

Everything is portable, including the bar. When I lean against it, it rolls back a few inches.

“Watch it,” the bartender says. His tone tells me that this happens all the time…when fuckin’ new guys like me show up.

“Sorry.”

I swallow hard. I think about leaving, but my money is already spent. Better not lose my nerve now. For the first time since I decided to come here, I wonder if the club’s name has anything to do with the Russian mafia. Then I wonder how many of these Samoan guys have guns.
What the hell am I doing here? And where the hell is Shane?

The game starts at 8. My watch—a gift from Sean Astin when we were promoting
Toy Soldiers—
says it’s 7:55. The tables are starting to fill up, so I ask the bartender for a glass of water. I take it, tip him a dollar, and head for my table.

The blinds start out at 10-20 and double every 30 minutes.

My seat is the only empty one at table two. I put my coat over the back of my chair, stack my chips, and sit down.

Eventually, we shuffle up and deal. I soon discover that I’m surrounded by a crew of regulars who all know each other. I don’t know nothin’ about playin’ no poker, but I know enough to understand that this puts me at a significant disadvantage.

For a game in Hollywood, there’s precious little coffee-housing until Mr. Lawyer, in seat one, says to me, “Hey guy, aren’t you an actor?”

I hate that question, because I always have to answer, “I used to be.”

“Whaddaya mean, ‘used to be’?” says the guy to my right. He’s a webmaster from Long Beach who could have saved an hour on the freeway and played at the Bike, but I find out later that he comes here because he’s a starfucker.

“I haven’t done any acting in a long time. I’m a writer now.” This answer doesn’t seem to satisfy them, so I say, “I only act when something really great comes along.”

That is, before my agents dumped me over the phone a year ago. Where the hell is Shane?

“What show do you write for?” says Mr. Agent’s Assistant, from seat three.

“Oh, I don’t work in the industry. I write books.”

A knowing look passes among them. “You published?” he says.

“Yeah.” I don’t want to talk about myself any more. I look down at my cards and find more rags. I study them and start counting my checks.

“How’d you find out about this game?” Mr. Agent’s Assistant says. Then, “Call.”

The action is on me. I fold.

“I’m a friend of Shane’s.”

They all laugh, and I find out that Shane is the deadest of dead money. Everyone likes him, but they like his poor play even more.

“I hope you play better than he does, guy,” says Mr. Lawyer.

At this point, I finally get involved in a hand, misplay it on the flop, and take a very bad beat at the hands of my new nemesis, Mr. Lawyer. I will spare you the details, other than the following exchange:

Me: “What are you doing playing that hand?”

Him: “Taking a lot of your chips, guy.”

Okay, I officially hate Mr. Lawyer.

I don’t play a hand for the next two levels. Mr. Lawyer busts out Mr. Magician and Mr. Webmaster, Mrs. Beautiful takes care of Mr. Agent’s Assistant, and there are just five of us left at the table: Mr. Lawyer, Mrs. Funnypants, Mr. I’m A Friend of Shane’s, Mrs. Beautiful, and Mr. I’m In The Music Industry.

Finally, my cards start to come, and I double through Mrs. Funnypants, a well-known comedienne. On the next hand, I find myself heads up against Mr. I’m In The Music Industry, who goes all-in. I decide that I’m on a rush and, since I’ve got a good chip lead on him, I stupidly call with K-9. He turns over pocket tens. I luck out and flop a king, it holds up, and I bust him out. It’s the first time I’ve ever busted anyone out, and I feel like Howard Fucking Lederer. I sneak a look at Mr. Lawyer as I rake in the pot. He’s busy shuffling his chips. Mr. I’m In The Music Industry shakes my hand as he leaves.

When the blinds are up to 150-300, Mr. Lawyer comes over the top of Mrs. Beautiful, all-in pre-flop. Mrs. Beautiful calls him before he’s done pushing his chips in.

Mr. Lawyer blanches and turns over 8-9 clubs. Mrs. Beautiful flashes him a smile and turns over cowboys.

“You do
not
have two kings!” Mr. Lawyer says. I wonder if that’s his “I object!” voice.

“I’m pretty sure I do,” she says.
Overruled.

Mr. Lawyer stands up. A vein throbs in his forehead. I could kiss Mrs. Beautiful right now.

He pairs his 8, but that’s it. Mrs. Beautiful sends Mr. Lawyer home.

He looks at me and says, “I had to take my shot.”

“Tough break,” I say. “Guy.”

Now it’s his turn to shrug. “Next time. Next time.”

I feel like a fucking rockstar for outlasting him.

Later, we take a short break before we move to the final table. The other players go to the bar, the bathroom, or just meander around the mostly empty club. I walk outside and call Shane. He picks up on the first ring.

“Hey, Wil. What’s up?”

“I’m at the Odessa. Where the hell are you?”

“Have you seen the news recently? I’ve been babysitting executives all week,” he says.

“At ten o’clock on a Wednesday?”

“Yes. It’s that bad. So how are you doing?”

“Better than I thought,” I say. “I made it to the final table. The regulars wish your money was here.”

He laughs.

“Maybe I’ll play next time.” I hear a voice in the background. He puts his hand over the mouthpiece and says something back. “Look, I gotta go. Good luck.”

“Thanks. Bye.”

The door opens behind me, and one of the big Samoan guys raises his fist at me. I wince, until I realize that he’s holding up his thumb, directing me back into the club.

“They’re ready for you,” he says, and walks back inside. I catch the door inches before it closes. It’s incredibly heavy.

We sit down and the cards come out. On the first hand, I bust out Mr. Circus Clown. A few hands later, I bust out Mr. Drunk Guy.
Goddammit, this feels great!
I work hard to keep my focus and hope my hands don’t tremble as I separate my chips into hundred-dollar stacks.