Fiesta, Siesta, Requesta no mas

Carlos Venesuela, the palefaced mexican, trotted into town late Monday night. Its unclear as to whether he has a job or any redeemable qualities, other than his gambler’s mentality. He was on my freshman hall at Duke, and after graduating we lost contact for about three years. The loss of contact suspiciously coincided with him losing a hundred dollars to me, and failing to return my calls. Ive been called many things in my life, but never a fucking welcher dude. Actually, thats untrue, there have been many times I have been called a welcher but most of those people got their pensions back. I finally tracked his tamale loving ass down by running into a random fraternity brother of his at a Mirage poker table. To his credit, he promptly sent me what was owed and informed me he would be moving to Vegas soon to be a pro poker player.
He made a trip out, presumably to figure out a living situation, and ended up crashing on my couch for like three days before slinking back home to roost. He called me up a week back and told me he would be flying in yesterday night around 11:30, so I told him I could provide quarters and a ride from the airport. He called me at the appropriate moment, confiding that he had a few cocktails en route. When I went to pick him up, he was so drunk that he couldnt locate passenger pickup, and when I had him in my siteline I told him to turn left and he’d run in to me at which point he promptly turned right and dropped the contents of his daybag onto the cruel asphault. We met up with another buddy of his, and went to play in the 60 dollar no limit Alladin tournament. Ill spare you the bad beat details, but I was up a little with twenty players remaing and got in a triple up situation with pocket kings against king queen suited and pocket sixes respectively. Actually, fuck you, I smack you in the face with the details. Fucking runner runner flush dude. I thought KQ was drawing dead and I was just trying to duck a six when the dude starts celebrating. Motherfucker. I still took a twenty dollar bounty off Carlos, but it leaves a bad taste in your mouth when you’ve set yourself up to be chip leader and lady luck sticks a carrot up your ass.
I even had a guy sitting at my table who was the textbook definition of a Richie. You know how a man might refer to himself as Richard, Rick, or even Dick if given the surname Richard? Then there are the dudes who decide to go Ricky and it could go either way. Either their a spunky kid with something to prove and jujitzu training, or they are a giant pussy. With Richie, its no choice. Richie is a pussy, plain and simple. There has never been a dominant Richie, and never will be. I defy you to find one example of a non-fictional Richie who would be considered a success by John Wayne if he was doing the judging. By the same token, the Duke can spot a poker player, and wasnt one dude name of Richie that could have survived a texas road game. Richie is by definition the guy in the game who makes nervous raises with weak hands and bows to any reraise. He only came out to have a little fun, and when the pressure is on his glasses start to steam over. He is wearing either a cap or t shirt with a bandwagon sports team on it and whenever he drags a pot, he gets this dimwitted smile on his face as if he just pissed in your pool. Richie could be in nine of the ten seats at your table, or he could just be in your seat. Whatever the case, Richie was playing at my table last night and he showed down an 8 high against me after bluffing me a third of his stack. If I hadnt been fucked out of what was rightfully mine, I was walking out with the trophy dude.
Either way, I ended up towing Venesuela back to my couch, watching Roger Dodger and passing out around 5 o clock in the AM. Its always sweet hitting the bong at four twenty in the AM, feels like a much larger accomplishment than the shit in the afternoon. You look to your stoner buddies who retained consciousness with you and simply flash a thumbs up, we made it dude, we fucking made it. When I came to in the morning, we rallied with a duel wake and bake. I threw on a history channel Rasputin documentary, gave the kid a key, and left him to his devices as I headed to work. After he got picked up by a poker buddy of his, we agreed to meet up for the UNC/Duke showdown that ended with a 4 point devils victory. Guess what I got the spread at? If you answered, “the mad dog layed 4.5” you’re the lucky winner of an earful of my shit. MAKE A FUCKING FREE THROW, IM TALKING TO YOU DOCKERTY. YOU MISS FUCKING TWO IN A ROW, PEOPLE BET MONEY ON THIS GAME YOU SELFISH PIECE OF SHIT. Shelden Williams could have kept it real making a couple there at the end, but why would that happen. The only person Im not angry at is JJ Redick who inexplicably was bombing threes early in the shot clock to keep the spread attainable down the stretch.
After watching the dominant victory and complete lack of a cover, I was feeling very unsatisfied. My buddy Rocco had free tickets to a hypnotist, but I couldnt go because I had to tutor some kid at 8:30 in the PM. Instead, I saddled him with a Venesula that had already begun drinking all game. Rocco proceeded to feed the meximan shots of my southern comfort until they all stumbled towards the show and I headed to work. About half an hour later I get a call from Carlos. I excuse myself from the session, and try to quickly answer whatever query is headed my way. Im greeted by an unfamilar voice on the oppositte end of the line, who identifies himself as Excalibur security. He informs me that my boy was found passed out in a parking lot and I needed to come get him.
I thought about my dilemna for about thirty seconds, and then made the proper choice. Fuck him. I didnt say it like that to what was likely a former offensive lineman, but I made it clear I wouldnt be offering any help in this situation. There was no way I could possibly explain to this kids parents that I was abandoning their son’s schooling in order to care for my lush of a friend, and I was pretty sure dude was bluffing when he said he was just going to leave him in the parking lot. I basically told him I would give a call when I finished up, but not before. When I wouldnt listen to no neck’s pleadings, he put our inebriated cargo on the phone to ellicit pity. The conversation went something like this:
Me – "Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you, how did you lose Rocco?
Carlos – “Yo, man you gotta come get me. Im at the…its on the strip…where am I?…the Excalibur. Come to the Excalibur.”
Me – “I cant do it dude, you have to hang tough for an hour, Im working.”
Carlos(With the resolve of a conquered general sending what remains of his troops into a hopeless last charge) – “Ill just find someplace to crash.”
I think he fell asleep in a handicapped spot at that point, but I wiped my hands of the ordeal. I finished up the tutoring session and called back to get a status check. I got the same disenfranchised member of the security staff when I responded an hour later, and he informed me that a room had been chartered for stay that night care of Carlos’ papi. Imagine getting a call from your son saying that he was too intoxicated to be allowed to hang out in a casino. Probably pretty proud of his seed, that guy. At present, he sits comfortably tucked into a bed in suite 122, and when he wakes in the morning he will wonder first where the fuck he is and second when the fuck did wendsday get here. Such is the life of a man who might well be more worthless than me.

Fiesta, Siesta, Requesta no mas

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