When I'm Calling You ... Part II

In Part I of this mostly true saga I described how my sweetie, tired of never being able to find me in casinos, and unable to obtain a long-enough leash, humiliated me by buying one of those stupid walkie-talkie two-way radios and making me wear it on my belt so that she could always locate and summon me whenever she wanted something. I described how the first disaster occurred when I was working in our community garden plot in Hollywood when she suddenly got a craving for loquats and ordered me, via the walkie-talkie, to steal some from the community trees there. In doing so, I was bitten by a guard dog and pelted with birdshot in the behind. But even more was to come when we went to Las Vegas for the World Series.

The first night, I was playing in an Omaha game while my sweetie was in a satellite about 20 feet away. She could have taken 10 steps to walk over to me, but no, she had to use the walkie-talkie.

Ring. "Hello?"

"Maxwell, come over here right away. Over."

"I can't. I just posted my big blind and the cards are being dealt. Over."

"I said come here. Right now!"

Reluctantly, I abandoned my hand and walked over. "What do you want?" I asked.

"Go to the room and get me a bottle of water."

"To the room? Why can't you just order a bottle?"

"And spend a dollar? Nothing doing."

"I just lost four dollars when you made me walk away from my hand in the blind."

"I saved you money. If you had played the hand you'd have lost a lot more. Now shut up and get me a bottle of water."

Grumbling, but not loud enough for her to hear, I went to the room, fetched a bottle of water, and handed it to her. She looked at it in distaste.

"This is Crystal Geyser. I don't drink that stuff. Go back and get me some Aquafina. And make sure it's cold."

After getting ice to chill the bottle, and making my second round-trip shlep, I got back to my game to find that my chips had been picked up. It took an hour before I could get back in. I had played only one hand when the damned walkie-talkie went off again. This time my sweetie ordered me to retrieve her cell phone, which had been left in the car. It was valet parked, so I had to give the attendant 50 cents to bring the car around and repark it.

Returning to the game, I picked up my cards just as the walkie-talkie rang again. "How are you doing?" my sweetie asked.

"Not too good," I replied. "But I just picked up my favorite hand, 5-6-7-8."

"Fold!" she screamed. Everyone at the table smirked as her voice screeched out of the speaker. I'll show her, I thought. She can't humiliate me like this on the radio in front of everybody. I stubbornly called. The flop came 8-9-10 of spades. "I flopped the nut straight," I whispered into the mouthpiece. "And I have a backdoor-low draw, too." The more she screamed "Fold!" the more stubborn I became. All of my money went in as a 3 turned and a 6 came on the river, which gave me a good low, too. Everyone turned up his hand, and to my amazement, I was beaten four ways for high and six ways for low.

Broke, I decided to go to the room and watch television. Checking the listings, I spotted a movie that looked like it had a good plot and acting: College Girls Confidential. I turned to the station. The film had been on for about a half-hour, with a dramatic scene in progress, when, sure enough, the walkie-talkie blared again. "What are you doing?" my sweetie asked suspiciously. "And what's that noise?"

"Uh … I'm watching television. It's a … a political panel discussion."

Suddenly, a female voice emitted a loud and eloquent moan.

"Maxwell!" my sweetie cried out.

I quickly hit the remote to shut the TV off. To my everlasting disappointment, I never did find out how the film ended.

The next day my sweetie, having won the satellite, was playing in a tournament while I was playing a video poker machine, still wondering how College Girls Confidential ended, when the walkie-talkie jangled for about the 100th time since we had hit Vegas. I had considered turning the infernal thing off, but did not want to risk suffering the consequences. "I'm thirsty. Get me some cranberry juice," the familiar voice at the other end ordered. I obediently went to the snack bar, got a glass of cranberry juice, and brought it to her, awaiting her grateful thanks.

"You forgot the ice," she said gratefully.

I trudged back and asked the annoyed girl at the snack bar for some ice. She dumped it into the glass and I watched in dismay as juice splashed out, spattering my freshly laundered khakis. I carried the cranberry juice to my sweetie, and then gritted my teeth and screamed silently as she directed me to go back for a straw, which the girl behind the counter flung at me.

As the days wore on, I continued to get more and more worn out. I received radio commands, one after the other, to immediately bring her a sweater, a fan, vitamins, gum, chip racks, a magazine, an ice cream bar, a nail file, and other essentials. And here Abe Lincoln died thinking he had ended slavery. I considered dropping the walkie-talkie until it broke, switching channels, taking out the batteries, anything to disrupt the communications, but knew I didn't dare. To no avail, I pointed out that a sign at the tournament room entrance warned that headsets and cell phones were prohibited.

"It doesn't say anything about walkie-talkies," she pointed out.

As word got around about my radio master, people, many of them complete strangers, would point to the thing on my belt and start giggling. So-called friends like Vince Burgio and John Bonetti delighted in grabbing the device from Barbara and sending me taunting messages. Finally, I had had enough. "I'm putting my foot down," I said as sternly as I dared. "That radio is driving me nuts. Please," I cried, tears streaming down my cheeks, "can't you just use it for only absolutely essential things?"

My sweetie took pity on me. "OK, Maxwell, I promise. Only when it's essential."

An hour later the walkie-talkie rang again. Whatever else, I know that my sweetie is a woman of her word. At last, I thought, it's finally being used for something useful and essential.

"Hi, Mommy," I said cheerfully. "What can I do for you? Over."

"I need to borrow your ATM card."

As hard as it is to believe, the worst was yet to come.

To be continued …