There is a picture of Van Gogh's of a billiard-parlor at night. The kitchen now suggests that sort of lurid nocturnal brilliance, the raw colors of childhood's spectrum. Over the yellow linoleum of the kitchen table hangs an electric bulb with a vivid green glass shade. The poker players—Stanley, Steve, Mitch and Pablo—wear colored shirts, solid blues, a purple, a red-and-white check, a light green, and they are men at the peak of their physical manhood, as coarse and direct and powerful as the primary colors. There are vivid slices of watermelon on the table, whiskey bottles and glasses. The bedroom is relatively dim with only the light that spills between the portieres and through the wide window on the street. For a moment, there is absorbed silence as a hand is dealt. STEVE: Anything wild this deal? PABLO: One-eyed jacks are wild. STEVE: Give me two cards. PABLO: You, Mitch? MITCH: I'm out PABLO: One. MITCH: Anyone want a shot? STANLEY: Yeah. Me. PABLO: Why don't somebody go to the Chinaman's and bring back a load of chop suey? STANLEY: When I'm losing you want to eat!
