THE GOLD FISH: Olga (2.9)

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Barbie was out of ideas.

In the past few weeks, the balance in her ballerina jewelry box had barely moved. Every new sofa crack, coat pocket, and telephone booth coin slot had turned up empty. She’d even crawled amongst the dirt and cigarette ashes on the floor of her father’s Ford LTD and only found a nickel for her trouble. Besides squeezing her mother for an extra quarter here and there, she was stalled.

Current total: $6.27.

Okay, she thought. Don’t be discouraged. That’s why they call it work. If she was super focused and didn’t give up, her gold (pause) fish would soon be hanging on her wall. Preferably above her bed, so she could look up at him every night before she closed her eyes and every morning when she opened them.

All she needed were new ideas. And some pep in her step. The kind of pep she typically found in what she liked to call a Tang fizz.

The freezer was her first destination. After a quick pat for her precious foiled-wrapped bundle, she grabbed an aluminum ice cube tray, carried it to the sink, and cranked the center lever to crack the cubes from their cells. As was typical, the cold metal lever stuck to her sweaty palm and fingers. She shook it in the same way you might shake a blue crab who’d sunk its claws into you. But to no avail. All she achieved was a patch of ripped skin and a fountain of ice shards, which sprayed across the kitchen. It wasn’t until she’d passed the whole kit and caboodle under the faucet that the ice claws released.

“Oh Jeez,” she muttered, shoving the injured finger into her mouth. Not exactly an encouraging start.

But Barbie was not to be deterred, confident that a refreshing drink would revive her lagging creativity. Next, she retrieved a glass and the jar of grape Tang from the cupboard, and a can of ginger ale from the fridge.

While it was true that she abhorred most grape flavored items and for good reason, Barbie allowed one exception: Grape Tang. It was acceptable as long as it was combined with the counteracting, dramatic effervescence of ginger ale. Because she knew that, unlike regular Tang, when a heaping tablespoon of Grape Tang powder was added to ginger ale, the effect was instantaneous, explosive and glorious. So it was with delicious anticipation, she combined the ingredients like a mad scientist, and as expected, was rewarded with a gushing geyser of foam erupting from her glass like a purple Mt. Vesuvius. It was far out!

Mesmerized by her own creation, however, Barbie made a rookie mistake. She failed to process the BANG, BANG, BANG that was fast approaching from the depths of the basement. And just as purple lava advanced across the kitchen counter, down the lower cabinet, and onto the floor, her mother burst forth from the basement door, a large vacuum cleaner banging in her wake. And as Barbie might have also expected, Joan too erupted.

“Jesus Christ Almighty, Barbie. What the hell is wrong with you?! Why do you ALWAYS have to make a goddamned mess?!”

Barbie froze, her mouth in a startled O. She blinked, then grabbed a tea towel. “Sorry. I’ll clean it up.”

Joan shook her head. “Great. And now I’ll have to get a purple stain out of that nice tea towel.”

It was at this moment that Don, charmingly attired in loosely buttoned pants and undershirt, made an appearance into the kitchen. Having overheard Joan’s scolding, he offered Barbie an encouraging smile. “Don’t you pay any attention to her, Boo-Boo. There’s not a damned thing wrong with you. What your mother fails to understand is that sometimes you gotta break a few eggs to make an omelet.” He fluttered his eyelashes at Joan. “And speaking of omelets, what’s for breakfast?”

It was Joan’s turn to blink. “Oh for godssake, it’s lunchtime already. You’re on your own.” She pushed past him, dragging her vacuum cleaner off to attack other rooms that had had the nerve to get dusty.

Don shrugged. “Can’t fault a guy for trying.” He winked at Barbie. “You feel me?”

Barbie wasn’t sure she felt him, but she appreciated the support. She nodded, then got back to the business of cleaning up her mess.

Don pulled a chair away from the table and collapsed into it. “How about you grab me a glass of that Ginger Ale, Boo-Boo?”

Barbie grabbed another glass from the cabinet, filled it, and set it down in front of her father. 

Don took a big sip, smacked his lips in appreciation, then set the glass down and reached for a deck of cards that sat in the basket in the center of the table. “Whyncha sit for a minute?” He expertly shuffled the cards and tapped the deck against the table. “I’ll deal you in.”

“I don’t know, Dad.”

Barbie really didn’t want to get distracted from her current mission. Also, she knew that when Don offered to play cards, he didn’t mean Go Fish, 7-Card Rummy, or even War. No. When he said, “let’s play cards,” he meant one thing and one thing only: poker.

Black Jack. Seven Card Stud. Five Card Draw. Spit in the Ocean. No Peeky Baseball. Follow the Queen.

That’s right, the golden rules Don had passed on to his middle child, his Boo-Boo as he liked to call her, were how to bet, how to raise, and how to call. By the time she was eight, she knew a full house beat a flush, four of a kind beat a full house, a straight flush beat four of a kind, and a royal flush -- in spades -- beat everything. She knew to deal to her left, offer cuts to her right, and never draw to an inside straight. But perhaps the most important thing she learned was playing poker against her father was always a money losing endeavor. Don had no scruples when it came to taking Barbie’s nickels and pennies. In fact, he justified it as an important lesson in her education. Who better than Jesse James to teach Boo-Boo her limits? Tough love, as it were.

Of course, Don had few limits of his own, but that was an irony Barbie hadn’t yet grasped. Regardless, she had also learned she couldn’t compete with Don’s ability to keep track of cards played and perform on-the-fly odds calculations. And besides, she wanted to keep her hard-earned cash, not risk losing it.

“C’mon,” Don wheedled. “Just a few hands. Just for fun. No money.”

Maybe a few hands wouldn’t kill her. She might as well do something while she sipped her Tang fizz. “A few hands, I guess.” She sat down at the table.

“That’s the spirit!” Don dealt them each five cards. “Alrighty. 5-card draw. Jacks or better to open.”

Barbie picked up her cards. “Why play Jacks or better if we’re not playing for money? There’s no pot to build.”

“An excellent point.” He continued in the accent of a kung fu master -- “you’ve learned well, grasshopper” -- then reverted to his normal voice, “no Jacks or better.”

Barbie arranged her hand, then threw down three cards. “I’ll take three.”

“Hold on,” said Don as he arranged his own cards, “We gotta bet first.”

“I thought we weren’t playing for money!”

“You’re right. That’s no fun. Do you have any change?”

This was her father to a tee, Barbie thought. He always managed to suck her into doing something she didn’t want to do. It was like that expression about giving someone an inch and them taking a mile. Barbie shook her head. “Not that I want to lose.”

“Smart girl. Clearly your mother’s daughter.” Don dug into his pants pocket and slapped a handful of change on the table. “Alright. I’ll stake you.”

Barbie paused. Maybe this was a money-making opportunity after all. “Do I get to keep the winnings?”

Don divided the change into two equal piles and waggled his eyebrows. “Feeling lucky, are we?”

“You always say luck has nothing to do with it,” Barbie countered. “That it’s about skill and odds.”

“Alright, alright. I know what I say.” Don pushed one of the piles to Barbie. “Yes, you can keep the winnings. Minus the original stake, of course.”

“Okaaaay,” said Barbie. She selected a few of the coins, then pushed the rest back.

“Feeling confident, are we?” Don snatched at his cards with mock annoyance. “Jesus. Longest hand of poker in my life. Can we finally ante up?” He threw two pennies into the pot.

“Mis-deal!” Barbie cried. “You can’t ante after you deal!”

“For the love of Christ.” Don held out his hand. “Give me back those cards.”

Barbie tossed the cards back and smirked. She was enjoying herself.

“BARBIEEEEEEEE.” Joan’s voice came booming down from the second floor. “Come up here!”

And just like that, the fun was over.

Don raised his glass to her. “Once more into the breach, my friend. Once more.”

Barbie had no idea what a breach was, but she tapped her glass with his father’s and gulped the last of her Tang fizz. Then, quick as lightning, she swiped her pile of change off the table, and took off like a shot, giggling as she went.

“Don’t think I didn’t see that,” Don shouted after her. Then he raised his glass and added to himself. “Good for you, Boo-Boo. Fortune favors the bold.”

Joan, her right hand poised at shoulder level, a cigarette burning between two fingers, stood on the second floor landing at the foot of the extended attic stairs. Her left foot tapped with impatience.

“What?” said Barbie as she approached.

“You need clothes for school this year. No more uniforms.”

Barbie looked up at the attic stairs in confusion. “Okaaay.”

Joan took a long pull on her cigarette, blew out smoke, and looked at Barbie as if she was the stupidest child on the planet. “There’s a bag of Karen’s old things up there. Go up there and get it.”

Barbie’s shoulders slumped. “Awww Ma. I don’t want her old stuff.”

“Tough toenails.”

“They won’t fit.”

“We’ll see.”

Defeated, Barbie grasped a railing and started climbing.

Joan called after her. “There should be a Hefty bag on the other side of the bassinet. To the right?”

“Ewww,” came Barbie’s voice from above. “It’s all spidery up here.”

“Oh please.” Joan rolled her eyes. “They don’t bite.”

Muffled thumps and thuds. “There’s just old Christmas boxes. I don’t see--” Another thud. “Hold on, I think I got it.”

A dusty bag dropped on top of Joan, nearly knocking her over. Sparks from her cigarette showered the carpet. “Jesus Christ, Barbie!”

Barbie’s head appeared in the opening above. “Sor-ree. Is that it?”

Joan slapped and stomped at the sparks. “Yes. For godssake! Get down here.”

The attic stairs were supposed to be descended backwards, but Barbie was a relatively unpracticed attic stair descender. She started down forward, placing her hands on the wood framing on either side of the opening. Then hesitated. This wasn’t quite right, she thought. Then another thought hit her.

Like everyone and their mother that summer, Barbie had become captivated by the darling of the Munich summer Olympics, the Belarusisan gymnast Olga Korbut. The “sparrow from Minsk,” as she was called. With her perky pigtails and gap-toothed smile, her uncanny strength and agility, there wasn’t a young girl in the world who didn’t want to be exactly like her.

With Olga in mind, Barbie straightened both arms and swung forward. Her intention was to whip her legs forward, sail through the air, and land like a cat on the floor below. After which, of course, she would arch her back, raise her arms to the judges, and bow to the wildly applauding crowd.

Unfortunately, the reality, like her dismount, fell somewhat short. Unlike Olga, Barbie’s scrawny muscles had not been hardened by years of brutal Soviet training. As her feet left the stairs, her arms collapsed like noodles. She fell through the air and landed flat on her back at her mother’s feet, the breath driven from her chest with an explosive “ooofff.”

“Jesus Christ,” muttered Joan, as she looked down at the fallen gymnast before her.

Eyes open wide in shock, hair covered in cobwebs, Barbie’s mouth silently opened and closed as her collapsed lungs fought for air.

Strangely, the image that flashed across Joan’s mind was that of a fish out of water. Which she thought made a kind of sense. After all, Barbie had a thing for fish, didn’t she? Maybe she’d been one in a previous life.

Joan shook the curious thought from her head and leaned down into her daughter’s freckled face. “C’mon. Chop, chop. Try those clothes on before The Belle wakes up from her nap.”

Next → Business (2.10)