Welcome To The Bullpen
Kings over Jacks
Samual Engelman
My right index finger pulled the card slowly across the table towards me, and my face remained like stone when I turned it over, although inside my heart beat slightly faster. The King of spades almost grinned at me when I slipped it into place among the other five cards in my hand. I would not say it was my lucky card, I did not believe in luck, but ole King David sure as hell had won me some money over the years since my overdue retirement. I say overdue not because I was old, but instead because I was tired. I was tired of the endless tracking and riding, the near-misses that left bullet holes in my duster, but most of all, I was tired of fighting. My particular expertise had run its course anyway, and I had nothing to show for it but the loathing of these newly arrived “civilized” settlers. I had cleared this dangerous and untamed land for them, and now, men like me were the only thing which did not belong in the “New West.” However, something I did not realize when I handed my badge over, but I would soon after, was that even if a man changes his occupation, it does not change who he is.
When I looked up from my friend, the King, I was greeted by another friendly face. The boy across from me was grinning from one side to the other when he looked up from his own hand. He had already bet all of his money and I had called, so all that was left was the show.
“Full house!” The boy leaned back with an attempted nonchalant motion, tossing the cards onto the table before me. One of his three Jacks slid until it hit my left hand which was still resting calmly on the table. Brushing his Jack of clubs towards the center of the table, I prepared to show my own hand. He did not give me a chance, however, and reached for the cash on the table. Now usually a man could get a well-deserved licking for what the boy had just done, but I understood that he was just a little deep in his cups, so I went easy on him. I cleared my throat softly and placed my cards one after the other on the table. First one four, then the other, then the King of hearts, followed by the King of clubs. I then held the King of spades between two fingers and tossed it softly toward him; it spun end over end until bouncing off of his chest and landing on the table. The card looked up from the table to the boy; with his sword in hand and his stoic face, the King seemed to stir something deep inside him. The boy’s enormous smile faded into a foul grimace and he stood up abruptly sending his chair skidding backward a couple feet. “Can’t be…you cheated!”
When his hand moved for his gun, everyone else at the table jumped and fell and ran backward, away from us. In the panic, the table was flung over. Chips, coins, drinks, greenbacks, and cards exploded into the air; like multicolored butterflies, the debris from the table drifted and hung suspended in air as if gravity was having no effect at that moment. Before me stood the boy; the whiskey-fueled accusation was just an excuse. I knew his story without ever knowing him. I saw him as a young boy, reading dime-novels by candlelight turning page after page with a boyish smile. I saw him a little older, awing over gun tricks he saw at a traveling “wild-west show;” perhaps he had watched Buffalo Bill or Seth Clover shoot. I saw him older still, leaving home and imagining greatness as he practiced twirling his father’s revolver, which was gifted to him for his journey away from home. Now he was just another reckless kid out in the world, looking for fame any way he could find it.
The papers would have a hay-day with this. I could already see the headlines that would run tomorrow. “Ex-Pinkerton gone rouge, Wallace, guns down boy in Ogalala,” is what they would say, true or not, that would be the fact of the matter. It would be yet another black mark on my, already tarnished, reputation.
The cards and money were falling slowly, twisting and turning like wounded fowl freshly hit by a scatter-gun. The boy’s hand was still reaching for the gun at his hip, and my eyes were watching the scene in brilliant color and clarity. The boy was dressed very plainly, in patchy pants, and a stained off-white shirt. He wore a hand-me-down bowler hat that used to be black, but now was closer to brown, stained by the Nebraska dirt. His blue eyes were wide with a mixture of excitement and fear, and the mustache he was attempting to grow collected a few beads of sweat from his face. His mouth was half-open as if he were trying to think of something to say and his gun was secured with a well-used belt. The pistol hung high on his right hip, loosely clutched by the holster. The moment the boy’s fingers closed around the revolver, he turned from boy to man. The cards began to descend more rapidly.
It was a Remington 1875, not well kept, with specks of rust peppering the cylinder and barrel. It clung for a moment on the holster, which was not made for that particular revolver, but finally freed itself from the shabby leather and the man began to raise the gun. It was level with his navel, and his thumb had begun to cock the hammer back when I finally reacted. The fluttering cards were falling at full-speed now, as gravity and time had made themselves again relevant. In a smooth fraction of a second my fingers closed around the nickel-plated Schofeild on my own hip, I cleared leather, cocked the hammer, leveled the gun, and squeezed.
The projectile instantaneously planted itself squarely into the man’s chest. There was no blood for a moment, only a burnt black hole which appeared directly left of the man’s breastbone. He stumbled backward and sat down in the chair he had been sitting in only a few moments before. Dark blood climbed out, expanding in all directions from the bullets entry, then moved down the man’s belly, covering the front of the tight shirt. His half-cocked revolver slid from his dying hand and fell to the floor as he opened and closed his mouth slowly, attempting to breathe or speak or cry, I would never know which. With a last effort, the man pushed himself up in the chair and toppled over backward, finally coming to rest face-down on the newly crimson floor. I never even caught his name. Never even a “hello” or a handshake, but as I watched the man exhale his last breath, somehow I felt that I knew him better than anyone ever had.
As I re-holstered my Schofeild, I could not help but notice the last of the cards touching down softly to the ground in front of me. My eyes immediately set on the King of spades which was resting only one step in front of me. I took the one step, kneeling to the ground and picking up the card with my thumb and finger. Beneath it was another card, which was face down. It was not luck, I do not believe in luck. Nor was it chance, which is as fleeting and frivolous as the former. However, I knew what the other card was, even before I picked it up with my trembling fingers.
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REVIEW 1
First, some minor typos/spelling errors: It's "heyday," not "hay-day." You realize you have the Pinkerton going "rouge," don't you? I think you want him to be "rogue." You misspelled Schofield twice. "Another black mark on my already tarnished reputation." You put "already tarnished" between two unnecessary commas. Onto other things: The opening sentence bothers me just a touch. Saying your right index finger pulled the card toward you seems to disembody things a little bit. Why not just say something like "I pulled the card slowly across the table toward me"?
Again at the end of the story when you picked up the card with your thumb and finger. Why not just say that you picked up the card? Similarly, "The projectile instantaneously planted itself squarely into the mans chest" is another sentence that stuck out for me. It just seems so remote. It's not passive voice, but in my mind it carries the same problems that using passive voice does. I'd go with something more direct and active: "the bullet bored into the man's chest." "The bullet plowed into the man's chest." I don't see the need to use a high-falutin word like "projectile" and don't see the need for the adverbs "instantaneously" and "squarely" (though if I could only get rid of one, I'd get rid of "instantaneously").
I realize this is a matter of taste, but I think more use of contractions makes the narrative sound more genuine, while not using them gives it a little more of a formal air. "Something I did not realize" as opposed to "something I didn't realize." The latter just sounds more natural to me. Others may disagree. The scene where the narrator clears his throat and lays down his cards one by one just doesn't ring true to me. Sounds like a scene from a movie, done for effect. And besides, you've already got the kid impulsively reaching for the pot, which I would think would be a loud and chaotic situation. But you've got the narrator doing this slow, quiet thing. Wouldn't that get drowned out by the chaos of the kid grabbing his pot?
I'm a little bit lost by the ending: Are the readers supposed to be able to figure out what the unseen card is? If so, then just call me slow. I think the writing is well done, but I have to say my opinions are mixed as to the slow-motion aspect of the story. It sounds like you're describing watching this whole thing unfold in a movie where the scene is displayed in slow motion. I get the point that in a situation like this, the narrator's perception is going to be supersharp and everything may unfold as if it is in some kind of slowed-down time warp (much like an athlete is said to be "in the zone" when having a great day). But there's something about this that strikes me as just a little overdone, and I'm wondering if that could be toned down some. As I said, I don't feel like I'm watching this scene unfold in real life; I feel like I'm watching some modern movie director's slow-motion treatment of this on the screen.
I'm sure there will be other reviewers who think I'm way off-base here and are fine with the story just the way it is. Also, I find it hard to believe that the table would have been flipped over, the kid reaches for his gun, gets shot, falls back in his chair, then leans forward and falls again on his face and there's STILL a card that hasn't fluttered to the ground yet. I realize artists are allowed to take license, but I think you have to weigh the license given to you against whether or not it affects the credibility of your story.
One last minor point: Where you say he sees the scene in "brilliant color and clarity." I would lose the "brilliant color" part. Why would seeing something in color be worthy of mention? That IS how people see. Sure, B&W photography would have been around at the time of this story, but not very widespread, so I don't think people would have thought about seeing anything other than in color. I don't have a problem with the hyperattentiveness of the narrator; I just think that whole slow-motion aspect of the story needs to be tone down just a tad. A terrific effort nonetheless.
D. Persica
REVIEW 2
Overall pretty good but a few comments: First paragraph, sentence beginning However, something I did not realize… I’m not sure this theme was carried through the story. I never did understand what he realized. Fifth paragraph Is this paragraph needed at all? What was the ”black mark”and why is it important. Eighth paragraph, First sentence Why a “projectile”and not just a bullet? ”Dark blood climbed out”, Climbed, really? ”I felt I knew him”. I think I see the point but perhaps a sentence or two of explanation would help the reader understand what you knew. Last paragraph, last sentence Honestly, I didn’t understand at all.
Tim Tobin
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