A. Simon Vail

Born Arcadian Simon Vail in 1865 to Theodore Newton Vail and his wife Emma Louisa Righter. Has two sisters and a younger brother, Davis Righter Vail (1870).

His father was a successful capitalist, a proud member of the up-and-coming middle class in Lower Manhattan. A brilliant businessman, he became the general manager of Bell Telephone in 1885, which would later become American Telephone & Telegraph. He spent most of his days embroiled in his trade, when he wasn't on Wall Street looking out for his other investments.

An only child for some years, Simon was his mother's pride and joy. Hers was a fanciful world, and her boy played the role. She likened herself to the mother of a Greek hero, and spun wild tales for her son's future. As a little boy, he reveled in the attention.

When his sisters were born, Simon found himself suddenly the caretaker of infants, and no longer the center of attention. With little paternal guidance, he was a draconian authority to his sisters, and later his young brother.

As a teenager, he was sent off to a private boarding school with other well-to-do youngsters. He did well there, making friends easily. He became the leader of an elite group, the who's-who of the school. With their money and influence, they could get away with anything, and often did.

He swindled good marks from all but the most honest of his teachers, and graduated near the top of his class. From there, he was able to attend the college of his choice. He chose Columbia University, mostly because he wasn't feeling particularly adventuresome; his friends and family would be nearby.

He breezed through his studies, giving most of his time to social engagements and idle leisure, and relying on his excellent test-taking abilities in a pinch. When his education seemed to be nearing an end, he applied for graduate study at the Columbia College of Physicians and Surgeons; while he had a passing interest in neurology and psychology, he mostly just wanted to stay in school and avoid the prospect of real work.

He was in for a shock, discovering that medical school was far more rigorous than his Bachelors in Philosophy, and that its students had little time to fraternize. He scraped by for a miserable 4 years, and earned his M.D., near the bottom of his graduating class.

After graduating, he began his internship at St. Josephine Hospital in Queens, one of the seemingly easiest posts he could find. In short order, he found the work arduous, tiresome, and downright grotesque--a far cry from the cadavers and textbooks of the University.

In 1889, he abruptly terminated his internship, disqualifying him from legally practicing medicine, and fled to the safety of his home. His father, now retired, was furious that he would sabotage his career. After a long and incensed argument, Simon left his father's home.

In the year following his exodus from New York, bereft of familial connections and most of the friends of his childhood, Simon embarked on a quest of self-discovery. At least, that's how he had come to rationalize his flight from his responsibilities.

He traveled west, staying at whatever flophouse he came across, after giving up his impossible New York City standards for lodging. He found fast friends among bar patrons, and fast enemies at the poker table. With little of his father's money left to spend, he relied on gambling as a primary source of income, and was actually quite good at it. Too good, in fact, for many of the more rough-and-tumble types he met in the Once Wild West.

He made it all the way to San Francisco, a city he felt he could live in, since, being unconnected to the rapidly expanding telephone lines of American Telephone & Telegraph, it had no connection to his father. At some of the finer underground establishments in the burgeoning city, he quickly made a name for himself as the poker champion to beat.

Unfortunately, this infamy led to some hostile encounters with angry moralists on the streets of the city, and a few stints in jail for the crime of professional gambling. He swindled his way out of any serious jail time, but quickly decided California wasn't the place to be.

He made his way to Carson City, where casinos abounded. He soon settled into a routine, making money at a measured pace, so as not to be accused of cheating.

It's not as if he was cheating, of course; it's just that he had a very good sense of what others were thinking. He could spot a bluff a mile away, he knew when someone had a good hand, and sometimes, he even thought he knew what card was going to come up next.

But that being all just superstition to the educated mind, it could hardly be considered cheating. That is, if it were indeed just superstition.

December 4th, 1889, might as well have been any other night. Despite being his birthday, Simon felt little jubilation, and none around knew of it, let alone cared. He had fallen into a routine, feeling as if he was at the end of his journey, having learned nothing. He did little but drink, gamble, carouse, and sleep. He was saving money, but to no purpose he could elucidate.

Then, along came Philomena. A beautiful woman, clearly of means, and without escort, she certainly drew attention to herself. When she asked to join his game, he and the other gamers could hardly refuse her, promising her gender would be no barrier to their accomplished skill.

Shortly, she showed them all for fools, even Simon, who found himself unable to read her as he did others. She was not the first woman on which he had practiced his talents--far, far from it--but she was somehow different. Taking her unbreakable poker face as a challenge, he pushed himself as hard as he could, and tried to make himself believe, for all the world, he had the power to see into her mind.

As he concentrated, he became more and more detached. He seemed ill to others, who suggested he may have had too much to drink, but he pressed on. He lost hand after hand, giving himself away too plainly, all while darting strange, piercing looks about the table. Philomena seemed, if anything, amused.

He found that his mind was racing, and thoughts without a source echoed through his head. As he looked at the bewildered faces of his opponents, he realized where the thoughts were coming from.

He really could tell what they were thinking. (It was mostly about how nutty he looked.)

He excused himself, and sought refuge in the water closet, but it was short-lived. A feminine voice spoke to him, without a source; he knew it was Philomena, but she was nowhere to be found.