St. Germain's "Sure Thing" comes on and I am back in Los Angeles, driving home from Larchmont's Jamba Juice on a hazy Saturday late afternoon. Otto is getting the place ready for tonight's poker game with BeTheBoy, Burger and LDG. It looks like it may rain, but probably will not. If I were back in KC, it most definitely would be the start of powerful thunderstorm and torrential downpour. However, it is LA and just an odd cloudy afternoon. My windows are down, my stereo is up and the air feels so clean, a rarity. I can smell that not-so-distant ocean riding the air currents inland.
I have been so hit or miss lately. I don't care if you are superstitious and have s certain chair or think you will win by calling the last game you won. There is no sure thing. I anticipate another bloody standoff between LDG and myself at No Peeky Baseball. I usually win on the last card. I take the last drag from my cigarette and flick it into the road as I pull up to the driveway. I wave to Ugly Chick and her mother, the Armenian Lady Incapable of Smiling. The music stops as I kill the car, but the song keeps playing in my head as I bound up the back steps, eager to get the game started.
