Family ties

Tonight's posting was inspired by Patrick Irelan's post What's Wrong with Contemporary Fiction. It's a good read, you may want to check it out. The post got me thinking about the art of story-telling. You may have guessed that I love telling stories and I have a million of them. Most of them are my own, but I have been known to borrow some from other people. Some of the most coloful stories come from my siblings. And to answer your question, my family is Catholic and if you haven't figured out from my last name, we are as Irish as they come. Being the youngest of nine kids, I was obiliged to do a great deal of listening. If you don't believe me, try hanging out with a bunch of drunken Micks and see if you can get a word in edge-wise, especially when you are one of "the little kids". That being said, I have got to tell you that it is absolutely amazing to sit down with my five brothers and just let loose. Word of warning - lock the liquer cabinet. Because if we hit the hard stuff, there's going to be a fight - guaranteed. And that's just my sisters. Beer is fine, but the old saying is that God invented whiskey to keep the Irish down. Let me tell you about a little ditty I was a part of one particular holiday evening sometime in the late eighties. The scene was a middle-class home nestled in a sleepy little town in western Pennsylvania. Enter several quasi-adults in their twenties and thirties. This crowd, that would put the Tuesday night audience at the Comedy Works to shame, consisted of a large family of siblings and the spouses that made the unfortunate choice to be a part of this severely dysfunctional family. This might not have been an issue. However, under each arm was a case of beer and in the other hand a bottle of whiskey. I hope you are sitting down because this is about to get good. Three hours elapse and the cards came out of the drawer and the nickels, dimes and quarters come out of the pockets. The levels of the bottles are more half-empty than half-full, but the beer is still holding out. A few of the the party have made several sneaky trips out the back door. Overestimating their stealth skills, they have complete deluded themselves that their little secret would go undetected despite the noxious fumes that omit from their clothes and breath. The cards are dealt. Despite the low stakes, this was not a friendly little poker game. No, this was not a game at all. It was a war of pride. The first few hands pass without incident. But things grow more intense as each person reached their limit and sulked away from the table. Of the original eight players, only four were remaining, three brothers and one ridiculously drunk brother-in-law. Not only was he obnoxiously loaded, he also happened to be the big winner to this point. Worse still, he was completely oblivious to the smoldering resentment brewing between the remaining brothers. He continued to crack jokes without even being aware he was the only one laughing. Hell, he was the only one smiling. The game marched on. The alcohol finally took its toll on drunk brother-in-law. Unable to focus his eyes on the cards, the brothers relieved him of his money rather quickly. Standing up unsteadily, he stumbled into the living room, tripped over a coffee table and passed out before hitting the floor - amateur. No one every told him that WASPs shouldn't try to out drink those of Irish heritage. I can't believe my sister married such a light-weight. Oh well, that's her burden to bear. Now there were just three of us. A few hands passed without incident, then it happened - the hand. We were playing seven-card stud, nothing wild. I looked down and see that I had two aces in the hole, with a three showing. I'm looking at my two brothers. One is showing a ten, the other a king. I was looking good. I figured, I would bet slow and then pull them into my trap, assuming the cards kept coming. But my brothers took me by surprise. They were betting their asses off. I went for the ride, letting them push the stakes. On my sixth card, I get my full house. They were both showing three of a kind. The heavy betting continued. I started to get nervous. Am I beat? Does one of those fuckers have four-of-a-kind? No way. Not in a game with no wild cards. These two dumb poor fuckers both have full houses and I got the aces. A small smile must have crossed my face as I bet my last dollar. "What the fuck you smiling about, pair of threes?" My oldest brother said. "Just gotta fart." I replied as I let loose with a potent round of anal artillery. "Jesus Christ! You're ass stinks." My middle brother said as he hit me in the arm. And when I say hit, I mean savagely attacked with six lightning blows. But in my moment of elation, I didn't feel a thing. This was about to become my shining moment. As they matched my bet with their final cash, I almost betrayed myself by smiling again. "Fart again and you're a dead man." My brother hissed. Thank God for gas. "Full-house." My middle brother said proudly. "Queens and eights." "Son-of-a-bitch." My oldest brother screamed. "You cock-sucking, mother-fucking, son-of-a-bitch. Fuck, fuck, fuck." The smile on my face could not have been bigger. "What's that shit-eating grin?" My middle brother asked bitterly. "You gonna fart again or show me your cards?" "Aces and treys, bro." I said smugly as I turned over my pocket aces to match my one ace showing right next to the pair of threes. "Aces and treys." "Jesus-fucking-Christ." Middle brother says as he pushed his cards aggressively away. "I can't win-for-fucking-losing." The angry stares bored in to me from both my older siblings. "You pussies shouldn't play a man's game if you can't take losing." I said in a cocky tone. Then it happened. As I reached out to gather my winnings, my middle brother landed a punch square on my button. The dining room erupted as all hell broke loose. Furniture was splintered, lamps and dishes smashed and it took the other three brothers, three sisters and Mom to break up the action. Dad slept through the whole thing which is a good thing or I might not be here typing this little anecdote. What can I say, I won like sixty-five dollars. More stories from Paul Gavin. Info on novels Paul Gavin's Storefront. Technorati Tags: Fiction, Online Book, Chapter, Rebeleyeball, Paul Gavin IceRocket Tags: Fiction, Blook, Chapter, rebeleyeball