Big Bertha

I was playing in an Omaha game at Big Denny's Barstow Card Casino when I was suddenly startled by a rude shout:

"Move over, buster! I need more room!"

I looked up in alarm. Standing behind an empty seat to my left was the most intimidating woman (at least I think it was a woman) I had ever seen. She was at least 6 feet 2 inches tall, was built like a linebacker for the Dallas Cowboys, and was fetchingly attired in combat boots and sloppy sweats. Her face lacked any trace of makeup, which was perhaps just as well, since she would have needed a trowel to apply the requisite amount. At the very least, she could have used a shave.

"But, ma'am," I explained politely, "I'm in seat No. 5, right in the middle of the table, exactly where I should be."

"That's right," an elderly and frail man seated next to me piped up. "If he moves, he'll be crowding me."

"Seems to me like neither of you guys is gentlemen," she grunted, picking up my chair (with me in it) and tossing it practically onto the elderly gentleman's lap.

"Hey!" I yelled. "Who are you, and just what the hell do you think you're doing?"

"The name is Big Bertha," she responded. "I'm Big Denny's sister."

"Big Denny's your brother? Oh, well," I stammered, "are you sure you have enough room? Can I get you coffee or something?"

"Nah, I'm fine." She plopped herself down and placed an enormous hamburger and bowl of French fries in front of her, along with a wrestling magazine, a bottle of beer, and an ashtray.

"Uh, smoking isn't allowed in California," I reminded her.

"No kidding?" She pulled a cigar out of her fanny pack, got a light from a security guard, and blew a cloud of smoke in my face. Then she drained her beer in one long gulp, let out a chip-rattling belch, and settled back contentedly. "OK, let's play poker," she said.

Her poker manners were even worse than her table manners. When she bet, she banged her chips down with enough force to make the table jump. When she lost, she flung cards and cussed at the winning player, the dealer, the floormen, and any chip runner or porter who happened to pass by. She had all kinds of moves, like pretending to bet or "accidentally" flashing a card to get a tell. She criticized her opponents' play, demanded to see losing hands, and pretty much terrorized the whole table. Everyone was asking for a table change, dealers as well as players. I'm pretty sure that a few times, players mucked winning hands rather than face her wrath. I know that I did once.

As I watched her antics, mischief crossed my mind. With whom could I send her out on a blind date, I wondered. Steve Badger, maybe? Why not? After all, they did have matching mustaches. Suddenly, my daydreams turned to chilling reality. To my horror, I realized that Bertha had begun smiling at me and winking. Then I froze as she started to stroke my knee and said, "You know, baldy, you're not bad looking for an old guy. How'd you like to buy me dinner tonight?"

"Dinner?" I yelped, brushing her hand away. "How about I just buy a feed bag to hang around your neck?"

As luck would have it, my sweetie chose this moment to walk up. "Oh, go ahead and take her out, Maxwell," she said sweetly. "She looks like a real swinger – from a tree, that is."

"Get lost, lady, he's not your type," Bertha growled.

"Who's your type, dearie," my sweetie responded, "guys who walk on their knuckles?"

As Bertha rose angrily out of her chair, I didn't think that things could possibly get worse, but they did. Big Denny stomped up. "Hey, Maxey, ya botherin' my baby sister or somet'in?"

Baby sister? Babies like that you put in a basket and leave on someone's porch. Aloud, I protested that Bertha was the one who was bothering me, along with everyone else at the table.

Big Denny did not appreciate my derogatory remarks about his sister. "Yer head looks a little crooked, Maxey. How's about I sit on it fer a while ta make it more even?"

My sweetie came to my rescue. "Listen, monkey breath," she said, drawing back her fist, "you lay a hand on my Maxwell and they'll be finding pieces of you all over Barstow."

Big Denny turned pale and backed up a couple of feet. "Hey, I wuz only kiddin'. Me an' Maxey is good buddies, ain't we, Maxey?"

"Oy, what's all the tsimmis?" Another country heard from. It was Aunt Sophie, who was working as a cocktail waitress. Her nephew, Michael Wiesenberg, had made her take the job to help him out because he couldn't make ends meet writing for Card Player. She took three beers off her tray and delivered them to Big Bertha, who signed the tab and handed Aunt Sophie a quarter.

"Oh, thank you, thank you, dollink," Aunt Sophie cooed. "For my breast-enlargement operation this will help pay. Michael says that more tips for him I can make with bigger bazoongas." She walked off, calling out, "Last call for alcohol! For alcohol, last call!"

I looked at my watch. "Last call? Denny, it's only 10 o'clock."

"Yeah, dat ol' yenta just does dat ta drum up more business. I gotta tell her ta stop."

"By all means, Denny. That's not ethical."

"I don't care nuttin' about dat, Maxey. Da trouble is, most of dese farmers here don't have no watches, an' when dey hear da bar's closin', dey t'ink it's time ta go home." Denny looked around. Satisifed that Barbara, who had gone looking for a pan game, was not around to protect me, he began getting belligerent again.

"OK, Maxey, ya been real mean ta my baby sister, so ya better do somet'in nice fer her now."

I held my breath. "Like what?"

"Find her a job. After she got canned from workin' as a piano mover she moved down here, an' now she's eatin' me outta business and drivin' all my patrons away."

"How'd she get fired?" I asked.

"Aw, it wasn't nuttin', really. She got mad at a customer and t'rew his piano out da window. Anyway, I hear ya got juice at Card Player. Maybe ya can get her somet'in to do dere, like maybe handle dere PR."

Well, I didn't hold out much hope, but I checked around. The magazine wouldn't touch her, but I did manage to find her a position with Card Player Cruises that she is uniquely suited for. It's now her job to pull up the anchor when the ship leaves port.