Sam the salesman was a happy bachelor in his middle 40s and an average duplicate bridge player. At the summer nationals in Chicago in 1965. Sam and his favorite partner entered a one-day, two-session pairs event. In midafternoon, an attractive brunet in her late 20s walked into the playing hall at the Palmer House. She told a director she had just learned to play bridge and wanted to watch the tournament. “Pull up a chair,” he said. “and kibitz anyone you please.”
Sam may not have been an expert, but he had all the mannerisms of one: frowns, furrowed brows, short leers at opponents. This may explain why the young woman was drawn to his table as sole observer. From the moment she sat down things went 100 percent right for Sam. Opponents bid too high and butchered the play of hands. Meanwhile. Sam started bidding conservatively, causing his side to stay out of two “point count” games that would have been wrecked by bad distribution. When the results of the first session were tallied. Sam and partner were leading the field. Sam knew a good luck charm when he saw one. He quickly stopped the brunet when she was leaving and begged her to watch him that night also.
You guessed it. The luck continued. If Sam’s side bid a slam, it was invariably made. If the opponents bid one, it failed. He and his partner won the event easily. Ecstasy! It was the greatest moment in Sam’s bridge career. He grabbed the girl’s arm and insisted on buying her dinner. They had a marvelous meal and a few too many drinks. Flushed with victory and emboldened by the alcohol, Sam dropped his lifelong guard. “Will you marry me?” he blurted.
The brunet, charmed by the day’s events and buoyed by a favorable horoscope for that day, agreed almost methodically. “Only one thing I ask,” continued Sam. “Can we have our honeymoon at the Palmer House? This day has meant so much to me.” “Of course, Sam,” she said. “I understand.” Three weeks later they were wed in the afternoon and resided in the honeymoon suite that night.
This was the scene: Sam sat on the edge of the bed in his underwear, smoked a favorite pipe, and gazed thoughtfully into space. From the bathroom emerged the new bride, attired in powder-blue negligee and pearl necklace. “Sam,” she cooed, “what are you thinking about?” “Well, do you remember board 27 where the dummy held four to the queen in spades, three small hearts, ace-doubleton of diamonds, and four clubs to the king?”
Silence. With a strange look, the bride did an about-face, returned to the bathroom, dressed, and with the same alacrity she had accepted marriage, she now rejected it. “You’ll hear from a lawyer.” she said, picking up her luggage and walking out. Sam never saw her again.
The scene now shifts to a tavern in Minneapolis three years later. Sam sat at the end of the bar as Phil, one of his old bridge partners in Chicago, walked in. “Sam, you old son-of-a-gun,” Phil said. “They said you left Chi-town, but nobody told me you were up here. The last time I saw you was when you won that event at the nationals. What are you doing now?”
“I’m working here.” said Sam. Then he decided to tell Phil the entire story of the brunet. He spared no details in relating the euphoria of winning, the quick marriage, and finally the hotel room scene. “So there I was.” he said sadly, “sitting on the bed and she walks out really seductively. I was thinking about a certain hand, and out of habit I babbled: ‘Do you remember board 27 where the dummy held four to the queen in spades, three small hearts, ace-doubleton of diamonds, and four clubs to the king?’ Guess what? She just ups and walks out on me. I get sued for divorce and never see her again.
Now I ask you. Phil, please tell the truth. What in God’s name did I do wrong?”
“I don’t know,” replied Phil eagerly. “You haven’t given me the rest of the hand.”
Esta entrada también está disponible en: Spanish