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Dumped At the Entry Desk

So, the morning after a tragically bad performance in the Wernher Pairs, my partner asked me at least three times, “What do you want to do today?”

“How about the museum?” I suggested. After a moment of silence, my partner responded.

“I kind of want to play,” he said.“Then why did you even ask me?” I exclaimed! “And three times?” I continued.

Of course I would play with him. According to my partner, etiquette required that people play for the duration of any event they agree to enter together. Who was I to question the methods he had developed over the course of more years than I have been alive?

While out getting an espresso before the game, I ran into to some fellow New Yorkers.

“What are you guys doing today?” I asked.“Going to Wrigley,” I was told.“Sooo jealous,” I said. “That is one of the things I really wanted to do in Chicago and I don’t think I am going to have time for it.”They headed to the iconic stadium for baseball and I headed to the labyrinth for the regional pairs.

So, my partner and I were on line, chatting with some friends from New York, when an old partner of his approached us. At the time I didn’t completely understand, but in retrospect I am pretty sure they were both trying to get rid of me from the second she appeared.

“You get to play with him all the time in New York,” she argued. We actually don’t play “all the time.” We “rarely play” would have been a lot more accurate.“Go away for a few minutes,” my partner told his old partner.

She took a few steps back. It was his turn to make an argument.

“You can go to the game,” he said.“They have already left,” I replied.

"You wanted to go to the museum," he tried again. “Please.”“I’ll pay your museum entry,” old partner added, taking a few steps forward.“Do you need money?” my partner asked.

It was two against one. What was a girl to do?

“Lots,” I demanded. My partner pulled a fifty out of his pocket and handed it to me.“That’s not lots,” my friend on the line noticed. My partner reached into his other pocket and pulled out some small bills.“Fives and ones?” my friend questioned.“For a cab,” my partner said.

I took the money and walked away, feeling slightly rejected, of course. And there it was. I had made seventy dollars NOT to play bridge! Perhaps the whole scenario would make a silly cartoon for the magazine, something like, “I’ll pay your entry fee if you play on another team, or go to a Cubs game, or ANYTHING!” So, I went to the pool and had a beer with some Canadians I had met in Providence. They laughed at what had happened to me earlier in the day. One of them even said he was rather jealous. “I wouldn’t mind getting paid NOT to play bridge sometime,” he exclaimed! Just then, my friend from New York was passing by. "I think you traded up,”she stated smiling as she went back for the evening session. 

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