Many and fabled are the Monopoly games in the long annals of diversion, but for my money there has never been a session to match the one on the Ringling Blue Unit pie car back in September of 1971. For drama, skullduggery, and farce, I doubt it can be matched by anything this side of the Spanish-American War.
It began when the circus train pulled out of Denver; destination, Chicago. We were due to open in the Windy City four days hence, and the train master, a hatchet-faced beanpole of a man, had warned everyone that the trip would not be a luxury cruise. There would be frequent side shuntings in the middle of nowhere to let high priority trains speed by. Water would be rationed, and would probably run out by day three for the humans -- the livestock had priority. There would be neither air conditioning nor heating during the trip; so if the September weather became extreme we would have to fend for ourselves. Those with TV sets would find that reception was spotty at best. Even FM radio would be a hit or miss proposition. And the pie car, where the circus hoi polloi got all their meals during train runs, would in all likelihood be reduced to canned beans and stale bread by the time we pulled into our siding at the Chicago Stockyards.
I prudently stocked up on sardines, canned peaches, crackers, and a case of Vernors ginger ale, along with plenty of paperbacks, to see me through the ordeal.
On the second day of our hijra I wandered into the pie car for a burger and some fries, to find several of my First of May comrades gathered in a booth. The click of dice was audible above the rattle of the train wheels as I craned my neck to discover a game of Monopoly just beginning.
“Hey guys, lemme play -- okay?”
Holst looked up from his Baltic Avenue card to give me the once-over, as if I were a complete stranger to him. He didn’t look particularly welcoming.
“This is a serious game, Tork. It’s not for pantywaists” he growled at me. The other players nodded their heads in agreement; this was not going to be played with “Minnesota Nice” rules just for the Minneapolis kid.
“I can take it” I said, giving my pants a hitch and jutting out my hairless chin.
“Alright, let the boychick in” grumbled Chico, who came from New York and played fast and loose with his girlfriends and his Utilities. “But the only token left is the dog. And you’ve missed the first turn.”
I quickly sat down before they changed their minds about letting a rank amateur into their midst. When my turn came I landed on Oriental Avenue and snapped it up, which upset Steve Smith immensely since he had Vermont and Connecticut. Smith was only five foot two and made up for his diminutive stature by doing imitations of cinema tough guys.
“You dirty rat!” he snarled at me. Then he decided to switch gears for the honeyed approach.
“Ah, my boon companion! My bosom compatriot and soul mate” he drawled in his best W.C. Fields manner. “Mayhaps you would consider a swap or a shuffle to benefit the both of us . . . “
“Forget it, Buckeye!” I snarled at him. Smith came from Ohio. “You’ll be selling out to me, at a discount, before we cross the next state line.”
Smith glared at me, fingering the clasps on his denim overalls as if contemplating removing them to hurl at me, ninja-style. But he said nothing.
Each player hunkered down in silence, tensely rolling the dice and praying for that lucky number that would put them on Boardwalk. Holst got the lucky roll. While the rest of us floundered around with skimpy dice rolls, Holst rode a wave of incredible luck to traverse the entire board in just three more rolls, landing on Park Place. With a malevolent chuckle he began erecting hotels, awaiting our hapless visits to his high-priced web while rubbing his hands together like a stage miser.
There was the glint of mayhem in more than one pair of eyes by then, but the tension was broken when Hubert, the moon-faced Hungarian busboy, delivered an ultimatum from the cook. Either we order something or we take the Monopoly game somewhere else. Burgers and fries were ordered; twenty minutes later they came, with a side of carbonized grease hanging over the edge of each paper plate. Meanwhile we eyed one another with unalloyed hatred. Chico had snapped up all the Utilities and all four Railroads by methods that would not have withstood the scrutiny of the Interstate Commerce Commission, or the attention we should have been paying his dice rolls if we hadn’t been seduced by his current girlfriend Sandy’s come-hither stares. She was one of only three female clowns on the show, and the only one who might win a swimming suit contest even wrapped up in a burlap sack. She was in cahoots with Chico to distract us while he fiddled with the dice. Her bedroom eyes entranced the lot of us until it was too late. Then she gave a throaty laugh and sashayed out onto the vestibule to smoke a cigarette. The hussy.
Anchorface had been playing indifferently up until this point. Then suddenly he revealed his master plan. He sneezed and knocked the board askew, scattering tokens and currency like an autumn gale. (He was called Anchorface for the very good reason that he painted an anchor on his face and wore a sailor’s suit.)
It took an hour to get things rearranged back to their original state -- and even then there seemed to have been some hanky panky about several key properties that suddenly belonged to Chico instead of still being on the open market. A heated discussion ensued; some hasty threats were made, along with a mention of a necktie shindig for a certain party from New York. Backing down, Chico pleaded ‘no contest’ without admitting any guilt, and put the properties in question back into the public pile. But his machinations were hardly to be nullified by this paltry setback. He somehow convinced Anchorface, in sotto voce, that his sneeze was beyond the pale of humanity and disqualified him from further play. So Anchorface quit and tried to give his property and cash to Chico. This led to a prolonged uproar so obstreperous that Charlie Baumann, the show’s fearsome performance director, heard about it down in his luxurious caboose and ventured forth from his private car to see “was gibt.” We explained diffidently that it was merely a philosophical discussion, not a riot.
‘Keep qviet or I trow you off der train!” he thundered, brushing aside our feeble explanations. He trundled away.
Dusk turned to dark as we quietly continued our game. Holst squeezed several unfortunate players dry; they went belly-up and had to quit. Anchorface became a kibbitzer instead of a player; his cash and property were put back in the public pile for anyone to buy.
Finally the chef came out to say the pie car was closing. Our combined glares at him produced a trickle of sweat down his face and the announcement that just for the heck of it he would stay open a little bit longer. We all ordered ham and cheese sandwiches.
I may add that due to the toxic lack of trust, none of us had gone to the donniker in over six hours. In the interests of health and hygiene it was finally agreed that all players would go together, in a herd, to the donniker at the other end of the pie car, where we could keep an eye on each other.
I was actually no tyro when it came to playing Monopoly; I had spent many an exciting Sunday afternoon playing the game with my best pal Wayne in his basement when I was growing up. So I had my blueprint set to go. When I inevitably got the “Go to Jail” card I simply stayed there. Once incarcerated, I couldn’t land on anybody’s property and have to pay rent. So I would just wait things out until everyone else went bankrupt. I’d never actually won a game that way, but that was no reason not to try it here and now with these cutthroat ‘friends’ of mine.
So I sat and waited for the others to topple. But instead they pulled a dirty trick on me; they looked up the rules and told me I had to pay bail after I’d been in jail for five turns. This was unconscionable! A flagrant violation of truth, justice, and the American way! But my passionate arguments fell on deaf ears. I had to start going around again, and by now all the properties and railroads and utilities were gobbled up. Smith, who had a memory like an elephant (along with its grace), suddenly went all Charlie Chan on me.
“Man who sit still lose his chair” he burbled in a sing-song voice. The sorry Buckeye.
It was dawn when all hell broke loose once and for all. Several of the dedicated drunks who had spent the previous day and night with nothing but high octane beverages staggered into the pie car to order coffee and pie. But the chef was sound asleep on a cot next to the grill and refused to get up for them. So they toddled over to kibbitz. Their breath would have given a polecat the jimjams. They were shushed several times, but, in the immemorial tradition of rum dums everywhere, they simply got louder. And more persistent.
By this time there were only were only four players left; me, Holst, Chico, and Smith. The hecklers numbered four. So we each took one and frog marched them out of the pie car.
To be more specific, Holst, Chico, and Smith gave their three drunks the bum’s rush. I, unfortunately, lacking any experience in this interesting social tradition, was grabbed by the last remaining drunk and slammed onto the table -- scattering the colorful money everywhere and embedding several of the tokens into my backside. My three pals came to the rescue and wrestled the last drunk out the door into the vestibule, where hopefully he fell off and was killed instantly.
The game was a tie, it was agreed between the four of us as we wearily threw some pots and pans at the still slumbering cook, demanding ham and eggs and lots of buttered toast.
Released from our competitive succubus and true friends once again, we now argued over picking up the tab for each other. The sunlight streamed into the pie car as we all got up and gave each other embarrassed grins; it certainly had been an interesting game. Next time, maybe, we’d try Uno. In the affectionate confusion I had somehow been handed the check for the other three. As I looked around I saw they had melted away like the dew upon the back of an alpaca. Ah well, a friend in need is a friend to keep an eye on.
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