Misery Loves Company

The scariest movie I have ever seen is one called Misery. Based on the novel by horror-master Stephen King, the plot centers around a writer named Paul Sheldon, who has just completed his latest novel in a Colorado lodge. While driving home on a mountain road in a blizzard, his car skids and crashes down an embankment. He is rescued by a deranged and homicidal ex-nurse, frighteningly played by the great actress Kathy Bates. She takes him to her farmhouse, splints his broken limbs, and tells him that she's read all of his books. "I'm your number-one fan," she declares. But then she becomes enraged when she reads his latest manuscript and discovers that he killed off the heroine of his novels, a Southern belle named Misery, because he wants to write other things. "You dirty birdie," she hisses.

She makes him burn the manuscript, keeps him captive, beating and torturing him, forcing him to completely rewrite the novel with a happy ending.

I related to the movie because Paul Sheldon and I are both gifted writers, and I could visualize also being held prisoner by some demented woman who tormented and tortured me, forcing me to write to her liking. But it seemed an unlikely fantasy ... until the day the nightmare came to life.

I was doing WSOP Circuit tournament write-ups at the Horseshoe Southern Indiana (formerly Caesars Indiana) and getting pretty groggy, because I never knew until the last moment if the remaining players would quit work at 2 a.m. and return the next day, or agree to play through. This meant I'd sometimes hang around until the wee hours for nothing, or else work until well into the morning.

One day I was slaving away at 5 a.m. when I heard a woman's voice saying, "I'm your number-one fan." Simultaneously elated and chilled, I looked up to face a rather large elderly woman smiling down at me. "I just adore your writing, Max. You're brilliant."

"I know," I said, giving my stock response. "Tell Barry Shulman to give me a raise."

The woman introduced herself as Mrs. D, chatted about my stories for a while, and then asked where I was going next. I said I would fly home to L.A., and a week later travel to my next assignment at the Horseshoe Hammond, in the north end of Indiana near Chicago.

"Oh, what a waste of money to fly back and forth across the country," she said. "And you look so tired, you poor boy. I have a better idea. I have a big farmhouse just out of town, where I've been all alone ever since my husband passed away. Why don't you stay with me for a week? You could tell me all about your writing, rest up, and then have a short flight to Chicago."

The offer sounded appealing, and after a little thought, I thankfully accepted. After my work ended, Mrs. D picked me up and we drove through the lovely Indiana countryside to her farmhouse. I was feeling much more relaxed already. After stowing my luggage and combing my hair, I joined her for coffee in the kitchen. She looked at me thoughtfully for a while, and then started speaking. "You know, Max, I just love your writing, but one thing bothers me. Why are you so mean to Big Denny? Can't you ever say anything nice about him?"

"That big ape? All I do is report what he says and does. Why would I fabricate and say something nice about him?"

Mrs. D's face seemed to darken as she clenched her teeth. "Big ape? That's terrible. Big Denny is a human being, he gives work to a lot of people, and deep down I'm sure he's a very decent person who deserves better treatment."

I scratched my head. "Why do you care so much about that bozo, anyway?"

She pulled up her sleeve to reveal a massive hairy arm, tattooed with the Barstow Card Casino logo. "Why? Because I'm Big Denny's mother, that's why, you dirty birdie!"

My blood froze. "Oh, I see," I gulped. "Well, it was nice meeting you, Mrs. Denny. I don't want to impose on you, so I think I'll fly back to L.A. after all."

The massive arm wrapped around my neck. "Try it and I'll sit on your head, kid."

"You can't stop me from walking out," I shouted. "I've got two good legs."

"Not anymore, you don't," she smiled. Reaching behind the table, she pulled out a baseball bat and swung it with all her might. There was a loud crack as it connected with my right leg, shattering the bone. I fell to the floor, screaming in agony.

"Why did you break my right leg?" I sobbed.

"Oh, sorry, didn't mean to ignore the other one," she apologized, taking another swing and popping my left leg. Then she grabbed my arms and hoisted me back into my chair.

"Don't even think of getting away," she warned. "I have alarms in here, the phone is pulled out, and there's a pack of vicious dogs in the yard." She reached into a cabinet and pulled out an ancient and battered manual typewriter. "What you're going to do now, Mr. Writer, is come up with a few stories making my boy look good. If you ever hope to leave here alive, that is," she added menacingly.

"But Mrs. Denny," I pleaded, "what can I possibly say favorably about him?"

"Have him put on a tournament for charity," she instructed. She dropped a stack of paper on the table. "Now start writing, Mr. Writer."

Trying to ignore the agony in my legs, I started typing:

"Hey, Maxey," Big Denny said to me one day, "how's about ya helpin' me put on a charity tournament?"

"What's the charity?" I asked.

"Don't matter none," he smirked. "I'm gonna keep da money for myself anyways."

Glancing over my shoulder, Mrs. Denny became livid when she saw what I had written. Tearing the paper out of the typewriter, she lifted the machine and banged it down on my head.

"Keep it up an' ya ain't got long ta live, pal," she barked, suddenly sounding just like her esteemed offspring. "Let's try somethin' else. How's about him donatin' blood."

Sighing, I tried again:

"Hey, Maxey," Big Denny remarked, "I t'ink I'll donate some blood. How much do dey pay?"

"What blood type do you have?"

"Type B."

"B for baboon?"

I couldn't help it. My habit of writing that way about the big guy was hard to break, and I gasped as Mrs. Denny sliced my arm with a kitchen knife ...

"Last chance, punk," she snarled. "Write how he was named man of the year on account of him runnin' such a nice an' honest casino."

"I can't do it! I can't do it!" I screamed. "I'm dead."

"You are if you don't wake up and get back to work, you lazy bum," I heard another voice say. I opened my eyes and stared at Jimmy Allen, the Horseshoe Casino poker room manager. I had fallen asleep, and it was all a dream!

Wow. With my vivid imagination, I think I'll stick to watching comedy movies from now on.

Max Shapiro, a lifelong poker player and former newspaper reporter with several writing awards to his credit, has been writing a humor column for Card Player ever since it was launched 20 years ago. His early columns were collected in his book, Read 'em and Laugh.