mgobluebraelow
04-18-2013, 08:34 PM
*Didn't give it much of a read through, still in the revision phase. Any suggestions would be great. Thanks! —MGBB
Jack was sitting in one of the high, mahogany chairs around the poker table in the smoking room of Johnny’s Cigar Bar. He was nursing a short, dark maduro with a tapered end and mindlessly shuffling a deck of cards. The smoking room was dim. There were seven black, leather chairs skirting the walls and in them people were relaxing and talking and smoking cigars that Johnny sold from a tall humidifier just outside the smoking room. At the bar adjacent to the humidifier, a pretty brunette girl named Cara was singing Irish folk songs.
Al was sitting next to Jack and was chewing the dead butt of what was a long, thin Padron. He pulled back his sleeve, looked at his watch, and then he motioned to the waiter with his dark and elegant fingers.
“Can you have Johnny bring me one of those little Cohibas?” The waiter, who was young and hardworking, nodded and then looked at Jack.
“Do you want another Bulleit?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“So just the Cohiba?” Asked the waiter, looking at Al again.
“Yes,” said Al. “I’ll meet you at the register.” The waiter turned and left through the glass door that was framed by rosewood and meant to seal in the smoke. Jack put down the cards and took out a box of matches. He re-lit his cigar. He inhaled deeply, careful not to bring the smoke to his lungs, and exhaled in little rings. In the leather chairs opposite the poker table a couple were engaged in close conversation. They had poor cigars and their drinks were empty. The boyfriend touched the girlfriend’s face and she rested her red cheek against his palm and he kissed her on the forehead. They were pretty people and the time they spend at Johnny’s was just another thing for them to do. They were not at all like Jack or Al.
“I think I’m gonna take off,” said Al, “Place is dead.”
“Alright,” said Jack, standing up. He rested his cigar in one of the nooks of the large, tin ashtray at the center of the poker table.
“Yeah, brother, you wanna shoot some pool?”
“Nah, not tonight. I think I’m just gonna finish off this cigar and see if anyone wants to start something,” Jack smiled a real toothy smile. He didn’t mean it the way it came out, but he didn’t bother correcting himself. Al laughed.
“You might as well ask that girl to sing a song for you, too,” said Al. Jack nodded slowly and quietly. His smile thinned out so that his lips covered his teeth. “Alright, player, I’ll see ya tomorrow.” They slapped hands and Al left the room to pay for his cigar at the register. As Al opened the door to the bar, Jack could hear Cara singing one of her usuals; he could never remember what it was called. It was something very Irish. She’s not bad, he thought. She had a low, clear voice and it sang very much like his cigar tasted. Rich, he thought, that’s the word for it. Jack sat down again, ran his hand over his bare, hairless head and took a drink form his bourbon. The glass left a little ring on the green felt and he thumbed it to see if it would dry up. Some nights were best spent in the lonely company of smoke, whiskey and the din of strange and friendly conversation.
The people who had been in the leather chairs had left. The pretty couple that had been smoking bad cigars had been the last to leave and they did so hand in hand and very slowly. Now, Jack was alone in the heavy air of the smoking room. He had always thought drunken company to be piss-poor for the sober, but he grew to appreciate it. He swallowed the last bit of his Bulleit. Soon I’ll be my own piss-poor company, anyway. Jack smiled to himself, sat back in his chair and listened to Cara sing as he relaxed underneath the smoke of his cigar.
The room was decorated with old posters from Havana. They were brightly painted pictures of well-dressed men embracing well-dressed women who were smiling gaily and holding martini glasses high above their heads. In the corner above the poker table there was a poster of an exotically vestured woman who was dancing as if in front of an audience. She was dancing as she always did — to a new crowd every night. Jack furrowed his brow as he drew from his cigar. He stared at the smile of that native dancer and wondered if it had truly hurt her in the way that it appeared as though it did. A man walked into the smoking room.
“Hey,” the man shut the door behind him and walked carefully to the center of the room, “Mind if I take a seat?” He had a dull and innocuous smile on his face as he approached the poker table.
“No, go ahead,” said Jack. The man was tall and he was holding a small caipirinha that was mostly ice and lime. He had blonde hair that was graying and receding and unkempt. His eyes were intent and, just as his expression, they did not seem to be hiding anything. “How’s it going?” Asked Jack as the man took a seat across from him. The man looked at Jack as if confused.
“How’s it going…” the man began. He seemed as though he was thinking very hard and Jack let him struggle with it, “Well, I think.”
“Well, I suppose that’s Good.” Jack laughed and then he coughed hard and uncomfortably. He then went back to spinning the empty tumbler in place and deepening the ring it left on the felt table.
“How about you?”
“I’m doing well,” said Jack shortly. He stopped spinning the tumbler and adjusted himself in the tall chair. The man picked up the cards from the poker table and began shuffling them. Jack watched the man’s fingers as he struggled to split the deck.
“Poker?”
“Sure,” said Jack, “But we don’t exactly have enough people,” the man dealt two cards to both Jack and himself.
“We can just do it like this,” the man began, “Burn, turn, turn, turn,” the man said this mantra quietly to himself as he lay down the flop.
“What’s your name?” Asked Jack as he looked at his cards.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” the man lifted the top part of his cards, “Bet.”
“I go first, you dealt.” Jack sat back and drew from his cigar. He squinted at the nameless man and pursed his lips. “Bet,” said Jack. The man looked up suddenly from his hand.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be argumentative,” the man hesitated a moment, “Match.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Jack, “Pots right.” He looked up at the man whose soft, blue eyes were wide and inquisitive and met Jack’s gaze with a strange, light steadiness.
“Is it March?” He asked Jack. Jack nodded. “It feels like spring. It feels like winter is gone.”
“Yeah,” said Jack, “It’s March.” There was a knock at the glass door. The waiter was looking in at them and Jack motioned him to come in.
“What can I get you, Jack?”
“Another Bulleit. Straight.” The waiter turned and pulled the door shut as he left the smoking room. The man burnt a card and turned the next. He focused his gaze hard on his hand and then spoke.
“I don’t like dates. Seasons are the only thing that matter,” the man looked up from his hand and eyed the turn.
“Check,” said Jack, “I’m rather impartial to dates, to be honest.” He grinned to himself when he knew the man was looking over his cards and could not see him.
“Bet,” said the man, “I don’t like seasons for the same reason I don’t like names. They’re ancillary. They don’t mean anything to me.” Jack matched the bet as the man spoke. There were no chips on the table and only two players, so he didn’t bother thinking much about it.
“Do you come to Johnny’s often?” Asked Jack. He eyed the deck.
“Yeah, a lot during the week,” said the man, “I like the camaraderie, and I’m sorry if I don’t remember seeing you here before.” He spoke indecisively.
“No, I come mostly on the weekends,” said Jack. And then, still looking at the deck, he said, “Pot’s right.” The man leaned forward with his elbows on the green, felt surface of the poker table. He took a drink from his caipirinha and he was careful not to swallow any ice.
“Alright,” the man started, and he was still leaning forward. His eyes seemed to be struggling and he tapped the top of the deck with two fingers before he began talking again. “Yeah, I’m sorry,” the man looked up at Jack’s scalp, “I wouldn’t remember your name if you told me.” He wore an apologetic look. His face was thickly wrinkled by the orange dimness of the smoking room. His wondering eyes bothered Jack but Jack didn’t say anything. I don’t blame him, Jack thought, I’d look at me too.
“Really,” said Jack, “It’s no worry. You don’t owe me an explanation.” The man put down his drink, looked up at the ceiling, and then down at Jack again. He was like a child in his mannerisms — you knew what he wanted before he told you.
“Yeah,” began the man, “I lose memory,” he said awkwardly. The man remained on his elbows and Jack leaned back in the high, mahogany chair. Jack drew from his cigar.
“That smells really good,” the man said, motioning toward the cigar.
Jack looked over at the lifeless, native woman who was dancing in her brightly colored tango dress. I’ll leave after this hand, he thought to himself and he was sorry for the dancer that she couldn’t. All she could do was smile and dance while every night she died of lung cancer from entertaining the drunks with their cigars. At least I can leave and die in peace, thought Jack. At least I have that dignity.
“Flora de las Antillas Toro,” said Jack after a while, rolling the ‘R’s, “It’s Nicaraguan.” The man smiled and leaned back from the table. Then he looked back at Jack and Jack could tell he was avoiding glancing at his scalp.
“I have short term amnesia. So, names don’t mean anything to me. They’re ancillary. The only thing that matters to me is experience.” The man was looking Jack squarely in the eyes. Jack moved as if to respond, but the door opened and the waiter came in and placed his bourbon on the table.
“Thanks, Josh,” said Jack. Josh turned on his heel and left.
“Sorry,” said the man, “I’m Chris.”
“Jack,” the men shook hands and in that moment they shared an understanding. They were two men looking for regularity — routine. Chris burnt one more card and turned the next. “Bet,” said Jack.
“Match,” said Chris. And then the two men turned their cards over because there was no point in playing games with only two people and no money on the table.
“All I had was the high card,” said Jack, “The king.”
“Pair of twos,” said Chris. He looked down at his hand with a smile.
“Well I suppose neither of us had very good hands,” Jack smiled, downed his bourbon in one swallow and stood up, “It was nice to meet you, Chris,” said Jack “I have a bus to catch.” The men shook hands again. Chris held Jack’s tight for a moment.
“Thanks for listening,” said Chris.
“No worries,” said Jack, “and you don’t have to remember my name,” the men released hands, “I’ll remember yours. That’s enough anyways.” Jack spoke confidently, clearly and with a smart and discerning countenance. He put out his cigar in the tin ashtray and walked over to the heavy glass door.
“Where is it?” asked Chris. Jack stood still a moment, looking down at his feet and holding on to the handle of the door.
“Wherever the tobacco goes,” Chris looked at Jack with those honest, blue eyes.
“Good luck, Jack,”
“Thanks, Chris,” and then Jack stepped out of the smoking room and into the bar where he cleared his tab and said goodnight to Cara.
The next weekend, Jack and Al were at Johnny’s and they were sitting in the high, mahogany chairs around the poker table. It was still early for a Saturday. Most people came in later. They came after dinner for drinks, cigars and conversation.
Over the speakers Albert King was in the middle of a slow solo and Al and Jack were watching the fight. Josh came in and took their drink orders. Al wanted a hotty toddy and Jack wanted a whiskey — whichever Josh thought was best because Jack didn’t really mind one way or the other as long as it was good. Josh laughed and asked Jack if he was sure — Jack was sure. Josh said he really didn’t want to disappoint Jack — Jack reassured him that he wouldn’t be disappointed. Josh agreed and left the smoking room to get their drinks.
Al took out a short, fat cigar and lit it with three matches and Jack turned up the volume of the fight so that they could hear the winner. The fight was close. It was a real brawl between two welterweights; Bradley and some angry sounding Russian name that Jack couldn’t even sound out in his head.
“That’s not the real Timothy Bradley,” said Al, “That’s his slave name.” Jack laughed. “I remember the days when we had heavyweights. Not anymore, though.”
“And Ali was his real name.” Jack added with a grin.
“Man, you can’t say **** like that,” Al laughed. He looked at Jack and shook his head slowly, “You’re too white to say **** like that. You might end up getting yours.”
“I’ve already gotten it,” said Jack.
“So did that Russian dude,” said Al, taking in smoke from his cigar and acknowledging the fake Bradley’s victory.
There was a knock at the window of the door and Cara was looking in at them. She was smiling brightly with green eyes and her dark hair hung like many beautiful ribbons from a grey, wool beanie that she had pulled down just above her eyebrows. She waved at them before coming in.
“How are you tonight, sweetie?” Asked Al.
“I’m doing well,” Cara took a seat next to Jack and kissed him on the cheek, “How about you guys?”
“Better now,” Said Jack.
“When are you going to take me out, Jack?” Cara put her arm around his shoulders.
“Ah ****, Jack,” said Al, “She’s calling your *** out.” Jack looked at Cara and squinted. She was smiling into her dimples.
“I’m old enough to be your father,” Jack said, grinning through crooked lips. He pulled a cigar out from his jacket pocket as they spoke.
“Maybe even my grandfather,” she said.
“Maybe even your grandfather,” said Jack slowly and with a cocked brow. They all laughed.
“What are you smoking, Jack?” asked Al.
“It’s a Por Larrañaga,” said Jack. Cara rested her head on his shoulder, “It’s a Cuban.” Al raised his eyebrow.
“That’s a great stick,” said Al.
“It’s the oldest brand in Cuba,” said Jack, and then looking down at the girl, “It’s almost as old as I am.” Cara, who was still lying against Jack, laughed and Jack could feel it come from her stomach, then from her throat and mouth. “They only roll these cigars in the summer. That’s why the wrap is so light,” Jack motioned to the vein-y, coffee-colored, claro wrap of the cigar, “And they roll them in these big factories that have rows and rows of rollers and it gets hot. It gets really hot and the workers have a hard time focusing. Of course, you can’t lose focus when you’re wrapping cigars — not when they’re Larrañagas,” Jack spoke slowly and surely and Cara and Al listened, “So, some decades ago, a manager of the factory — and no one knows who he was — hired a local man with a modest education, but an education nonetheless, and gave him the title El Lector,” Jack paused a moment as Josh pushed open the door with his foot. He walked briskly towards the table and placed their drinks in front of them.
“Johnny Walker Blue,” said Josh, “It’s on the house.”
“Thank you, Josh,” Jack took a sip, “and you know, I’m not disappointed.”
“Good,” said Josh. He looked at Cara, “Anything for you, Cara?”
“Nope, not right now. Maybe a tea before I go up.” Josh nodded and left the room.
“So,” said Al, “What did El Lector do?” He was chewing his cigar and Jack could tell that he was genuinely interested.
“Well,” said Jack, “He read. And the rollers would listen. Each one would bring him something that they wanted to hear and that’s what he would do. He would read it to them. That’s why they say there’s poetry in a Cuban cigar. And I would agree with that.” Jack stopped. He punched the end of his cigar and lit it with two matches. Then he evened out the burn by holding the stick well above the flame and drawing long and slow. Every time he pulled, the flame expanded and that’s how you knew you were doing it right. When he was finished, Al asked,
“Is that true?”
“Truer than most things,” said Jack. He leaned back into his chair. The girl’s head was still on his shoulder. He lifted the tumbler of whiskey high above his head and smiled at the dancer in the poster, “Truer than most things,” Jack repeated. And then he drank long and well and in the company of good friends.
Jack was sitting in one of the high, mahogany chairs around the poker table in the smoking room of Johnny’s Cigar Bar. He was nursing a short, dark maduro with a tapered end and mindlessly shuffling a deck of cards. The smoking room was dim. There were seven black, leather chairs skirting the walls and in them people were relaxing and talking and smoking cigars that Johnny sold from a tall humidifier just outside the smoking room. At the bar adjacent to the humidifier, a pretty brunette girl named Cara was singing Irish folk songs.
Al was sitting next to Jack and was chewing the dead butt of what was a long, thin Padron. He pulled back his sleeve, looked at his watch, and then he motioned to the waiter with his dark and elegant fingers.
“Can you have Johnny bring me one of those little Cohibas?” The waiter, who was young and hardworking, nodded and then looked at Jack.
“Do you want another Bulleit?”
“No, I’m good, thanks.”
“So just the Cohiba?” Asked the waiter, looking at Al again.
“Yes,” said Al. “I’ll meet you at the register.” The waiter turned and left through the glass door that was framed by rosewood and meant to seal in the smoke. Jack put down the cards and took out a box of matches. He re-lit his cigar. He inhaled deeply, careful not to bring the smoke to his lungs, and exhaled in little rings. In the leather chairs opposite the poker table a couple were engaged in close conversation. They had poor cigars and their drinks were empty. The boyfriend touched the girlfriend’s face and she rested her red cheek against his palm and he kissed her on the forehead. They were pretty people and the time they spend at Johnny’s was just another thing for them to do. They were not at all like Jack or Al.
“I think I’m gonna take off,” said Al, “Place is dead.”
“Alright,” said Jack, standing up. He rested his cigar in one of the nooks of the large, tin ashtray at the center of the poker table.
“Yeah, brother, you wanna shoot some pool?”
“Nah, not tonight. I think I’m just gonna finish off this cigar and see if anyone wants to start something,” Jack smiled a real toothy smile. He didn’t mean it the way it came out, but he didn’t bother correcting himself. Al laughed.
“You might as well ask that girl to sing a song for you, too,” said Al. Jack nodded slowly and quietly. His smile thinned out so that his lips covered his teeth. “Alright, player, I’ll see ya tomorrow.” They slapped hands and Al left the room to pay for his cigar at the register. As Al opened the door to the bar, Jack could hear Cara singing one of her usuals; he could never remember what it was called. It was something very Irish. She’s not bad, he thought. She had a low, clear voice and it sang very much like his cigar tasted. Rich, he thought, that’s the word for it. Jack sat down again, ran his hand over his bare, hairless head and took a drink form his bourbon. The glass left a little ring on the green felt and he thumbed it to see if it would dry up. Some nights were best spent in the lonely company of smoke, whiskey and the din of strange and friendly conversation.
The people who had been in the leather chairs had left. The pretty couple that had been smoking bad cigars had been the last to leave and they did so hand in hand and very slowly. Now, Jack was alone in the heavy air of the smoking room. He had always thought drunken company to be piss-poor for the sober, but he grew to appreciate it. He swallowed the last bit of his Bulleit. Soon I’ll be my own piss-poor company, anyway. Jack smiled to himself, sat back in his chair and listened to Cara sing as he relaxed underneath the smoke of his cigar.
The room was decorated with old posters from Havana. They were brightly painted pictures of well-dressed men embracing well-dressed women who were smiling gaily and holding martini glasses high above their heads. In the corner above the poker table there was a poster of an exotically vestured woman who was dancing as if in front of an audience. She was dancing as she always did — to a new crowd every night. Jack furrowed his brow as he drew from his cigar. He stared at the smile of that native dancer and wondered if it had truly hurt her in the way that it appeared as though it did. A man walked into the smoking room.
“Hey,” the man shut the door behind him and walked carefully to the center of the room, “Mind if I take a seat?” He had a dull and innocuous smile on his face as he approached the poker table.
“No, go ahead,” said Jack. The man was tall and he was holding a small caipirinha that was mostly ice and lime. He had blonde hair that was graying and receding and unkempt. His eyes were intent and, just as his expression, they did not seem to be hiding anything. “How’s it going?” Asked Jack as the man took a seat across from him. The man looked at Jack as if confused.
“How’s it going…” the man began. He seemed as though he was thinking very hard and Jack let him struggle with it, “Well, I think.”
“Well, I suppose that’s Good.” Jack laughed and then he coughed hard and uncomfortably. He then went back to spinning the empty tumbler in place and deepening the ring it left on the felt table.
“How about you?”
“I’m doing well,” said Jack shortly. He stopped spinning the tumbler and adjusted himself in the tall chair. The man picked up the cards from the poker table and began shuffling them. Jack watched the man’s fingers as he struggled to split the deck.
“Poker?”
“Sure,” said Jack, “But we don’t exactly have enough people,” the man dealt two cards to both Jack and himself.
“We can just do it like this,” the man began, “Burn, turn, turn, turn,” the man said this mantra quietly to himself as he lay down the flop.
“What’s your name?” Asked Jack as he looked at his cards.
“Oh, it doesn’t matter,” the man lifted the top part of his cards, “Bet.”
“I go first, you dealt.” Jack sat back and drew from his cigar. He squinted at the nameless man and pursed his lips. “Bet,” said Jack. The man looked up suddenly from his hand.
“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be argumentative,” the man hesitated a moment, “Match.”
“Don’t worry about it,” said Jack, “Pots right.” He looked up at the man whose soft, blue eyes were wide and inquisitive and met Jack’s gaze with a strange, light steadiness.
“Is it March?” He asked Jack. Jack nodded. “It feels like spring. It feels like winter is gone.”
“Yeah,” said Jack, “It’s March.” There was a knock at the glass door. The waiter was looking in at them and Jack motioned him to come in.
“What can I get you, Jack?”
“Another Bulleit. Straight.” The waiter turned and pulled the door shut as he left the smoking room. The man burnt a card and turned the next. He focused his gaze hard on his hand and then spoke.
“I don’t like dates. Seasons are the only thing that matter,” the man looked up from his hand and eyed the turn.
“Check,” said Jack, “I’m rather impartial to dates, to be honest.” He grinned to himself when he knew the man was looking over his cards and could not see him.
“Bet,” said the man, “I don’t like seasons for the same reason I don’t like names. They’re ancillary. They don’t mean anything to me.” Jack matched the bet as the man spoke. There were no chips on the table and only two players, so he didn’t bother thinking much about it.
“Do you come to Johnny’s often?” Asked Jack. He eyed the deck.
“Yeah, a lot during the week,” said the man, “I like the camaraderie, and I’m sorry if I don’t remember seeing you here before.” He spoke indecisively.
“No, I come mostly on the weekends,” said Jack. And then, still looking at the deck, he said, “Pot’s right.” The man leaned forward with his elbows on the green, felt surface of the poker table. He took a drink from his caipirinha and he was careful not to swallow any ice.
“Alright,” the man started, and he was still leaning forward. His eyes seemed to be struggling and he tapped the top of the deck with two fingers before he began talking again. “Yeah, I’m sorry,” the man looked up at Jack’s scalp, “I wouldn’t remember your name if you told me.” He wore an apologetic look. His face was thickly wrinkled by the orange dimness of the smoking room. His wondering eyes bothered Jack but Jack didn’t say anything. I don’t blame him, Jack thought, I’d look at me too.
“Really,” said Jack, “It’s no worry. You don’t owe me an explanation.” The man put down his drink, looked up at the ceiling, and then down at Jack again. He was like a child in his mannerisms — you knew what he wanted before he told you.
“Yeah,” began the man, “I lose memory,” he said awkwardly. The man remained on his elbows and Jack leaned back in the high, mahogany chair. Jack drew from his cigar.
“That smells really good,” the man said, motioning toward the cigar.
Jack looked over at the lifeless, native woman who was dancing in her brightly colored tango dress. I’ll leave after this hand, he thought to himself and he was sorry for the dancer that she couldn’t. All she could do was smile and dance while every night she died of lung cancer from entertaining the drunks with their cigars. At least I can leave and die in peace, thought Jack. At least I have that dignity.
“Flora de las Antillas Toro,” said Jack after a while, rolling the ‘R’s, “It’s Nicaraguan.” The man smiled and leaned back from the table. Then he looked back at Jack and Jack could tell he was avoiding glancing at his scalp.
“I have short term amnesia. So, names don’t mean anything to me. They’re ancillary. The only thing that matters to me is experience.” The man was looking Jack squarely in the eyes. Jack moved as if to respond, but the door opened and the waiter came in and placed his bourbon on the table.
“Thanks, Josh,” said Jack. Josh turned on his heel and left.
“Sorry,” said the man, “I’m Chris.”
“Jack,” the men shook hands and in that moment they shared an understanding. They were two men looking for regularity — routine. Chris burnt one more card and turned the next. “Bet,” said Jack.
“Match,” said Chris. And then the two men turned their cards over because there was no point in playing games with only two people and no money on the table.
“All I had was the high card,” said Jack, “The king.”
“Pair of twos,” said Chris. He looked down at his hand with a smile.
“Well I suppose neither of us had very good hands,” Jack smiled, downed his bourbon in one swallow and stood up, “It was nice to meet you, Chris,” said Jack “I have a bus to catch.” The men shook hands again. Chris held Jack’s tight for a moment.
“Thanks for listening,” said Chris.
“No worries,” said Jack, “and you don’t have to remember my name,” the men released hands, “I’ll remember yours. That’s enough anyways.” Jack spoke confidently, clearly and with a smart and discerning countenance. He put out his cigar in the tin ashtray and walked over to the heavy glass door.
“Where is it?” asked Chris. Jack stood still a moment, looking down at his feet and holding on to the handle of the door.
“Wherever the tobacco goes,” Chris looked at Jack with those honest, blue eyes.
“Good luck, Jack,”
“Thanks, Chris,” and then Jack stepped out of the smoking room and into the bar where he cleared his tab and said goodnight to Cara.
The next weekend, Jack and Al were at Johnny’s and they were sitting in the high, mahogany chairs around the poker table. It was still early for a Saturday. Most people came in later. They came after dinner for drinks, cigars and conversation.
Over the speakers Albert King was in the middle of a slow solo and Al and Jack were watching the fight. Josh came in and took their drink orders. Al wanted a hotty toddy and Jack wanted a whiskey — whichever Josh thought was best because Jack didn’t really mind one way or the other as long as it was good. Josh laughed and asked Jack if he was sure — Jack was sure. Josh said he really didn’t want to disappoint Jack — Jack reassured him that he wouldn’t be disappointed. Josh agreed and left the smoking room to get their drinks.
Al took out a short, fat cigar and lit it with three matches and Jack turned up the volume of the fight so that they could hear the winner. The fight was close. It was a real brawl between two welterweights; Bradley and some angry sounding Russian name that Jack couldn’t even sound out in his head.
“That’s not the real Timothy Bradley,” said Al, “That’s his slave name.” Jack laughed. “I remember the days when we had heavyweights. Not anymore, though.”
“And Ali was his real name.” Jack added with a grin.
“Man, you can’t say **** like that,” Al laughed. He looked at Jack and shook his head slowly, “You’re too white to say **** like that. You might end up getting yours.”
“I’ve already gotten it,” said Jack.
“So did that Russian dude,” said Al, taking in smoke from his cigar and acknowledging the fake Bradley’s victory.
There was a knock at the window of the door and Cara was looking in at them. She was smiling brightly with green eyes and her dark hair hung like many beautiful ribbons from a grey, wool beanie that she had pulled down just above her eyebrows. She waved at them before coming in.
“How are you tonight, sweetie?” Asked Al.
“I’m doing well,” Cara took a seat next to Jack and kissed him on the cheek, “How about you guys?”
“Better now,” Said Jack.
“When are you going to take me out, Jack?” Cara put her arm around his shoulders.
“Ah ****, Jack,” said Al, “She’s calling your *** out.” Jack looked at Cara and squinted. She was smiling into her dimples.
“I’m old enough to be your father,” Jack said, grinning through crooked lips. He pulled a cigar out from his jacket pocket as they spoke.
“Maybe even my grandfather,” she said.
“Maybe even your grandfather,” said Jack slowly and with a cocked brow. They all laughed.
“What are you smoking, Jack?” asked Al.
“It’s a Por Larrañaga,” said Jack. Cara rested her head on his shoulder, “It’s a Cuban.” Al raised his eyebrow.
“That’s a great stick,” said Al.
“It’s the oldest brand in Cuba,” said Jack, and then looking down at the girl, “It’s almost as old as I am.” Cara, who was still lying against Jack, laughed and Jack could feel it come from her stomach, then from her throat and mouth. “They only roll these cigars in the summer. That’s why the wrap is so light,” Jack motioned to the vein-y, coffee-colored, claro wrap of the cigar, “And they roll them in these big factories that have rows and rows of rollers and it gets hot. It gets really hot and the workers have a hard time focusing. Of course, you can’t lose focus when you’re wrapping cigars — not when they’re Larrañagas,” Jack spoke slowly and surely and Cara and Al listened, “So, some decades ago, a manager of the factory — and no one knows who he was — hired a local man with a modest education, but an education nonetheless, and gave him the title El Lector,” Jack paused a moment as Josh pushed open the door with his foot. He walked briskly towards the table and placed their drinks in front of them.
“Johnny Walker Blue,” said Josh, “It’s on the house.”
“Thank you, Josh,” Jack took a sip, “and you know, I’m not disappointed.”
“Good,” said Josh. He looked at Cara, “Anything for you, Cara?”
“Nope, not right now. Maybe a tea before I go up.” Josh nodded and left the room.
“So,” said Al, “What did El Lector do?” He was chewing his cigar and Jack could tell that he was genuinely interested.
“Well,” said Jack, “He read. And the rollers would listen. Each one would bring him something that they wanted to hear and that’s what he would do. He would read it to them. That’s why they say there’s poetry in a Cuban cigar. And I would agree with that.” Jack stopped. He punched the end of his cigar and lit it with two matches. Then he evened out the burn by holding the stick well above the flame and drawing long and slow. Every time he pulled, the flame expanded and that’s how you knew you were doing it right. When he was finished, Al asked,
“Is that true?”
“Truer than most things,” said Jack. He leaned back into his chair. The girl’s head was still on his shoulder. He lifted the tumbler of whiskey high above his head and smiled at the dancer in the poster, “Truer than most things,” Jack repeated. And then he drank long and well and in the company of good friends.