[Mahjong & Whiskey]
On the other side of town a heated game of Mahjong was underway. Four at the table. Always four. Marble tiles engraved beautifully with Chinese characters and designs. The men were eight rounds in and emotions were high as all eight of the men’s hands were washing the tiles to prepare for the next round. Moving the tiles face down on the Mahjong table was a ritual…like smoking a cigarette or playing the lotto…a ritual for relief.
It was the backroom of Lucky Palace. It was always the same place. Same time. Same familiar faces. Same stakes. No Pay? No Play. A gambler’s paradise.
It was Tommy’s turn to deal, and keeping with tradition he pressed his hands together bowing to the table before swiftly breaking down the first wall of tiles.
All was the same as it should be. There was comfort in consistency.
All except one man. One new face.
Usually a new face at the table didn’t upset the balance.
But for whatever reason and way the stars aligned that particular evening, this new face was off-putting at the very least.
It was more than his face that off-set the balance on this particular night.
It was his energy.
Shifty.
Aggressive.
Cocky.
There were certain unspoken agreed upon codes of conduct.
A sort of ‘Gentleman’s Agreement’.
It was unclear of whether the young man was unaware of them or just quarrelsome.
Either way, you could cut the tension with a knife that evening, it was that thick.
At first it was just the young man’s energy.
The way he shifted in his seat.
The way he kept saying: “So it’s like that!” anytime a tile was pulled from the center discard pile.
Smoking was allowed, but the young man was taking it too far.
Light.
Three Puffs.
Stand up, walk behind his chair, lean it, blow his smoke in the center of the table, sit back down, put the partly-smoked cigarette out. All just to start this rote behavior again with a fresh stick of tobacco.
And not just any brand either: Reds; Marlboro Reds!
And when he wasn’t doing that he was playing with his lighter. Flicking the fucking thing. Playing with the fire with a maniacal gleam in his eyes.
Of the three other men at the table, Tommy was the most zen out of everyone. It was as if the young man wasn’t even there.
For the other two men at the table, peace wasn’t coming so easily to them.
Yee, a middle aged business man who was usually king of calm, started nervously moving his left leg up and down and tapping one of his tiles on the table like an over caffeinated school boy. Hank, the fourth and most methodical player appeared to be taking it the hardest. Agitations were brewing.
Hank didn’t know how Tommy was able to keep so calm. The young man was pushing Hank’s nerves to their callus cold limitations.
Tolerance was almost extinguished.
Playing with fire was the last straw.
Hank was officially triggered.
Desperate to remain calm, Hank flagged down the waiter for another whiskey.
For all the obvious reasons this was the worst possible choice.
Because, while usually capping himself at four, Hank was well past his magic number and it was beginning to show. Finishing the short glass as fast as he received it, Hank slammed it on the table. The composed drinker morphed into the damaged alcoholic he normally did his best to hide and he would take no prisoners that night.
Shite was about to get real.
Into The Mystic, Ash 