James calculated the percentages in his head. He figured he had an 88% chance of winning and went all in. The man across the table called, flipped his cards to reveal two pair, aces and tens, insufficient to James’ flush. The dealer dropped the river card onto the table, an ace, which gave the other man a surprising victory and sent James away from the table, upset at the results but not his play.
The odds were in your favor Jimmy, he thought. You played well but sometimes the cards just don’t come as you’d like.
Dejected by the results of the tournament, he sat down at a blackjack table and eventually won back the entrance fee, plus a little extra. He couldn’t quite count cards, per se, but his memorization was rather unique and afforded him every opportunity to improve his chances of winning. After a lobster dinner with scallops and mashed potatoes washed down with a Hefeweizen late in the evening, he left the casino satisfied.
On a blustery winter morning, after a long night of tournament poker, James went to his accountant job for Harriston Financial, Inc. He sat in his little cubicle punching numbers and reviewing his hands from the previous evening. He went through each one methodically, recalling the cards, the odds, and the outcomes.
One particular series bugged him, in which he folded the best hand, only to find it out later. And the player wasn’t even bluffing. He was on a bad straight draw that he never got before losing to a fat bald man with a pair of sevens. The thought caused James to frown at his own simple miscalculation.
James desk was neatly organized. He had a two layered plastic shelf marked appropriately for “inbox” and “completed” materials. There was a plastic red mug from The Ohio State, his Alma mater, stuffed with pens and pencils. There was a large calculator alongside an accounting manual with crisp pages. What his desk did not contain were personal, non-work related items. No framed photographs, no Sudoku books, no bobblehead dolls, or any of the stuff that cluttered his co-workers desks. James sat at his desk and finished his work, before heading home for the evening.
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"He didn’t even see it coming," said James. "He ran out into the street, I think to catch the bus, and the car just hit him."
"Where were you when this happened?" the lady news reporter asked.
I was at the same corner, waiting for the light to change. He came running down the block, waving his arms. Made it half-way across the street before the car hit him. It tried to stop, I could hear its brakes squeal, but it’s an old car. You need to change your brake pads every couple years, especially if they start squealing like that. You have to check when you hear it making a high pitched sound. If it’s less than a quarter of an inch thick, plan on replacing it soon. But if it gets down to…
"So he crossed when the light told him to stop?" the reporter asked.
"Yes, the red hand was still showing. It's best not to cross when the light tells you to stop. Accidents occur 4.45 times more frequently when someone is disobeying the law. It just isn’t worth the risk. There will always be another bus", James said.
"Thanks, James," the reporter said. She stared into the camera, "For Channel 5 News, this is your reporter on the field, Amy Summers."
The cameras turned off and the crew packed up, leaving James alone.
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Paula followed James out of the bar. They hollered a cab and drove back to James’ apartment on the pretense of looking at James’ CD collection, particularly his Beatles albums. Sitting on the couch, listening to Yesterday, and sipping cheap wine, Paula put her hand on James’ knee, and they began making out.
"I really feel comfortable with you," she said. "I’ve never done anything like this with someone on only the third date."
"Yeah, I think you’re really great," he said.
After a few minutes, things escalated and the two made their way to the bedroom, where James started rolling a condom over his erection.
"James, I’m a second grade teacher and I’m on the pill. You don’t have to worry about me," she smiled.
"Yeah, I know, but I’d prefer to do this anyways. It reduces the chance of pregnancy and the transmission of STDs. Seventy percent of unwanted pregnancies are the result of improper protection and fifty percent of the general population have an STD they aren’t aware of," he said.
They had sex, but she never called him or returned his phone calls.
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James developed a fever and sore throat in mid- November, which two weeks afterwards had not subsided, prompting him to check into the hospital. The doctor told him that it was common and suggested he continue taking aspirin and Dayquil, get plenty of rest, and drink hot liquids. Two weeks later, as James coughed into a napkin during a board meeting, one of his co-workers pointed out little red splatters on the tissue. He returned to the doctor, whose eyes darted uncomfortably as James explained his continued illness. The doctor sent him to the lab to get some tests and scans done. The doctor’s informed their patient that he had a large tumor on his left lung and had very little chance of survival.
On average, someone with an affliction like yours only lives another ten to fifteen months. You could try chemotherapy, but there is only a 5% likelihood of success, a handsome man in a white lab coat said. But it will be long and arduous, and the time might be better spent with friends and family, rather than worrying about appointments and struggling through the sicknesses and pains that result from chemo. It is a tough decision and we don’t expect you to make it now. Go home, discuss it with your loved ones, and let us know when you’ve made up your mind.
James went to the library and researched his disease. He found articles in medical journals of people who had survived but all were considered aberrations to the norm and each review gave approximately the same likelihood of survival as the doctor had. Then he went to a computer and Googled “lung cancer.” Again, the same results appeared prevalently. He even tried calling an old professor at the university, only to learn of his retirement a few years earlier.
Later that night, James ate his ordered in Chinese while watching Wheel of Fortune. He sat silently, eyes transfixed to the TV, watching the vibrantly colored wheel spin. At the end of the show, James set his box of chow mein on the coffee table and stared at the ceiling. He weighed his options, both seeming grim. Then, with no clear answer, no more resources to consult, no family to confide in, and no god to hear his prayers for a miracle, James reached into his pocket. He pulled out a shiny new quarter and began fiddling with it nervously.
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