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A Wonderful Friend
He would literally burst into a room, much like Kramer in the Seinfeld show,without quite the dramatic fanfare, of course. But, when Carter arrived, you knew it. Thedoorbell would ring. I would open the door, and there he was, poised, close to thethreshold, waiting to charge in.If it was winter, he’d be wearing a big overcoat and his arms would be loadeddown with all of his high-tech paraphernalia - a notebook computer, perhaps a smallthermal printer, cell phone – all contained in a nylon bag or two hanging from shoulder straps. One hand would be holding a folded garment bag, or a suitcase. He appearedlarger than he was. Perhaps it was just his countenance. He sort of filled the room. Carter had presence.He’d grunt a quick, “Hey, how ya doin’” as he was entering in his bustlingmanner. He was always anxious to run upstairs to dump the unnecessary stuff on the bed,and then he would change into sweats and return to set up the computer, all the whileagain offering a greeting and chattering about how he had to return some guy’s phone calland check his email. He’d unplug my phone and plug in his modem.“This guy’s in Hong Kong,” he’d say. “It’s tomorrow afternoon there and I gottacatch him now.”He always brought a six-pack of diet seven-up and a huge bag of Doritos. He’d pop the top off a can and start sipping as he ripped open the chips and began munching.“Christ’s sake,” I would complain. “It’s seven o’clock. When the hell do you winddown?”
 
He’d ignore my complaint since he was already on the phone while standing atthe bar where he had set up, and he’d be pounding away at the computer keys.“The guys will be here any minute,” I’d say. “You here to play poker, or what?”Then, the doorbell. It was Phil. As I let him in, I could see Eph driving up lookingfor parking. Soon, there would be at least four or five of us waiting for Carter to wrap upand quiet down. We’d all be talking, sometimes two separate conversations going on atthe same time.Eventually, Carter would slam the lid down on the notebook and zip it in its bag.Then, he’d take his place at the head of the table. He always insisted on sitting there. Itwas his “lucky” seat. Damned if he didn’t always win, too.Carter would pull a wad of money out of his pocket, his aggregate winnings fromthe last umpty-ump games we’d played. There’d always be at least a couple of hundreddollars there. We played about every four or five weeks. Then, he’d reach into his pocketand bring out one or two packs of United or American Airlines cards, all nice and newwith the cellophane unbroken. He’d dump his bag of Doritos into one of my large bowlsand shove it into the center of the table so we could all share.The rest of us would be sipping beers, or in my case, scotch. We’d pull out a pileof quarters and one-dollar bills as we readied ourselves for battle. Carter would take awhile to settle down. He’d engage Phil in a conversation about some current businesscrisis or technology trend while he fumbled with the cards, dropping the deck as he triedto shuffle with his massive hands, while not paying attention. Then he’d deal one card toeach of us. High card got the first choice of games and the deal.Somebody would catch a King or an Ace. “Little Eva,” they’d say.2
 
Then, the doorbell. Gil, Eph’s brother, was there.A new player would say “What the hell’s Little Eva?”“Three card low-ball,” the guy who caught the high card and deal would say.Then, he’d have to explain how it was played. We played some crazy games. In additionto straightforward ones like Texas Holdem, someone would want to play ”Black Mariah,”or “No Peeky.”All the while some of us got drunker and the jokes got more raunchy.Carter was always dieting, and he’d quit alcohol some years earlier. Maybe that’swhy he won so often.“I though you quit smoking, Al,” Phil would say.“Yeah, I quit, then I start,” I’d whimper, hating myself for being so weak. “I’llopen the slider and go outside to puff so you guys don’t have to suffer.”That made me feel less offensive, albeit more guilty. “You gotta die of something,” I’d say lamely.The doorbell again. “That’d be Bob,” I’d say.“How come he’s always late? It’s eight-thirty,” someone would say.“That’s just Bob,” would be my reply.Carter would pull out a little pot pipe and stuff it with some grass. After a few pulls, it would get passed around. By then, everyone except the abstainers would begetting silly.“God, this is fun,” Phil would say. “Why don’t we do it more often?”“Cause Cart only stays here every few weeks, when he has business in the valleyfor a couple of days,” I’d say.3
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