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Pastimes : FLAME THREAD - Post all obnoxious/derogatory comments here -- Ignore unavailable to you. Want to Upgrade?

To: Druss who wrote (6467)	2/6/1999 2:19:00 PM
From: Solon	Read Replies (1) \| Respond to of 12754

It was 1997, a warm summer day, as I pulled my 1985 two-tone blue Buick LeSabre into the taxi loading area at the airport. I opened my trunk to the burly man, and he tossed in his luggage before I could assist. Then he walked to the passenger door and threw himself into the front seat. The man looked awkward in his business suit and his shabbily tied four-in-hand. His hands betrayed the working background of his youth, and his hairline betrayed the distance he had traveled from that wonderful time. He gave his destination and the taxi slid off along the asphalt. It wasn't long before the talk turned to the stock market and now his eyes lit up hugely. He played the pennies; I played the pennies. I recognized the gambler sitting next to me; I had seen his type before in many places; risking all on a single card, scaring the hell out of everyone else in the poker room and at the stook table. But he always lost; if not that day, then the next. Our rapport was good and before long an odd trust had developed. He was making more and more eye contact with me, and his eyes began to take on a tormented look and his face got pinched as he told me the big story that he had inside of him: It was a penny stock, like most of his gambles; but this one was different. Suddenly he was up $250,000 dollars. But it wasn't enough. He wanted to make millions, and then... His face had the agonized look of the rower that transported travelers across the river Styx. Like him, and like poor Sisyphus, he had no destination of his own that he could ever reach. "I had it all". He paused. "I lost it all". His haunted eyes were fixed on mine. Was it recrimination he wanted? was it shock or disbelief? It was odd, indeed; but suddenly I knew. It was forgiveness. The man had never forgiven himself; he never would. "All the way to the bottom, eh", I said softly. "I never did sell", he replied in a barely audible voice, still staring fixedly at me. Suddenly, the moment was gone and relief washed over both of us. The strains of soft classical music drifted around us from the rear speakers, and both of us lapsed into a serene silence as my taxi slipped effortlessly down the asphalt river ways. The kind of silence that Thoreau would have probably longed for if all three of his three stools were taken. In my mind's eye I pictured him, as he excitedly (or fearfully) checked the ticker each day. I pictured him as he made a hundred promises to sell...and broke them a hundred times when the price corrected, or when the drop could be justified or rationalized by the economy, the news, or simply his own thoughts. Somehow he knew enough not to win. All he had was the game. If he lost that--he lost it all. For now, he could always search for meaning; but if he found the pot of gold...even hope would be gone. I left him there at the hotel: he to continue his search, and I with a $10.00 tip. This is a true story, but in order to conform to thread protocol I will now change the ending... "Who's your broker"? I asked him, suddenly curious. He stopped with the lobby door half open and turned back to face me. "Greatest guy in the whole world", he said. "He even gives me a bottle of whiskey every Christmas; on my birthday, too! Never forgets"! He fumbled awkwardly in his pockets and finally brought out a business card which he handed over to me. "Greatest guy you'll ever meet", he repeated in a monotone. "He lost a lot more money than I did trying to bail me out with options and the like. The bastard Canadian shorts did us both in". He rubbed his forehead in a puzzled manner, appearing as though he had slipped into a fugue state. "NEVER forgets...every Christmas..." The man's voice trailed off as the lobby door eased shut behind him and I saw him disappear as he merged with a swarm of people descending on the front desk. Back in the taxi, I made a left on the one-way, and I headed toward the coffee shop to grab a portable. Suddenly, I became aware of the business card between the thumb and finger of my right hand. A drunk stumbled across in front of me and I missed him. It seemed the whole week had gone like that. They were getting faster or I was getting slower. I looked into the mirror at my hairline, and I wondered how much a transplant would cost. It was a garish card with HUGE letters in an unpleasant gothic script. In each corner was a ghastly snake with a vicious looking face, an American $100 bill hooked in its vile mouth. And there in the middle was the one horrid word that I dreaded more than all others. The word with the eerie sibilant quality. He was my best friend in our little backwater draw school where we both grew up. But that was many years ago...before the tragedy changed our lives forever. An icy finger tapped on my spine, and my ragged breath caught in my throat as I desperately tried to suck in some air. I got out of my cab and collapsed on the ground as it idled into the plate glass window of the coffee shop and groaned helplessly. I was still shrieking when the ambulance arrived and the two men hooked equipment into me; and then the siren was cutting through the day while busy people stopped to stare. "In the front a voice said softly to his companion: "He was holding this business card in his hand. Interesting! I think I'll check it out. My wife and I are both getting into the market. Different name, though? DRUSS. and another hole opened up in the universe... (and, of course, there is a story behind all of that...)