I was rather excited and anxious to tell my friend Max about my discovery. I was just back from a few days in Las Vegas during which I ran across the notorious fugitive, Ilsa of the SS.

Max sneered at me, dubiousness oozing from every pore , and growled, “Ilsa of the SS was the invention of a softcore porno movie maker. You couldn’t have run across her.”

“Oh yes,” I insisted. “The years had not been kind to her, but it was her. She was six feet tall, a build reminiscent of the late Bronco Nagurski, with generous breasts added of course, a haughty sneer, the attitude of merciless command, ice-blue eyes devoid of humanity and a predilection toward clicking her heels in the presence of a superior.”

“What was this refugee from justice doing when you discovered her?” Max asked, somewhat curious.

I answered, “She was dealing blackjack at the Mirage Casino.”

“Oh for crying out loud!” Max muttered.

“No, really,” I said. “I sat at that table for half an hour and she never uttered a word, never smiled nor displayed an iota of human emotion. I started calling her ‘Chuckles’ but even then, she wouldn’t react. Finally a lady came up to the table and started chewing on the poor clown on my left, wanting to know where he’d been and what in hell he’d been up to. Boy! Was she ticked. She called him everything but a Sunday school teacher. That was when Ilsa smiled for the first time.”

“I think you dreamed that, or you were bombed out of your gourd,” Max said.

“You don’t believe that could happen at a blackjack table?”

Max’s eyes narrowed as he thought a moment. “Well, I
suppose stranger things have happened. I ran into a strange thing at a blackjack table in Lovelock, Nevada one time.”

“Lovelock?” I asked. “Is there such a place?”

Max just gave me that strained tolerance look of his and told me this story:

“I was sitting in a rundown little wannabe casino just off US 80 at the edge of Lovelock, Nevada, a wide place between the Trinity and West Humboldt mountains. Don’t ask me what I was doing there; it doesn’t matter to the story anyway. I had to kill some time before a meeting so I was playing a few hands of single deck blackjack, minimum bet two dollars. A pleasingly plump young lady who looked as if she might be of Zuni extraction was the combination cocktail waitress and bouncer. She brought me a bottle of the local beer, which tasted as if it had just been voided by a puma, and I had played a few hands when this strange little fellow walks in. He was about twenty-two or three, five nine, kind of innocent looking, blond, dressed in jeans and a red flannel shirt. He hesitated at the door for a moment then headed in the direction of my table. When he walked up I saw he was carrying a fancy brass urn that looked an awful lot like a container for cremated remains. He put the urn in the seat next to me, took the seat on the other side, and pulled out some money to exchange for chips.

“He looked at me with innocent blue eyes, smiled real big and stuck out his hand. ‘Boyd Singleberry,’ he said.

“I told him my name and he turned to the dealer, who is the only other person at the table, introduced himself then said, ‘Beautiful day, ain’t it?’

“The dealer looked at him, raises one eyebrow, nodded at the urn and asked, ‘Who’s your friend?’

"Boyd Singleberry smiled like he’s about to bust. ‘That’s my mom. I’m taking her on a little pleasure trip.’

“The dealer didn’t even change expression. He states, ‘If she’s going to sit there, she’s got to play a hand.'"

“’Oh, why sure!’ Boyd said and placed a two-dollar bet on the space in front of his mom, er, the urn.
“The dealer was about to deal but the stops and says, ‘One more house rule. If we get crowded and someone wants that seat, your mom will have to give it up.’
“’Oh?’ Boyd said with a frown.

“’Yeah,’ the dealer answered in a monotone without so much as a changed expression. ‘House rules, live people take precedence over dead people at an open table.’

“’Oh, I get you,’ Boyd said, smiling real big. He looks around the room and seeing no one but the cocktail waitress, grinned again and said, ‘Fair enough.’

“The Zuni girl came over and asked Boyd what he’ll have. Boyd told her his name and asked for a beer. He pointed at the urn and says, ‘This is Momma, she don’t drink.’

“The cocktail waitress looked at the urn then back at Boyd who was grinning. She looked back at the urn, shrugged and said, ‘Hi Boyd’s momma.’ Then she left to get the beer.

“The dealer dealt the cards and we played a few hands. Boyd sipped his beer and began to play his cards like a wild man. He was totally unconventional. He’s playing two hands, his own and his mom’s. He hits a sixteen when the dealer has a three showing and draws a five. He has two face cards for twenty, splits ‘em and makes twenty-one on both. His mom blackjacks on the third hand and he turns to the urn and says, ‘Now see there, Momma. You’re gambling and winning and it didn’t hurt a bit did it?’

“’I must have looked a little funny because he leaned over and explained, ‘My mom always hated gambling. Said it was the devil’s game. She hated drinking liquor too, said it was the devil’s brew. So I’m taking her out drinking and gambling.’"

“The dealer just raises that eyebrow of his and shuffles the cards.

“‘Showing your mom what she missed?’ I asked.

“’Damn tootin,’ Boyd replied. ‘She never would let me do jack. Hell, she even bitched about the girls I tried to date. If I got to likin’ one, she’d call her up on the phone and scare her off, tell her I was born with a tic that made me twitch and foam at the mouth when I got excited, stuff like that. She wanted me to date them flat-chested gals down at the church that wore glasses and needed to have their adenoids out. Well sir, I fixed her.’

“The dealer stopped shuffling and listened to Boyd.

“My curiosity piqued, I asked, ‘How did you fix her?’

“’I got me a hundred-dollar whore down at Tonopah last night, paid her an extra fifty to give me an around-the-world. When she made it around the world and got down to the grand climax of the tour, I yelled, ‘Momma, look what this bad gal is doing to me now. Wahoo!’ That whore raised up and said, ‘Who the hell are you talkin’ to?’ I pointed at the urn up on top of the TV and said, 'I’se talkin’ to Momma.'

“’That whore says, 'You are one strange son-of-a-bitch!'

“I said, 'I ain’t paying you to talk dirty, girl! Now get back to work, girl. Earn that extra fifty! Well, she did and I whooped and hollered till the motel manager came down and rapped on the door and told me to shut the hell up ‘cause I was scaring the rest of his customers. I did cause I’se about wore out anyway."

“The dealer shook his head and said, ‘Hell’s kitchen, fellow. I can sure understand why you’d scare people.’”

“’When did your momma die?’ I asked.
“’Week before last,’ Boyd answered, grinning again. ‘I got all the business took care of, got Momma put in that urn and we hit the road. I’m doing all the things she used to bitch about.’

“I started to get the drift. ‘Where’s your Pa?’

‘Oh hell, he’s been dead a long time,’ Boyd replied. He looked serious for a moment then said, ‘Got hisself shot in a poker game when I was a little tad. He’s buried up to Tuscarota. That’s where I’m taking Momma.’

“’You’re going to put her ashes over his grave, huh? That’s a nice gesture,’

“‘A nice gesture?’ Boyd cackled. ‘It sure is. Momma hated my Pa somethin’ terrible. Said he warn’t worth a dog turd on his best day. She cussed his memory every day of her life right up until the time she gurgled a couple times and died.’

“’Why are you taking her up to Tuscarota, then,’ I asked, a little nonplussed.

“‘Why I’se goin’ to dig a hole in the top of Pa’s grave and pour Momma’s ashes into it. Because it’s so dry up there, I figure she’ll seep down real slow all around Pa’s corpse, bitchin’ every inch of the way. I’ll have both of ‘em right there in Tuscarota then I’ll head for Las Vegas and get me a job and I won’t be able to hear that bitchin’ and moaning ever again. But my old man, who never did shit for me, will have to listen to it till God hisself gets tired of it and blows this planet all to hell.’

“Glancing at my watch, I told the dealer to cash me out. To Boyd, I said, ‘Enjoyed meeting you, son. Hell of a story!’

“Boyd cashed out as well, picked up his momma and said he'd walk out with me. As it happened he was parked next to me.

“I said, ‘Good luck to you, Boyd. I hope you get all your ghosts exorcised.’

“Does exorcised mean thrown out?” he asked.

“It does; exactly that,” I answered.

“The boy looked at me kind of funny for a moment without replying. To my surprise, tears welled up in his eyes and he said, ‘I hadn’t thought about it, but I reckon that’s what I’m doin,’ ain’t it?’ He wiped at his eyes with his cuff, smiled real big again and said, ‘I just didn’t know what to call it.’

“I said, ‘Good luck in Vegas, Boyd. And good luck with the rest of your life.’

“‘Thanks, mister,’ he answered. Then, with a dreamy edge to his voice, he said to no one in particular, ‘Gosh, the rest of my life!’

“He climbed into his old faded red pickup, belted his mom into the passenger seat, cranked the engine, waived and headed northeast.”
Max poured himself another cup of coffee and said, “That’s the end of that story.”

Max stopped talking and sipped his beer. Neither of us spoke for a while. Finally I said, “Your story was better’n mine, Max.”

He just nodded.