Dear Dad...

I was on my way to come see you this morning. We were packing our bags and about to load up the car when Bryan called.

I knew what he was going to say before he spoke.

You were gone.

I sat there numb. I still am a bit. I've cried more than I thought I would. I'll cry more in the coming days. Of this I am sure.

We weren't always close or on the best of terms, but there is one thing I never doubted and that was your love for me. I hope if these words find you, that you know that same love is returned to you from me.

While I always considered myself a Momma's boy, I'm more like you than I ever wanted to admit. The physical resemblance is obviously the biggest giveaway, but there is more to it than that. While I might not have your fiery temper, I am stubborn and persistent like you. I don't like to give up, even when I know I should and that's a trait you always had and exuded.

I have so many things I want to say to you, but yet I don't know what to say. Part of me wants to ignore the bad and try and think of only positive memories. The truth though is that I love you the way I love you because that bad existed. Because you showed you could change. It's something I admire in you. Something I wish I could do.

So yes, we had our issues, although I probably tend to exaggerate them for dramatic effect because that's what I like to do. I remember the physical struggles we had, usually sparked by me smarting off to you and you letting your temper get the best of you. I remember feeling that you thought I was a failure. A disappointment. That even though I was the oldest, I was always third on your list of priorities when it came to your three sons. It always seemed to me that you did more for Bryan and Shane then you did for me. I remember one time I needed a place to stay when I was going through troubles and feeling like you wanted me gone. So I left. That's the bad I remember and I won't lie. It hurt.

That said, there was far more good than bad. You always made sure we were taken care of and provided. We lived a good life and always had the things we wanted and needed... and then some. I took it for granted at the time I'm sure, but we were always the first in the neighborhood to have the "cool" things. People today would laugh, but having a color television, microwave oven, Atari, and Tandy 1000 were huge deals back then.

My love for travel came from yours and Mom's love for travel. You purchased a luxurious home on wheels so we could see the country in comfort and style. The six week trek we made from Alaska to Alabama when I was 15 was one of my fondest memories of my childhood. Not just because I was escaping a life where I was an uncool, bullied young teenager, but because of the time I got to spend with you, Mom, and my two brothers. We might have gotten tired of each other at times, but we were family and that's when we were closest... in those moments visiting family or just taking in some sight that was spectacular.

I wasn't a great athlete but that didn't deter you from cheering me on no matter what sport I was taking part in. I remember you driving beside me in your truck, handing me water as I trained for 10K races running down back country Alabama roads on hot summer afternoons. I remember you teaching me that there is no place for arrogance in sports after I stopped and tied my shoes when I had a massive lead in a two-mile race. I remember you always being there when I had some type of school event.

The other thing you did was always make us laugh. You would crack jokes... very bad ones at times... and do things to try and bring smiles to our faces. I once wrote this as inspiration for a story I was writing... of how the thirty minutes the family shared at the dinner table laughing and joking and sharing stories about our day was the highlight of the day. More families should eat at the dinner table. It's been lost in this day and age I think.

I tended to forget those things though and only think of the bad when it came to you. I left home and joined the Navy because I wanted to get away from you. Mom always saw the good in you though and she persisted. "Talk to him," she would say. "He loves you." I didn't want to believe her. Mom's, though, are always right. And once again she was.

There was one thing though that changed my thoughts on you more than anything. That was your love for Mom. When she was going to leave you when I was a young adult, you could have just given in and gone on your way. You could have given up. You refused though. She was the love of your life and you didn't want to lose her. You changed when that happened. You became a different person. A better person. I could sense it then whenever I came to see you.

I think the first time I ever saw you break down and cry was when Mom passed away. It was the first sign of vulnerability I ever saw from you. I wish I'd seen more of that growing up, but it was a different time back then when men were macho and strong and tough and crying and emotions were seen as a sign of weakness. While I was sharing those tears with you then, know that moment is one that forever resides in my heart and is a lasting impression I will always have of you.

Last year I married the love of my life and you were there for it. I'm so glad that you were able to be there to see that celebration. There's a picture I have from that day where the Hendrix clan posed for a picture and we're all making goofy faces and laughing. This is the Dad I remember most. You hugged me that day and told me you were proud of me and that you loved me.

Well Dad, I want you to know that I am proud of you for the life that you lived. And that I love you.

And I'll miss you.

I call...

If you're too careful, your whole life can become a fucking grind...

Ever since I watched Rounders while attending law school, poker has been a huge, integral part of my life. For over fifteen years it has been the basis for pretty much everything I did. Today will be my last day in this world I love so much. It's bittersweet writing this. Part of me regrets it but in the end I know this is the best thing for me and the opportunities ahead of me are exciting and I can't wait to take them on.

I wanted to write something though to reflect a little on my life in poker and to perhaps send a message to my friends and colleagues in poker. The core of my message is simple really and it's that poker is fun. Enjoy it. Embrace it. Relish in the fact that you are doing something that few others can do. There aren't many things in this world that can give you the freedom that poker can and I think too many people in our little world take that for granted.

I was talking with Nolan Dalla the other day and mentioned to him how I thought poker players interacted differently than they did ten years ago. The core issue is social media and technology and how they've taken over the lives of many poker players. A decade ago, players actually talked to one another at a poker table. They learned who their opponents were and what they were about. Now they sit and stare at their phone in between hands and text their friends about the donkey in the three seat. Now I'm not saying no one ever talks to other players but if you watch poker closely like I have, the difference is notable.

I also talked about how poker players seem unhappy about everything. Again a lot of that has to do with social media and how easy it is to put a complaint out there and how easy it is for people to jump on the misery bandwagon. Maybe people were just as unhappy ten years ago but we just didn't know about it because they didn't have Twitter or Facebook to vent about it. Whatever it is though it just seems to me that too many people embrace the bad and don't look at the good. That saddens me.

I recently went to a charity tournament and it made me remember why I love poker so much. People were talking with one another, laughing, and having a good time. Even though money and prizes were on the line it was a social event where a game of cards was the glue that brought everyone together. This is the poker I love.

I've seen the bad side of poker. Cheating. Theft. Lying. Stealing. Death. I can't count the number of friendships and lives I've seen ruined. Perhaps saddest of all was the story of Brandi Hawbaker. I wrote about that story here.

I've also seen the good side of poker. Laughter. Friendships. Love. Glory. Celebrations. Joy. I've had the honor of witnessing some of that up close and personal. One of my favorite memories was watching the run Nichoel Peppe had at the 2009 Main Event.

I don't want to make this too long because I know in today's day and age people want their information fast and they want it now. So in closing I want to say one last thing...

Thank you for the memories, good and bad. Thank you for the tears of joy, the laughter, and giving me the opportunity to watch, observe, and be a part of this wonderful game. If I had one last wish I could give to everyone in poker it is to remember that life is beautiful. Dream of beauty. Live each day with joy. It'll make your life (and poker experiences) better. It'll make the life of every one around you better.

I call.

Letters to Myself, Chapter Two

Dear Me,

I'm writing this letter to myself because I don't have anyone else to write it to. People think I'm weird anyway, so this isn't going to change anything. I was going to get a diary, but I'm no good at doing anything on a regular basis like that. Besides the stuff I want to say, I don't want to read about two months from now. So I thought I'd write this letter to myself, sort of a way of getting it all out, and then seal it up and forget about it. Maybe someday when I'm old I can read it and laugh. If I ever get old that is.

The reason I'm writing is because I'm fat. Being 13 and fat isn't easy. It's not like I want to be fat, because I don't. Kids in school make fun of me, teachers smirk, hell even my old man looks at me like I'm some kind of alien. He laughs at me and tells me that I can't be his son. I don't think he knows, or cares, that his jokes hurt me more than any punching of my face ever could. Last night he took away my dessert for the fifth night in a row and told me that no son of his would ever look like I do. Then he torments me with it by making these annoying mmmms and oh yeahs as he inhales it. I'd heard those sounds before coming from Mom's and his bedroom, but for some reason I didn't think he was eating my chocolate pudding then. Fuck him anyway, I had a stash of candy bars hidden in my room that I'd stolen from the Texaco station. I ate all six of them, and threw the wrappers out the window, through a hole I cut in the screen. Last time, though, the wind hadn't blown them away, and my Dad found them and beat the crap out of me.

Dad hating me isn't the problem though. It's the kids at school that really gets to me. Like today, I was in the school cafeteria minding my own business, slowly chewing on a peanut butter and marshmallow fluff sandwich that was tasting so good, because I was so hungry, that it reminded me of a piece of my Mom's cake. She makes the best cake. Anyway, so there I am eating this sandwich and washing it down with some chocolate milk, when Gordy Bryan walks up to my table and snatches my sandwich right out from my hand and grabs my milk and dumps it on my head. I didn't even have to look, I knew it was him. He was always doing this to me. Gordy is bigger and taller than my old man, probably six foot tall, and he has a big mop of uncombed brown hair that covers his eyes so that I can never even tell what color they are. Not that I care.

Whatcha doing Mr. Potato Head? he says. Then he laughed and rubbed my wet, Hershey's smelling hair. He's been calling me that since the 4th grade. I guess in a way I did look like Mr. Potato Head. Mom bought me these stupid thick black glasses and I had a somewhat big nose because of my German heritage. His group of tagalong friends laughed along with him. I think the only reason they ever laugh is because if they didn't he'd be doing to them what he was doing to me. Gordy's that kind of guy. Hey Dan, he said, want this sandwich. It looks nummy. Dan, probably the only boy that would stand a chance in a fight with Gordy, took the sandwich, shoved it into his mouth, and spit it out in the direction of my face. Pieces of chewed up peanut butter, sticky marshmallow and wet, spit soaked bread splattered across my face. A piece of it stuck to my forehead and the group all let out this laugh, so loud that the whole cafeteria turned their heads and looked at us. I tried to shove my head inside my shirt -- as if that would help me.

That's when Gordy says, I think we need to put Mr. Potato Head on a diet. What do you think guys? None of them said a word, they just shook their head up and down like some trained puppy would if he was following a treat. Gordy snapped his head left and right looking for something, I don't know what, but I know it's not good. Finally, he smiled, this evil cartoon smile, and grabs me hard by my shoulders. Come on guys, he says, Shelly has a salad, I'm sure she'll let fat boy here have some. That was when I started to fight back. Shelly is the prettiest girl in school and like everyone else, I was in love with her. I don't know how many nights I had laid up dreaming of her. 

 

Gordy and Dan are pushing me towards her, and I'm thinking to myself that I gotta run, that I gotta get out of there. I'm fighting with all my might, but it's no use. I was face to face with her. She is so beautiful, I am thinking as I look at her. Long brown hair, magical blue eyes that I want to swim in. She is what I envision a real life princess would look like. Shelly, Dan says, we're putting Mr. Potato Head here on a diet. Can he have some of your salad? Shelly laughs. A stab me in the back kind of giggle. She pushes the plate over to Gordy with a sparkle in her eyes. Somehow it wasn't the same beautiful glow I had always seen in her.

Eat it fat boy, Gordy yells. Everyone is still watching and I can feel eyes burning into my back, neck, and ears. All parts of me are red and hot and I'm sweating and mad and want to cry. I don't say anything as I stare down at the green lettuce, red tomato slices and orange cheese covered with some type of white dressing. Gordy goes over both of my shoulders and grabs the plate with both hands and pulls it upwards into my face. Everyone is laughing. Even Shelly, the one I loved.

I squirmed out of his grasp and ran. I ran all the way home, stopping every five feet because I couldn't breathe. I never wanted to see any of the kids at school again. I didn't want to hear their laughing faces or see the grins they would flash at me whenever I walked by, knowing that they were not laughing with me but at me. I cried the whole way home, the tears sweaty and hot like the rest of me. That was what had happened to me today. That is why I am writing this letter. Tomorrow, I'm going on a diet.

Me

Letters to Myself, Chapter One

The door hadn’t changed much since the last time I had been home. Maybe a new coat of paint or two to hide the aging, but other than that it looked the same. As usual, the door was unlocked and I was able to walk right in. That had always been one of the benefits of growing up in this quaint, rural area. The house was unusually silent -- no television droning on in the background, no whirring of a dishwasher or thumping of clothes in a dryer. Then again, it had been awhile since I had been here. Five years. A lot had changed.

I hung my coat on the old wooden coat rack that forever had its place in the entryway. I remember running in with my brothers, Lane and Ryan, on a rainy day, our muddy shoes almost certain to ruin the new carpet my parents had put in. Almost telepathically came the voice from the kitchen. “Take your shoes off before you step one foot on that carpet.” I don’t know how she knew, but she always did. Out of respect, I slid my shoes off and stepped around the corner into the kitchen.

I could almost smell the prime rib and taste the chocolate éclairs that Mom always spoiled us with. She sure could cook. We used to tease her that our house was nothing more than “Mom’s Diner,” but she never seemed to mind. Three stools, one for each of us boys, still occupied the spots adjacent to the kitchen counter. Another memory of me hopping in the stool, and telling Mom about my day at school while she cooked one of her gourmet meals, popped into my head. She always seemed to turn and pause at just the right moments. She was good like that.

I walked a few steps out of the kitchen into the dining room. Bookshelves adorned with cookbooks still surrounded the oak table that sat in the center of the room. Now this was the center of the universe. At least it had been growing up. Eating dinner was a social event in our house. It was the one time that we would talk, and laugh. Laughing wasn’t always an easy thing for us to do, but for thirty minutes a day we would joke and smile until our stomachs hurt. Even Dad.

The thought of Dad laughing carried me into the living room. I hated this room. It was the mausoleum of the house. No talking was allowed -- heaven forbid we interrupt Dad’s western or some boring comedy on medics in the Korean War. This wasn’t what I hated though. I could always escape into my room and do my own thing there. No, this room was where Dad beat the crap out of me, usually in front of my screaming Mom and brothers. He would later tell me he was sorry, but not before adding that my sarcastic ways deserved a good tuning up. Breaking his rule of silence, I quietly mouthed “fuck off” to the image of my Dad in his recliner. Just like old times.

The door to my bedroom was shut. I wondered if it had been opened since the last time I had been home. A slight creak came from the hinges as I pushed on it. It was funny, now, looking at the room. A worn poster, the edges peeling from the wall, of Madonna in a wedding dress from her Like a Virgin days greeted me. Lord knows how many nights I would satisfy my teenage urges with her. A faded letterman's jacket, once bright red, now more of a rust color, hung on the edge of the dresser. Pictures of my life, from the time I was a boy until the last time I was home, were scattered throughout the room. I sat on the edge of the bed, and laid back like I once had long ago. One thing hadn't changed. The spattered pattern on the ceiling was still like a magical painting where I could put people, places and dreams.

I laid there for thirty minutes thinking about what had brought me here again after all these years. Sitting up, I collected myself, and noticed a large box on a shelf in the closet. Wow, I thought, knowing exactly what was in the container. I had almost forgotten about it. I went to it, and ran my fingers over the hard cardboard edges. I pulled it down. It seemed heavier than it had five years ago. I sat it on the edge of the bed and took the lid off. Stacked neatly in envelopes were letters -- hundreds and hundreds of them. Letters not from anyone. They were letters to myself. One day, when I was thirteen, I had sat down with the intent of starting a journal and ended up writing a letter addressed to yours truly. I did the same thing, usually after some momentous event in my life, for the next twenty years. Five years ago, I stopped, and brought the box to my parents house, thinking I would never see it again.

The sound of the front door opening startled me out of my trance. I put the lid back on the box. I'd get to the letters later. I walked out towards the living room and saw my father, old and faded like my Madonna poster, come slouching in. He looked up at me, weary and beaten. I'd never seen him so defeated. Weak.

"Hi, Dad," I said.

"Hi, Son," he said, his voice breaking.

"I suppose we should get going," I answered, heading towards the door.

He nodded his head and followed me. His eyes stayed directly on the road as we drove. It was awkward quiet, but it always had been with him and I. He pulled into the parking lot and we walked through a sea of black to our seats. A solemn man stood before us, and the sea stopped roaring. He spoke.

"We are here today to celebrate the life of Lea Anne West, devoted wife and mother."

I closed my eyes and cried.

Later that evening, I sat alone in my room, and picked a letter from the top of the box. It was the first one I ever wrote, and it hadn't been touched since the day I put the pen to paper. The envelope was stale and crisp, like a leaf on a dry autumn day. It fell apart as I ripped it open. I started to read the words - words of a lost, thirteen year old boy - and suddenly, I was taken back to a world I had long since forgotten. A world I didn't want to remember.

Play Again - Complete Version

Michelle Culver was twenty four going on fifty. She had gone from an
attractive, slim girl full of hope at the age of thirteen to an
overweight mother without any true expectations in life. Or for that
matter, any hope. A strand or two of gray hair speckled her long
brown locks and try as she might, Michelle couldn't pull them all
out. She was out of shape and always tired. To her, sleep was the
best thing about living. It was then that she could dream of a life
worth living.

Tetris. The game where blocks stack up higher and higher, and the
goal is to fit in the pieces so as to knock them down. Michelle
could never seem to fit the pieces in right, and before she knew it
the game was over and a message, with a yes and no button, was
flashing across the screen.

Would you like to play again?
Michelle clicked the little gray button.

Michelle was eleven years old and developing into a beautiful young
woman. She excelled in school without even trying and everyone loved
her. Her body was years ahead of her time and she had no problem
attracting the attention of all the boys. Her Mom, long divorced
from Michelle's father, was dating Lawrence Forus, a forty something
attorney who smelled like paper and ink toner. He was an attractive
middle aged man, with sandy blonde hair and forest green eyes, but
the years had softened his once hard body and he had a slight paunch
in the middle. Michelle didn't really trust him, or like him, he
seemed "fishy" as her two sisters liked to describe him, but Mom was
happy and that was important. A year later, they married and the
family moved across the country to San Diego, California, away from
Michelle's childhood memories and friends. The beautiful four
seasons of Vermont were now replaced by the boring, always sunny
weather of southern California.

It only took a month before Lawrence, or Dad as he insisted on being
called, would start to beat Michelle. It wasn't the smack upside the
head -- owww, that hurts -- kind of beating. It was more along the
lines of the "motherfucker, you do that again and I'll kill you in
your sleep" kind. Michelle never did though. Her two little sisters
would scream for "Dad" to stop as he sat on top of Michelle and
pounded her with his fists. Michelle's hands would desperately try
to cover her face and ears, as she prayed to someone - anyone - that
he'd stop in time. On the really bad days he would open her small
mouth with his gray, letterhead worn, grimy fingers, and spit into it
and force it shut. "Taste me you bitch," he would laugh, letting
drool drip from his mouth all over her chin and neck. Later that
night, Michelle would vomit, hoping any remnants of that man would
leave her body.

Michelle's Mom would just watch. Michelle was not sure what her Mom
was more afraid of, Lawrence or her. She would sit on the couch, a
vacant stare occupying her empty face, watching some invisible fly on
the wall, listening to some song implanted in her head from the glory
days of her youth. Michelle would crawl to her, and she would back
away at first, until she knew that he -- that he -- was gone. Her
arms would open and she would pet Michelle like their cat, Babe.
Only Michelle didn't purr.

It wasn't always that bad. "Dad" would go away for weeks at a time,
and sometimes if Michelle was lucky, months. Those were the good
days. Sharon and Beth, her sisters, and Michelle laughed then. They
had to. There was no laughter when he was there. When he was gone,
their Mom -- the one they loved, the one who loved them -- returned.
Michelle always wanted to ask her why they stayed, but she knew the
answer. "He'd find us. And kill us," or "He provides a good life
for us." "Good life my ass," Michelle thought in response to the
unasked question. Michelle wanted to tell her that she'd rather be
dead then spend another day with him. Her mouth, though, like a
child being forced to eat spinach, stayed shut. Then he would come
back. Had to be home by six for dinner when he was there. Dinner
time always came much too soon.

Things never got better, only worse. First, he started with Sharon.
Sharon was the youngest, eight at the time. "Dad" liked them young.
He didn't even bother to hide it, raping Sharon right there on the
living room floor, in front of their mother who acted as if she were
a deaf mute, and Michelle playing with her Tinker Toys building a big
impermeable fortress. "Dad" got tired of Sharon after a year or so
and turned to Beth, who was eleven at the time. Michell, now
thirteen, had tired of Tinker Toys and now built great monuments of
protection with Lincoln Logs. Higher and higher the walls would go.
He would tear them down. He had a way of doing that.

Beth was thirteen when he got tired of her. "Damn slut," he would
call her. "Who have you been fucking? You've been fucking someone
else, haven't you?" He would yell this at Beth as he beat Michelle
with his fists. He'd never hit the other two, only Michelle. He
saved that just for her. He'd yell at them and take his anger out on
her. She was his punching bag. Michelle didn't run though, she'd
rather he hit her than them. Besides, she was used to it.

Then, he started with Michelle. He came into her room one night, a
couple of hours after beating her senseless for being eight seconds
late for dinner, and sat on her bed. The smell of his Marlboro still
lingered over him.

"Take off your pants, " he demanded.
"Bu.. Bu.. But why? I di.. did.. didn't do anything,"
"I didn't ask. I told. Take off your god-damned pants."

Not knowing what was coming next, or at least not wanting to believe
it, Michelle did. He turned her over and forced himself upon her,
his paunch pressing firmly into her back while his knees forced her
legs apart. Michelle bled for hours afterwards and when it stopped,
he did it again. She was a month shy of her fifteenth birthday.

The day Michelle turned fifteen, she kissed her mother on her cheek
as she slept on the sofa. She left a note for Beth and Sharon under
their pillows. And a note for "Dad" on his. It was short and sweet -
- two words -- Fuck you. She walked out the door, knowing she would
never come back. Happy Birthday, she thought. Happy Fucking
Birthday.

Would you like to play again?
Michelle clicked the little gray button.








The one good thing, perhaps "Dad's" only redeeming quality,
had been that he gave the girls each an allowance of $100 a month.
Michelle had saved most of her allowance, and had taken the liberty
of stealing whatever money she could find, including her sisters and
her Mom's. She herself had saved a little over three thousand; her
sisters had contributed a couple thousand apiece, and the rest of it
came from her Mom's purse. She had apologized to her sisters in the
notes she had left them, sure that they would understand. She
counted the money that night in a cheap, one hundred dollars a week,
motel room a mile from the Mexican border. It was the kind of motel
room that smelled like air freshener and cigarettes, and where the
bedspread had probably been there for the last ten years. Michelle
took a whiff of the money spread out before her, but it reminded her
too much of "Dad," so instead she went back to the menial task of
separating and counting the crumpled up bills. Eight thousand two
hundred and twenty one dollars. And a quarter. It was a lot of
money for a fifteen year old girl, but she had no home, no place to
go, no job, no friends, and Michelle knew she would need every last
cent of it - even the quarter.

Michelle spent her first days of newfound freedom walking
along the beaches and boardwalks of Chula Vista and Mission Beach,
ignoring the hoots and catcalls that seemed to follow her wherever
she went. She had even been offered a job by a runty Mexican with a
pencil thin mustache named Luis. Unfortunately for Michelle, Luis
was a pimp. She walked away, laughing for the first time in months,
flattered but insulted. She ate cheaply, buying stale bread, peanut
butter and store brand jelly from the Ralph's grocery store that was
down the street from the hotel. To wash down the dry sandwiches, she
would drink the murky, sour water that came from the tap in her two
foot by two foot bathroom.

Two weeks after she ran away from home, Michelle could be
found sitting on the brick wall that separated the beach from the
sidewalk. The ocean breeze would ruffle through her hair like a fan
and the chlorine smelling ocean lingered in her nostrils. She was
reading the help wanted ads of the San Diego Tribune, looking for the
one ad that would be searching for a fifteen year old runaway with no
clue of what her social security number was. That was one detail she
failed to remember and now she was regretting it. A tall, lanky
black man sat down beside her, glanced over in an unnoticing way, and
asked if he could borrow the sports page.

When he handed it back to Michelle ten minutes later, he
thanked her and walked away without saying another word. Two days
later, in much the same spot, and at about the same time, he came
back and again asked for the sports page. Michelle had thought
little of the man at first, but now she wondered who, and what, he
was. Enough that a week later she finally said something more
than "your welcome" when he thanked her for letting him read the
sports page.

"So, what's your name," she asked, looking away. No one had
ever intimidated her like this, not even "Dad." He laughed and then
started to walk away.

"What's so funny? Why are you leaving?"

"Cuz'," he answered, his feet still carrying him away from
where she sat. "Yous a lil' girl. You ain't nuthin but trouble."

The next day she asked him his name again, and once more he
laughed. Michelle was persistent, though, and on the third day he
finally just muttered "Kenny. Kenny Wayne," as he walked
off. "Kenny Wayne," she thought to herself that night as she doodled
her name and his on a ripped out page of a Bible. Next she asked him
how old he was, and for two days he merely laughed like before. On
the third day, he told her twenty six. Within a month she managed to
find out that he worked at Ralph's on the graveyard shift as a stock
clerk, that he liked rap music and sports, and that sitting on the
hard brick wall of Mission Beach reading the sports page and talking
to her was his one true pleasure in life. Kenny lived in a cheap one
bedroom apartment with two other co-workers, white guys, who he
couldn't stand. One day, Michelle asked him if he wanted to crash on
her other bed, and Kenny never again spent another night in the Vista
Loma apartment complex he had called home.

One night as Kenny's tall outstretched frame dangled off the
small double bed he had been using, he looked over at Michelle,
hesitated, and in a quiet, unassuming voice told her he loved her.
Michelle felt her throat tighten up, and her heart skipped like two
kids playing hopscotch. How could he love me, she wondered? They
had never slept together. They had not even kissed. And here was
this grown man, with his thick black curly hair, his dark eyes and
soft deep, voice looking at her -- a fifteen year old runaway with
nothing -- and telling her that he was in love with her. At that one
moment, Michelle was certain she had never been happier.

When Michelle found out she was pregnant two months later,
Kenny cried. Michelle had never seen a grown man cry before, and was
not sure if his response was due to happiness or anger.

"What's wrong?" she asked, hesitating a little, afraid that
he might be upset. Kenny was quiet and just shook his head.

"Baby?" Michelle looked at him, her eyes begging him to talk.

"Fuck." Kenny said.

"Fuck."

A fist flew down on the square, lifeless pillow and a small cloud of
dust puffed up into the air. Michelle had never seen Kenny get this
mad. It reminded her of "Dad" and scared her so much that her hands
started to shake.

"I... I can get an abortion," Michelle said, her voice raspy
as her breathing quickened.

"No," Kenny said. "No."

"What is it? What do you want me to do?"

"Nuthin. It's not you. It's me."

Kenny walked to the window and pulled back the drab brown shades that
only somewhat protected the room from the glare of the street
lights. He turned and looked at Michelle sitting up on the bed, her
knees pulled up to her chest, tears running down her white but tanned
face, as hair stuck to the moist portions of her cheek.

"You know I love you. For real," He said.

"Yea baby. I know you do."

"I gots to go," he said, quickly grabbing his pillowcase full of
clothes and walking out the door.

The quick, pertinent thud of the door rang in Michelle's ears. She
wanted to get up and chase him, wanted him to come back and hold
her. As if she were a ghost, Michelle floated over to the window and
looked down at Kenny as he bounced down the stairs. As he reached
the bottom he turned and looked back up at her. Michelle pressed her
hand against the window, looking like a child does the first time
they ever ride on a plane. Kenny smiled - a sad, regretful smile -
and put his hand up slowly, blew her a kiss and waved good bye.

Would you like to play again?
Michelle clicked the little gray button.





Kenneth Michael Culver was born on an unusually cold February
day in a San Diego clinic. Michelle left the clinic two days later,
three thousand dollars poorer, and carrying a beautiful, smiling
brown child who looked exactly like her. Michelle knew it was only a
matter of time before she ran out of money; five hundred dollars
would not last her and the baby that long. Going home was not an
option. She could only imagine how her white, wonderful, step-dad
would react to not only her, but to a child -- a black child. For a
moment she thought of Luis, the Mexican pimp, and then remembered
that she wasn't beautiful any more. She had gained sixty pounds
during her pregnancy and the cat calls had been replaced with looks
of scorn and disgust. Michelle wasn't sure if the looks were because
of her, or because of her unaware child. Probably both, she thought.

Michael, she didn't like to call the baby Kenneth because it
reminded her of his father and in a way she still loved him, was a
remarkable child. He never fussed and always slept through the
night, and his smile was a beacon of hope for Michelle. She now had
something worth living for, and she was going to do whatever it took
to make sure that her child never had to go through what she had.
She would finish school, go to college, and take care of her child.
These were the dreams that filled her empty nights.

Michelle was down to her last hundred dollars when she
finally found a job at an ice cream stand. The ice cream stand stood
right at the entrance to the Mission Beach pier, and the owner only
hired Michelle because he could pay her under the table for two
dollars less than minimum wage. She could even keep Michael there
with her while she worked. Michelle barely made any money, but it
was enough to keep her cheap hotel room and feed her and Michael
something else besides sugary sweet waffle cones.

It was a monotonous life. Work, go home and take care of the
baby, and fall asleep together. Eighteen now, Michelle wondered if
she would ever do anything but this. Michael had become a celebrity
of sorts on the pier. The regular ice cream patrons would always
come in and see how he was doing and what new words he was saying.
Still, Michelle knew that she could not raise him this way forever.
Especially when the occasional white person would sling "nigger
lover" insults at her with him sitting on her lap. Then there were
the black women who would just glare at her with hateful eyes as if
she had stolen something from them.

It was a sweltering July day and even the ocean breeze was
not enough to cool off Michelle and Michael. She had already gone
through four bottles of water, water she would have to pay for out of
her own pocket. She smelled like a vanilla shake, beads of sweat
dripping from her face, as she waved a magazine at Michael to keep
him cool. A boisterous group of sailors, fresh out of boot camp
Michelle thought, were approaching the stand. Michelle looked away,
hoping they would pass the ice cream stand by. Months of ice cream,
potato chips and soda had not helped Michelle regain her pre-
pregnancy figure, and she felt anything but attractive.

"'Scuse me Miss," came a voice. Shit, she thought, they had
stopped. Michelle turned her head to the left and saw that there
were six of them, all white, all thin, all looking like milk men in
their pressed white uniforms. Michael smiled at the sailors, and as
was his custom flapped his little arm at them to say hello.

"Cute kid," the shortest of them muttered. "He yours?"

Michelle sighed. She knew what was coming next. "Yes," she
said, doing her best to smile. "He is."

"Right on," replied the inquisitor.

From the back of the group Michelle heard someone mutter "Damn nigger
lovers, they're everywhere." Then a murmur. And then quiet.

"Well she is," said a tall, muscular sailor; his southern
twang becoming more evident as he walked forward demanding Michelle
to give him a large chocolate cone.

"See," he drawled. "She's not the only one who likes her
chocolate."

"I said that's enough Tillman. I meant it."

"Oh go fuck yourself Barnes. Whatcha gonna do? Kick my ass
over some nigger lover?"

A reed thin sailor, patches of brown hair evident from
underneath his white dixie cup, with a confident walk moved to the
front. He was as tall as the redneck southern boy and Michelle could
almost feel him moving.

"Maybe I will."

"Like you could."

Michelle had been standing there the whole time, observing the whole
scene and not saying a word.

"Guys," she yelled.

They looked at her as if she had appeared out of thin air.

"Either get some ice cream or I'm gonna have someone call the
cops," Michelle barked.

"Yea," Tillman said. "Let's just get some ice cream and get
the hell out of here."

Michelle handed Tillman his chocolate cone and he walked away
grumbling under his breath how Barnes couldn't kick a gnat's ass if
it laid there for him. Michelle laughed and looked over at Barnes,
whose face appeared to be a little red. He's cute, Michelle thought,
but quickly shut out the dreams flying through her mind. No guy
would be interested in an overweight, white eighteen year old who had
a two year old brown-skinned son.

"Sorry about my friend. He's an ass," Barnes said.

"Don't worry about it," Michelle answered. "I'm used to it."

"How could you ever get used to that?"

"I don't know. I just do."

"If you say so," he said, extending his hand. "I'm Donnie."

"Hi," she said, feeling her face get even warmer than it
already was, her hand taking his. "I'm Michelle."

"Want to go out sometime?" he blurted. A slight beeping
sound came from his waist and he glanced down at a small, black pager
and quickly pushed a button to silence it.

"Huh?"

"I asked you if you wanted to go out sometime."

Michelle adjusted herself in her chair. The only time she
ever got asked out was if it was by some middle aged black man who
assumed because she had a black child, that she would just give them
a piece of ass.

"Huh?"

"Are you deaf," he laughed. Making signs with his hands as
if he were translating via sign language, he spoke simply and very
slowly, pausing after each syllable.

"I...asked...you...if...you...want...ed...to...go...out...some
...time?"

"Me?"

"No, your son." he replied sarcastically. "Of course you."

"Ummmm...OK. Sure."

"Tonight?"

"Tonight?"

"Yes, that's what I said. Tonight."

"What's your hurry?" Michelle said, worried that he, like
most men she knew, was only after one thing.

"I transfer out of here in a month. I want to get to know
you." Donnie's pager went off again as he spoke, and like before he
pushed a button to silence it. Only this time he did it without
looking to see who had paged him, as if he knew who it was.

"Oh," she said, realizing that she had just stuck her foot in
her mouth. "OK, tonight is good, I get done here at 8."

"Great," he answered, flashing a toothy grin. "See you then."

"Wait," Michelle said.
"Yes?" he smiled again. It was a smile that made Michelle
want to rip her clothes off right then and there.

"What about my son?"

"Well I told you, I wanted to go out with him. Weren't you
listening?" Michelle laughed like a four year old laughs at her
Mom's bad funny faces. "Bring him," Donnie said as he walked
away. "It'll be fun."

Donnie, Michelle and Michael went out every night for the
next two weeks. Donnie took them to restaurants, movies, and even
the San Diego Zoo. Michael laughed and laughed at Donnie's
imitations of all the animals and Michelle knew she was falling in
love. It wasn't the same kind of love she had with Kenny. That love
was sort of mystical. She hadn't really understood what love was
then, and sometimes wondered if she had even loved him at all.
Loving Donnie was easy and comfortable. He would be a wonderful
father, she knew, and that was important to her, and more importantly
to her son. He needed a dad. When Donnie asked her to marry him a
week before he was leaving, Michelle was not surprised how easily she
answered yes. Her only concern was how often he would go off to use
the phone to answer one of his pages, but she was tired of the ice
cream stand, and of being close to her sisters, even her Mom, and not
being able to see them. Moving to Whidbey Island in Washington would
take care of those problems.

Michelle was sleeping in the passenger seat of Donnie's red
1994 Ford Bronco when he nudged her. "Look," he said, motioning her
to look out of her window. Michelle, half dazed, saw the sun setting
in the horizon over the ocean. They were driving over a bridge that
connected the mainland to the island. Water was crashing on rocks
beneath them. Green, piney trees provided shelter to the gritty,
sandy beach, and a purplish-orange hue reflected up off of the
water. "It's beautiful," she said. As they crossed over the bridge,
she read the sign noting the name of the landscape they had just
seen. Deception Pass. Michelle wasn't sure what it was about that
sign, but suddenly she had a feeling of uneasiness run over her. It
was as if the sign was an alarm clock, and she had just awoken from a
deep slumber. Michelle continued looking out the window, and
realized that she knew nothing about Donnie. Nothing at all.

That night, question after question bounded through
Michelle's mind. Why did Donnie's pager always go off? Why was he
always sneaking off to use the phone? It had never bothered her
before, but now it was driving her crazy. When Donnie's pager went
off four times in twenty minutes, Michelle looked at Donnie and for
the first time, questioned him.

"Who is always paging you?"

"No one," he said quickly. "Just friends."

"Alright," Michelle answered. "Michael and I are going to
go for a walk. Wanna come with?"

"Naw, I'm tired from the drive," he yawned, plopping himself
onto the bed. "I think I'm gonna catch some z's."

Michelle grabbed Michael by the hand and walked out of the
room. She chased Michael down the hallway and could only laugh as
his little feet stumbled over themselves and caused him to fall and
giggle.

"Hang on baby boy," an out of breath Michelle said. "Momma
needs to run back to the room real quick."

Michelle walked quietly down the hall and stood outside the door to
their room. She heard Donnie's muffled voice coming from inside.

"I know, I know. It's only temporary babe. I promise."

Michelle got on her knees and pressed her head against the door,
straining to hear more.

"One month. No more than that. I felt sorry for her and her
kid, OK?"

"Momma?"

Michelle had been so intent on hearing what was being said that she
had forgotten Michael was there.

"Shit," came Donnie's voice from inside. "She's back. I
love you. Gotta go."
Michelle heard an abrupt click and some hasty movement from inside
the room. "Come on baby," she said, grabbing Michael by the
hand. "Let's go on that walk."

Michelle walked down the streets of Oak Harbor, Washington
watching people pass her by. Happy people. People in love. Mom's
with their kids, laughing -- and meaning it. Twelve year old boys
racing their bikes across the street as angry motorists honked their
horns at them. Michelle realized she had never gotten to play with
other kids, and that for the longest time she had been anything but a
kid. But here she was -- married, eighteen with a two year old son,
and she was a kid.

I'm not going to let this beat me, she thought. He's not
going to get rid of me. I don't care if he feels sorry for me or
not. She picked Michael up and brought his small body in close to
hers. His muddy fingers grabbed her cheeks, and he smiled.

"I love you Momma."

"Come on baby," Michelle sighed, as she ran her fingers
through Michael's wiry, black hair.

"We're going home."

Would you like to play again?
Michelle clicked the little gray button.





Donnie swore that it was over between him and Kathy, his old
girlfriend, after Michelle confronted him. "I love you," he
insisted. "You and Michael mean the world to me." Michelle had no
other place to go, and when she saw the way Michael fell asleep in
Donnie's arms that night she knew she would stay.

Donnie's ship went to sea two months later, leaving Michelle
and Michael alone like old times. Except now they had a two bedroom
apartment which via the magic of Donnie's credit cards had become
fully furnished. He had handed over his checkbook to Michelle before
he left, telling her to take care of the bills. Every two weeks, as
Donnie would be scrubbing some meaningless piece of pipe while
floating in the Pacific Ocean, Michelle would get his paycheck. The
military took care of everything it seemed, and for the first time
since she had ran away, Michelle felt comfortable.

Bored, Michelle found a job at a video store. She had
finally gone to the Social Security Office and sent out for a new
card. Michael loved his baby sitter, Nicki, especially her two year
old son Dustin. They were best pals and many times Michelle would
stay the night at Nicki's place and let the two of them run wild.
Donnie would call Michelle collect whenever they pulled into some
foreign port, and they would talk for five minutes and he would have
to go. Often, Michelle could hear people laughing in the background,
including the soft, sultry laughs of a female. She hated the fact
that he had to be gone for so long, and that when they did talk it
was only for a moment. Part of her wondered too if Donnie was being
faithful. Ever since that one night, doubts had continually been in
her head.

When Donnie came home it was as if they had just met again.
They made love like newlyweds for two weeks straight and could not
get enough of each other. In time, however, everything turned into a
routine. Work, come home and eat dinner, watch TV, go to bed, and if
they hadn't fought like they normally did, they would make love.
Before long, six months would pass and it was time for Donnie to go
back to sea. This time, though, they would be able to keep in touch
via e-mail. Donnie thought having a computer would help keep
Michelle from getting bored and restless. Plus, they could use it to
keep in touch.

It was on the computer, in a chat room, that Michelle met
Caroline. Bored one evening after Michael had gone to bed, and
feeling lonely, Michelle ventured into a world unknown to her, but a
world that strangely appealed to her. Here, she could be anyone and
anything she wanted to be. She didn't have to be a nineteen year old
runaway, with a three year old child, suffering through a lonely
marriage. She could be Happy! In fact, her screen name even made
reference to that -- she was Happy_Girl. Ironically, one of the
people she started talking to was Caroline. It was ironic because
Caroline was married to a Navy man and lived five minutes from
Michelle. After a month of talking on the phone, they met, and soon
were best of friends.

It was Caroline who convinced Michelle that there was more to
life than her husband. It was Caroline who introduced her to her
numerous male friends. It was Caroline who helped undress Michelle
and then watched as three men had their way with her. And, it was
Caroline, who taught Michelle the wonders of being with another
woman. It was all a big, lurid fantasy for Michelle, like some scene
out of a Cinemax late night movie. Caroline and Michelle jumped from
bed to bed, sometimes together, other times not, and laughed about it
the next day. Michael would fall asleep on whatever couch or chair
was available that night, pretending he was oblivious to it all, but
knowing something was wrong.

When Caroline introduced Michelle to Alex, a guy she had met
off the Internet but was only friends with, Michelle had no idea that
she could feel so giddy and completely lost as she did with him.
With Kenny, Michelle thought that he might have been a replacement
for "Dad," that he had been there when she needed someone. Need was
exactly how she viewed her marriage to Donnie. She needed to escape
and he provided that for her. She needed someone to take care of her
and Michael. He did that. Alex, though, was different. Michelle
would lay up at night, dreaming of his boyish movie star like looks.
His blue eyes were mesmerizing, and he had a cleft chin that she
could run her fingertip over for hours. She loved to run her fingers
through his thick blonde hair and memorized how he breathed in small
huffs with an occasional deep breath when he slept. Michelle
wondered what Alex saw in her, but Caroline insisted that Alex was
being genuine. She could not stop thinking about him. Nor could she
stop loving him. They began an affair, he was married as well, and
would secretly sneak off to meet one another, even when Donnie was
home.

Michelle was twenty three when Donnie became eligible for
shore duty, which meant he would be home every day. No more six
month vacations from her marriage. Alex had divorced his wife a year
ago and was pressuring Michelle to leave Donnie, but Michelle was
hesitant. Even though he had lied to her, Donnie had been good to
her when she needed it most and was wonderful with Michael. As much
as she loved Alex, he was in school and didn't have a steady job. He
wouldn't be able to provide for her or Michael for quite some time.
Over and over she told Alex that she would leave Donnie, if and when
he finished school and got a job -- a good job.

It became harder and harder to find time to see Alex, who
was beginning to show frustration with the whole situation. Donnie
had started to get suspicious and was much more inquisitive about
where Michelle was running off to, and going to Caroline's house had
become taboo so she couldn't use that as an excuse any longer.
Donnie couldn't stand Caroline and he made as much known to
Michelle. The only time Alex and Michelle would see each other was
when Michael was in school and Donnie was at work. Usually, she
would go over to Alex's small apartment and spend a couple of hours
with him before rushing off to pick Michael up from school.

The weight of it all became too heavy for Michelle. She
couldn't do it all. She couldn't pretend to love one man, love
another, take care of her son and work a full-time job. She was
twenty four going on fifty. Life was merely a process of waking up,
breathing and pretending everything was alright. It wasn't though,
and she knew it. It was two o'clock on a Saturday afternoon when she
called Alex. Michael was taking a nap and Donnie was on duty until
six. He answered the phone as he always did, with a loud "Wassup."
Michelle could hear Pearl Jam playing in the background, Eddie Veder
singing soulfully, "I know someday you'll have a beautiful life."
Michelle didn't say anything at first, her mind was on the song and
the words... "I know you'll be a star in somebody else's eyes."

"Michelle, is that you?"

Michelle snapped out of her trance. "Shit, yea it's me babe,
sorry. I was listening to that song."

"I love that song," he said, his voice soft and lulling as
the song finished playing. Michelle heard a click, and knew that
Alex had stopped the tape. She could picture him lying there, on his
small bed, wearing nothing but blue and white polka dot boxers as
cinnamon incense burned on top of his dresser.

"What's up hon?" he asked.

"Can you come over now," Michelle answered. "We need to
talk."

"Yea," he said, a curious tone coming over him. "What's up?"

"Just come here. OK?"

"Sure, be right there," he said, as Michelle heard the other
end disconnect.

Michelle looked into Alex's eyes and tried to tell him it was
over. She wanted to tell him that she had to be with Donnie, that it
was the right thing to do for her son, and that she couldn't be with
him anymore. But as she held his hands and stared into his icy, but
kind, aquamarine eyes, she became lost again. She melted into him
and their bodies connected like a magnet does to steel. He was
moving slowly in and out of her, his fingers grazing the smooth
outline of her face, his voice whispering into her ear "I love you.
I love you," as she moaned softly, when the bedroom door opened.

"What the fuck is going on here Michelle?" Michelle didn't
need to see the face. It was Donnie.

"Who the fuck is this?"

Alex jumped up, and seeing something in Donnie's hands just
as quickly got back into the bed. Michelle looked to see what had
frightened Alex, and saw that Donnie was holding a rifle.

"Yo man," Alex whispered, as he sat up with a pillow
covering his lap. "Put that shit down. No one needs to get hurt."

"A little fucking late for that, ain't it man?"

"Donnie," Michelle cried, her hands reaching out for
Donnie. "I'm sorry, Donnie. Put it down."
Donnie pointed the gun at Alex and pulled the trigger, the blast
echoing through the room. Alex's body slumped forward and his chest
fell onto the pillow. Michelle screamed -- her mother's scream. The
scream she used to hear when "Dad" beat her.

"No"

"No"

"Oh My God No"

Donnie calmly lifted the gun and started to point it at Michelle.

"Mom? What's going on Mom?"

"Michael, get out of here," Donnie ordered.
Michael came into the room and noticed the shiftless body of Alex,
the hysterics of his Mom, and the rifle that Donnie was pointing at
her. Michael ran towards Michelle.

"No, Michael," she pleaded. "Go."

It was too late. Donnie had already pulled the trigger, and
unknowingly Michael saved his mother's life. The bullet hit Michael
in the side of the head as it came to rest on Michelle's lap.
Michelle looked up at Donnie, her face not knowing what to do, her
body frozen. She spat as she spoke.

"Kill me."

"Do it."

Donnie put the barrel of the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger,
leaving Michelle in a sky blue room painted with fresh red spots, a
single queen size bed, a cheap K-mart dresser, and three boys. All
dead.

Michelle didn't cry. She pushed Michael off of her and
stepped over Donnie's body. Wearing nothing but a pink terrycloth
bathrobe, she walked out the door and moved zombie-like down the
road. As was often the case in Washington, rain was coming down,
hard and incessant. Michelle's body ached inside. Her heart,
whatever was left of it, beat slowly, unsure of whether to go on.
Pain ripped at her, and a single tear fell from her face. Michelle
didn't care about the rain, or the wind beating down upon her. Cars
zipped by, people looked. It didn't matter to her, nothing mattered
anymore. She walked for what seemed like miles, her legs tired, yet
she plodded on. She walked through dirt paths, broken glass and
lonely alleys. Homeless people stared up at her, frowns on their
faces, unhappy with their lives. Michelle wished she was them. She
wished that she could have their pain instead of the pain she now
felt.

Michelle walked past the sign marked Deception Pass to the
middle of the bridge. She stared out into the ocean and closed her
eyes. She couldn't hear the pounding of the surf, nor the annoying
caws of the seagulls.

"Taste me you bitch."

"I gots to go."

"It's only temporary."

"Mom. What's going on Mom?"

I know someday you'll have a beautiful life.

The voices rang in her ear like a church bell on a Sunday
morning in December. Michelle opened her eyes. There was "Dad"
sitting on top of her, his weight pushing down on her stomach and his
hard, steel knuckles meeting her soft flesh. Mom was crying on the
couch, reaching her arms out. Kenny was waving good bye. Alex was
kissing her. Donnie was pointing a gun at her, his gray eyes red
with anger. Michael was running with her, to her. His head on her
lap.

No more games, Michelle said. I don't want to play this game
anymore. Michelle climbed on top of the rail. She looked down at
the rocks beneath her. She turned her head and looked at the road,
the road that would lead her to some new place, to some new life.
Maybe she could go find her dad. She wavered on the edge, unsure of
which direction to go, not knowing whether it mattered.

Would you like to play again?
Michelle clicked the little gray button.

Play Again, Chapter One

Michelle Culver was twenty four going on fifty. She had gone from an attractive, slim girl full of hope at the age of thirteen to an overweight mother without any true expectations in life. Or for that matter, any hope. A strand or two of gray hair speckled her long brown locks and try as she might, Michelle couldn't pull them all out. She was out of shape and always tired. To her, sleep was the best thing about living. It was then that she could dream of a life worth living.

Tetris. The game where blocks stack up higher and higher, and the goal is to fit in the pieces so as to knock them down. Michelle could never seem to fit the pieces in right, and before she knew it the game was over and a message, with a yes and no button, was flashing across the screen.

Would you like to play again?
Michelle clicked the little gray button.



Michelle was eleven years old and developing into a beautiful young woman. She excelled in school without even trying and everyone loved her. Her body was years ahead of her time and she had no problem attracting the attention of all the boys. Her Mom, long divorced from Michelle's father, was dating Lawrence Forus, a forty something attorney who smelled like paper and ink toner. He was an attractive middle aged man, with sandy blonde hair and forest green eyes, but the years had softened his once hard body and he had a slight paunch in the middle. Michelle didn't really trust him, or like him, he seemed "fishy" as her two sisters liked to describe him, but Mom was happy and that was important. A year later, they married and the family moved across the country to San Diego, California, away from Michelle's childhood memories and friends. The beautiful four seasons of Vermont were now replaced by the boring, always sunny weather of southern California.

It only took a month before Lawrence, or Dad as he insisted on being called, would start to beat Michelle. It wasn't the smack upside the head -- owww, that hurts -- kind of beating. It was more along the lines of the "motherfucker, you do that again and I'll kill you in your sleep" kind. Michelle never did though. Her two little sisters would scream for "Dad" to stop as he sat on top of Michelle and pounded her with his fists. Michelle's hands would desperately try to cover her face and ears, as she prayed to someone - anyone - that he'd stop in time. On the really bad days he would open her small mouth with his gray, letterhead worn, grimy fingers, and spit into it and force it shut. "Taste me you bitch," he would laugh, letting drool drip from his mouth all over her chin and neck. Later that night, Michelle would vomit, hoping any remnants of that man would leave her body.

Michelle's Mom would just watch. Michelle was not sure what her Mom was more afraid of, Lawrence or her. She would sit on the couch, a vacant stare occupying her empty face, watching some invisible fly on the wall, listening to some song implanted in her head from the glory days of her youth. Michelle would crawl to her, and she would back away at first, until she knew that he -- that he -- was gone. Her arms would open and she would pet Michelle like their cat, Babe. Only Michelle didn't purr.

It wasn't always that bad. "Dad" would go away for weeks at a time, and sometimes if Michelle was lucky, months. Those were the good days. Sharon and Beth, her sisters, and Michelle laughed then. They had to. There was no laughter when he was there. When he was gone, their Mom -- the one they loved, the one who loved them -- returned. Michelle always wanted to ask her why they stayed, but she knew the answer. "He'd find us. And kill us," or "He provides a good life for us." "Good life my ass," Michelle thought in response to the unasked question. Michelle wanted to tell her that she'd rather be dead then spend another day with him. Her mouth, though, like a child being forced to eat spinach, stayed shut. Then he would come back. Had to be home by six for dinner when he was there. Dinner time always came much too soon.

Things never got better, only worse. First, he started with Sharon. Sharon was the youngest, eight at the time. "Dad" liked them young. He didn't even bother to hide it, raping Sharon right there on the
living room floor, in front of their mother who acted as if she were a deaf mute, and Michelle playing with her Tinker Toys building a big impermeable fortress. "Dad" got tired of Sharon after a year or so
and turned to Beth, who was eleven at the time. Michelle, now thirteen, had tired of Tinker Toys and now built great monuments of protection with Lincoln Logs. Higher and higher the walls would go.
He would tear them down. He had a way of doing that.

Beth was thirteen when he got tired of her. "Damn slut," he would call her. "Who have you been fucking? You've been fucking someone else, haven't you?" He would yell this at Beth as he beat Michelle with his fists. He'd never hit the other two, only Michelle. He saved that just for her. He'd yell at them and take his anger out on her. She was his punching bag. Michelle didn't run though, she'd rather he hit her than them. Besides, she was used to it.

Then, he started with Michelle. He came into her room one night, a couple of hours after beating her senseless for being eight seconds late for dinner, and sat on her bed. The smell of his Marlboro still
lingered over him.

"Take off your pants, " he demanded.

"Bu.. Bu.. But why? I di.. did.. didn't do anything,"

"I didn't ask. I told. Take off your god-damned pants."

Not knowing what was coming next, or at least not wanting to believe it, Michelle did. He turned her over and forced himself upon her, his paunch pressing firmly into her back while his knees forced her
legs apart. Michelle bled for hours afterwards and when it stopped, he did it again. She was a month shy of her fifteenth birthday.

The day Michelle turned fifteen, she kissed her mother on her cheek as she slept on the sofa. She left a note for Beth and Sharon under their pillows. And a note for "Dad" on his. It was short and sweet -
- two words -- Fuck you. She walked out the door, knowing she would never come back. Happy Birthday, she thought. Happy Fucking Birthday.

Would you like to play again?
Michelle clicked the little gray button.

A Wasted Life...

I ran into a poker player that I knew from back in the poker heyday of 2005-2010. This player had done remarkably well in that time frame and had cashes well in excess of seven figures. Today, he's broke and struggling just to make ends meet... living with friends and family... roaming... searching for the glorious life he once had. He told me how he had fucked it all up. How it was all his fault. How he gambled thousands away in the pits. Loaned the wrong people money. Spent it on partying and drugs. I was going to write a blog piece about him (keeping his name anonymous) and talk about his wasted life. And then a realization hit me. My life was a wasted one too.

Now I'm not wanting to turn this into another pity party like my last entry, but well when you've hit middle age and are reflecting on your life, it's easy to do so, so for the few of those who read this, bear with me and my apologies.

I had a life with so much potential and promise and I've pretty much thrown it all away. Don't get me wrong, I love getting to write about poker and I'm happy to be doing it but, and this is a big but, I know I could do better. Well at least at one point in my life, I could have.

While I might post photos of me winning/cashing in a poker tournament here or there, for the most part I'm a pretty modest guy. I post those mainly because I'm insecure in many areas of my life and crave attention. Sad, I know, but it is what it is. Here are some things most people don't know about me and this isn't bragging, it's just evidence of my wasted life:

-- I have a genius level IQ
-- I scored an 800 on the math portion of the SAT
-- I scored above 170 on the LSAT
-- I was accepted to Harvard Law School (but turned it down because I couldn't afford it)
-- I had a 4.0 GPA in undergrad

So yea, all that does is clarify that I'm smart. Whoopity-Doo. Being smart gets you no where in life if you don't do something with it and I haven't done a damn thing with it, and probably never will if I 'm being honest about it.

I'm lazy and an underachiever plain and simple. Yes, I can work six 14 hour days in a row covering poker tournaments but when it comes to accomplishing the things I am capable of, I'm a sloth.

I have a MFA in Creative Writing and won top fiction honors from my graduate school. What do I have published? Absolutely nothing unless you count some obscure poker fiction I wrote for pokerpages.com back when I was working for them.

I once had over six figures in my online poker accounts and was a profitable player for over five years before Black Friday hit. I taught people to play, wrote regular strategy articles for countless publications, was hired to run a mentor program at an online poker school, and made my living off of solely poker for over five years. One of my students once called me "the best player no one's ever heard of" but I've done nothing with those skills other than turn it into a semi-permanent job covering the poker tournament circuit.

I went to law school for two years and quit to play poker. I told myself, and everyone else, that it was because I didn't want to be a lawyer and loved the freedom that poker brought me. While that's true, the bigger reason was I was just too damn lazy to want to work 14 hour days as a lawyer.

So here I sit, three months away from my 45th birthday and what do I have to show for my life? Other than a great girlfriend, a nice car, and a roof over my head... nothing. I'm running out of money and the bills are getting harder to pay. Eventually I will run out of money and be forced to look for a "real" job but who wants to hire someone that hasn't worked in the work force in a decade and whose degrees are in English and Creative Writing?

I'd love to play poker full-time but that's easier said than done. I can't play online because of our ridiculous government and I don't have the finances to even attempt playing live. I don't even know if anyone would back me because it's not like I am some 22 year old internet whiz kid (even though I feel like I could play with any of them) and my live success is fairly limited to small buy in tournaments, many of which are not documented.

So where do I go from here? People say it's never too late. My Mom was living proof of that as she ultimately went to Harvard Law School in her mid 30's and became a successful health care attorney before succumbing to cancer. I feel that it is too late though. My teeth are falling out from not going to the dentist for fifteen years (lazy), my finances are mediocre at best (lazy), my future is bleak and there is only one person to blame for it all. Myself.

And so it comes that I realize I've wasted my life. I'll keep living. Keep moving on day by day. But deep inside I know, that I failed to do what I was capable of doing and that I could have been so much more.