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“You don’t care if you win? But the trash you and the ladies talk is over the top.” One woman, in a lavender muumuu, cast dispersions on my parentage when I’d rolled my one—and so far, only—bunco.
“We’re all having fun, getting in the spirit. Something about collecting social security for over a decade. You learn what’s important in life.”
“Dear Lord, I have to wait that long to figure out life.” My so-called midlife crisis loomed large. A hazy career plan, a hot and heavy lust affair, seventeen suitcases. I should have asked Amaryllis to make this cocktail a double.
“No one figures out life. We’ve only stopped caring what other people think.” She checked our score card and guided me to our seats for this round. “The key is—” She trailed off and sat at the card table.
“The key is?” I sat across from her waiting on pins in needles for her wisdom.
“Nope, terrible analogy. No key.”
“No key?” I blinked at her. There had to be a key. I needed an answer. My life was all about answers—most trivial and many phrased in the form of a question in memory of the late great Alex Trebek, but they were answers nonetheless. Knowing was my thing.
“Not a key in sight. It’s all happy accidents. Fate. Make the most of it.” She gave me a flourish of jazz fingers. Her sparkly bright pink nail polish winked in the glow of the overhead fluorescent lighting.
“The philosophy of Bob Ross is the answer to life?” I wanted to bang my head against one of Bob’s happy trees.
“I loved him. His paintings are so charming.” Amaryllis took a drink of her ranch water.
“Ten million dollars charming.”
“You’re shitting me,” she sputtered, choking on her half-swallowed sip of the cocktail.
“No, someone has his first ever on-air painting for sale priced just under ten million dollars.” No idea where I read this fun fact, but it was true. A gallery somewhere in Minnesota was swinging for the fences with that hefty price tag.
“Ten million dollars for what? Your brother’s ranch? That seems low.” A steel-haired woman who I knew was named either June or Jane from earlier introductions sat on my left. She owned a hair salon on the main square.
“On the TV show, they said over fifteen million for Blue Star. Your brother got a deal at twice that price.” Wanda took the chair on my other side. I gave her a friendly smile.
“As bad as Wilson was at bunco, it’s astonishing to me he managed a master’s degree in anything, let alone biology, and made a billion dollars.” June or Jean, definitely something with a J, punctuated her sentence with a snort. The trash-talking was on like Donkey Kong.
“Actually, he has a PhD in chemistry. But forget his education. I want to hear about how he got arrested after bunco last spring.” I looked to Amaryllis in hopes she’d fill in the rest of the story.
“The rumors of his arrest have been wildly outsized.” For the first time since I’d met her, she sounded like a politician.
“Who cares if Wilson Phillips can’t do simple math or had to sleep it off in jail? I like looking at him.” Wanda clawed the air and growled like Eartha Kitt as Catwoman.
I fought back a giggle. The tequila fueled an image in my mind of Wanda chasing my brother around the VFW hall tearing at his shirt, her spangly plastic jewelry clacking as she reached for his buttons.
“What about poor Melvin?” I asked.
“I said look, not touch.” Wanda passed me a bag of freakishly orange popcorn.
Oh yes, Wanda, I love you. I grabbed for the popcorn like it was the high-end gourmet stuff the tourists lined up to buy on Michigan Avenue. I hadn’t been hard-core day drinking in years, since all my Chicago friends traded boozy brunches for kids’ soccer games. The proper balance of salty snacks to liquor would be the difference between life and an over-forty hangover.
“My roll, pass me those dice before they get infected with your bad luck cooties.” June, or it could be Jill, held out a hand, and at a signal from the head table, our game restarted. Rolling dice didn’t slow down the conversation anywhere in the VFW Hall.
June or Jean wasn’t wrong. I had shit luck with the dice this afternoon, and it was only a little better this round.
“You know what they say: unlucky at bunco, lucky between the sheets.” Wanda elbowed me with a smirk and showed me her score card. June, or was it Jana, was carrying their team. Wanda’s luck was worse than mine.
“I’m not sure I understand—”
Wanda cut me off with a flourish of her bangle-braceleted wrist. “Oh please, that ranch manager looks like he could more than manage in the bedroom. And from what I hear, you’re the lucky filly getting the benefits.”
I snort laughed and clapped a hand over my mouth. I was forty-five years old, so far from being a filly it was snort laughable.
“The quiet ones like Atley Rivers are the best lovers. Trust me. My first husband was a big talker, not much action below the belt. But my second husband, may he rest in peace… still waters run not only deep; they are also long and hard,” June, or maybe Joan, said with a wistful sigh.
