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On a warm summers evenin’ on a train bound for nowhere,
I met up with the gambler; we were both too tired to sleep.
So we took turns a starin’ out the window at the darkness
Til boredom overtook us, and he began to speak.
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| His backpack was worn thin at the straps, deep-fried with sweat and grit from the road. He sat at the round table and traced his fingers along the cuts in the dark wood. Someone had taken a razor blade to the table top. Probably someone called Rusty, and apparently he was in love with Anna. Taj Saubel wasn't impressed. It was his third night in Palm Springs, and apart from some karaoke at the Outpost Tavern and half an hour twinkling the ivories at Jake's Lounge, he hadn't managed to score any gigs. It wasn't that he was desperate for the limelight. Those days were mostly long buried. It was more a desperation for money, basic money, the kind that put food on the table. He and Lily had been at the Morongo Reservation for a month now, and he still couldn't manage to bring home enough money to help with the bills or the food which kept being supplied by his newly found family. He wasn't ungrateful, not to Mara who seemed so calm and accepting of everything he did. He just wanted to matter, just a little bit. Taj rubbed his eyes. The sand scraped against his skin, edgy and persistent. When he blinked the grit away he noticed a man sitting opposite him. Taj's fingers retreated from the graffiti and he half-thought the man was here to reprimand him for someone else's engravings. The man was white, heavy jowls and a tendency to chew on his left side. Taj didn't recognise him and they sat there for a few moments, unsure of where to look. |
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He said, Son, I’ve made a life out of readin’ peoples’ faces,
And knowin’ what their cards were by the way they held their eyes.
So if you don’t mind my sayin’, I can see you’re out of aces.
For a taste of your whiskey I’ll give you some advice.
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| "Name's Jefferson," the man said. He lay it out on the table, right next to the crude scrapings of Rusty and Anna. He chewed some more. Taj wasn't sure if he should order food or offer his own name in return. "Ah... Taj," he said and offered the man his hand across the table. Jefferson took it and gave it two solid shakes but then let go and looked out towards the front window. "Marjorie Watts told me you're a singer, a musician," he said. Taj thought the words sounded a little more rigid and severe than he'd describe them. Yes, he was a musician, but he didn't spit out the words like plumber or mechanic or disk jockey. There should be an art to the words, an understanding of ... "Well?" Taj nodded, relaxed. "I can sing, sir, and play guitar, among other things." "Hmmph," the man nodded, satisfied. His hand dipped into his trousers and he pulled out a wallet, fifty dollars curled under the strap. His fat fingers pulled out two fifty dollar bills and laid them on the table. Taj watched through half-closed lids. He noticed that the money covered Rusty's name. "Do you want a tune now?" he asked. The man seemed confused. His eyes darted from right to left and then he shook his head. "Don't be daft. Next week. North Shore Yacht Club.” “Where?” “Salton Sea.” Taj shrugged. “Uh, sure, sure... here’s my number. Let me know what you want, details and so on...” He pulled out a serviette from the stainless steel holder and wrote out his mobile number. The man took it, folded it neatly and slipped it along with his wallet back into his trouser pocket. “One hundred dollars now, and the rest at my little girl’s party.” “Your daughter?” “It’s her thirtieth birthday. You play country?” Taj groaned, but he kept his face passive. He nodded. “Yes, yes, I do.” “Good.” |
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So I handed him my bottle and he drank down my last swallow.
Then he bummed a cigarette and asked me for a light.
And the night got deathly quiet, and his face lost all expression.
Said, if you're gonna play the game, boy, ya gotta learn to play it right.
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| The nights were almost always clear down south. Taj lay on his back, his bare skin touching the earth which had been a secret part of his mother’s life and something he was only gradually learning about, feeling it day by day. The nights in New York were never so clear, or so quiet. And the nights in Seattle were never about stargazing. You had no time to think when your life was on the line, he thought. His hand curled around the bottle neck which rested against his chest. The smell of bourbon seemed to drift on the night air. He wondered what time it was. And then he heard the distant footfalls of his aunt. She was still over one hundred metres away but he heard her like she was beside him. He closed his eyes, swimming in the last vestiges of a good night. Mara would take a few minutes to make her way to him, and his keen hearing traced her every move, her every heartbeat almost. He licked his lips. He sniffed the air. A little bourbon, perhaps some traces of dope, but Mara wouldn’t interrogate him. As she approached he sat up, the dust clinging to his back but releasing him nonetheless so he could stand and wait for his aunt to come into his personal space, his cultural space. “You’re back late,” she said. He shrugged. “Lily was wondering if you’d remembered her story yet,” Mara continued, careful not to look at the bottle or acknowledge the brightness of Taj’s eyes in the dark. “I told her you’d come in early tomorrow and tell her about the eagles and the dragons and whatever else it is you fill her mind with.” She was smiling, but Taj knew there was something else there. The silence stretched. He could hear her thinking. Sometimes his hearing was too much for him, his head would nearly burst at the minute sounds of everyday things. Insects crawling, people breathing, breezes swishing by... “Say something,” she said softly. “I’ve got a job,” he said. Mara waited. “I’ve got this party next week, down in Salton Sea. Rich old man wants me to sing for his girl’s thirtieth.” Taj grinned, looked up to the sky. “And do you know what the play list is?” He shook his head, wishing the bourbon wouldn’t leave him so quickly. “Do you think they want to hear my songs?” he asked. “Real songs, like what it’s like to be a dad at sixteen, running from the mob and with the blood of everyone you ever loved on your hands?” Mara wrapped her arms around herself. “Nope,” Taj said. He walked ahead of her, back to the compound. “Kenny-f**king-Rogers, man,” he said with a laugh. “Can you believe it?” Mara watched as he marched in a slightly haphazard line. Two months, she thought, and he‘s still as lost as ever. |
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You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table.
There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealin’s done.
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| The gas station attendant stumbled backward, knocking the hose from its hook, spilling gasoline onto the concrete slab. A girl shouted abuse across the parking lot and her boyfriend shot the insults back at her. Taj checked the oil on his Yamaha bike. The morning sun was belting down, threatening to send everyone into a frenzy. He looked across the lot at the girl wildly gesturing to her boyfriend. Fingers were thrust out, hips were tilted, abuse was flying. A station wagon was parked next to his bike and inside was a cluster of kids, all reaching out for their mom who was red-faced and probably one hundred and fifty pounds overweight. A woman in high heels click-clacked in front of him, giving him a wink as she passed, her hands playing with a cigarette which quickly plugged up her thick red lips. Taj looked down, focussed his thoughts. He rubbed his face with the rag. And saw red. Crap. He touched his nose with his finger, carefully, knowing that he was bleeding again. He pressed the rag against his nose and sat down. For the past few months things were getting progressively worse. He’d get blood noses for no reason, with no warning. A convertible pulled up, radio blaring. Taj pressed his other hand against his ear. He cleared away the trash-talk coming from the blonde with big hair. He closed the audio-door on the mom with three kids fighting over ice creams. And he muted the mutterings of the drunk slumped against the men’s toilet door. Systematically he turned his hearing down, hoping to control the bleeding. But then he stumbled across a conversation... “... money in the bag! ... now ... coming keep it coming...” With blood draining out of his body and the sounds of the lot battering him from all angles, Taj forced himself to look towards the motor home which was parked in a bay not far from where he sat crouched. Inside two men were arguing over money. One of them mentioned a gun. |
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Now evry gambler knows that the secret to survivin’
Is knowin what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
Cause every hand’s a winner and every hand’s a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep.
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| No one expects to be caught up in the middle of a gun fight. Unless, of course, they wear spandex and call themselves Major American or something. The metal door was kicked open and a man half-jumped out, clutching a briefcase and a deadly black revolver. Taj didn’t know much about guns. Sure, he knew people who knew guns, but to him one piece looked just as lethal as the next. It was only because he had eavesdropped that Taj noticed the attempted getaway. None of the other patrons gave the man a second glance. He just looked like another hot and bothered man in a suit. They didn’t see the gun. Taj couldn’t move at first. He thought his instincts would kick in, but after so many months away from the types of places where such heroics might seem natural, or at least necessary, he found himself just as useless as the next human. His eyes tracked the man as he weaved his way towards a Mercedes, while his ears remained trained on the trailer. There was movement there and a second man appeared at the door which was flapping in the wind. Taj’s eyes widened as he saw the second man with another gun. Seconds. Perhaps five or six at the most. That was all it took for Taj to make his decision. He pushed away from his Yamaha, the blood sluicing across the cement as he turned his head towards the second gunman. He opened his mouth, his white teeth clear against his tanned skin. Ultrasonic energy ripped outward across the lot and slammed the man back into the trailer without him being able to release even a single bullet. Taj spun around to look for the first man. The Mercedes was moving out of the lot. Taj turned back to the trailer, emitted a second wave of concussive energy at the stunned gunman and then jumped on his bike. The engine purred, he leaned into the groove and accelerated. |
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So when hed finished speakin, he turned back towards the window,
Crushed out his cigarette and faded off to sleep.
And somewhere in the darkness the gambler, he broke even.
But in his final words I found an ace that I could keep.
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| Jefferson watched the television with heavy eyes. He rubbed his fingers along his jowls. The gas station was swarming with police and a man was being led away in handcuffs. The picture shifted; a highway patrol man was telling a news reporter that a Mercedes had been literally blown off the highway and inside was the wanted criminal, Paxton Daly. He moved forward and picked up the remote control, reclining again with a serious look on his face. Two clicks of the remote and he was viewing surveillance footage of a yellow Yamaha motorcycle. He clicked the remote again. The image enlarged, pixels forming and reforming to show a clearer picture of the rider. A black leather jacket, faded. A dark helmet. A backpack, worn thin, particularly on the straps. “Are you sure it is the boy?” Jefferson did not respond immediately, did not even turn to look at the man who stood in the shadows. He paused on the screen and lightly tapped his jowls again. “You know what they say,” Jefferson said softly. “A hero never dies.” |
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You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em,
Know when to walk away and know when to run.
You never count your money when you’re sittin at the table.
There’ll be time enough for countin’ when the dealin’s done.
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| “So Princess Lily blew the trumpet and her beautiful white Pegasus sprung up through the clouds and rescued her from the evil Malificent. And do you know what else?” Taj shifted in the bed, slipping his arm out from under Lily’s head. Her eyes were closed, the lashes dark against her skin. Her hair was long now, past her shoulders and slightly curling now, like her mother’s. She wore her Bratz pyjamas even though they were probably too small for her now. “Daddy did a bad thing today,” Taj whispered. “I promised you we’d have a normal life now, no more scary monsters and always running from one place to the next.” He brushed his lips against her forehead, holding the kiss there for a few seconds. “I’ve got a job tomorrow night,” he said softly. “Playing for a bunch of rich folk who probably don’t know the Tori Amos from J-Lo. I’ve got a feeling about this, though. It’s not just the money.... it’s...” He smiled and parted the curtains above her bed. He looked up to the sky and noticed how the stars were shining so brightly. “There’s something happening right out there, baby, and it’s going to bring us some luck. We won’t have to stay here with Aunty Mara for much longer.” He stood up and walked softly to the door, looking back just once with a smile. “Just a couple of days... things will be different.” |
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You got to know when to hold em, know when to fold em, Know when to walk away and know when to run. You never count your money when you’re sittin at the table. There’ll be time enough for countin when the dealin’s done. |