Notes on a poker game

             Someone had tossed in a Neil Young cassette and the kitchen was filled with the disturbed emotion created by Young’s guitar playing and soft, sad voice— glorious and ageless. The counters were a mess of empty, half-filled beer cans and bottles and half a dozen overturned ashtrays. It was certainly smoky when we played cards. Only a small lamp light shone and the time was 1:30 in the morning. Outside the window, darkness; icicles half formed along the frame. In the corner beside the trash barrel were three unopened cases of Budweiser while in the other corner, beside a dusty microwave oven, two ripped up empty cases of Heineken and an empty quart of Jim Beam. Behind the poker table, on the ketchup stained washing machine was an old cracked radio where Like a Hurricane played.

            The table was drenched with beer and foam, poker chips and money and packs of Marlboro cigarettes. The players were silent and were focused on their card hands. Some were optimistic; others not happy. The dealer laid out three more cards to each player except Dano. He wanted one.

            Slabs was feeling lucky earlier in the day and was dying to play. He brought his week’s paycheck to back up his intuition. There was no way he wasn’t going home a winner. However, luck had not been with him at all. He was down twenty five dollars and still losing.

            “Damn it,” Slabs said. “For Christ fucking sakes. I’ve been getting shit luck all fucking night. I wouldn’t give this seat to my worst enemy. I’m out!”

           

              Bart didn’t even know why he was playing. He hated card games and never bothered to learn the finer points of poker. When he did play, he lost. When he got drunk and played he lost even more. He drank a lot of Heineken’s this night.

            “Fuck it,” he said. “You’re out, Slabs… and so am I… again. Damn.” He laughed at his rotten luck and had a look that seemed to question why he was even playing cards.

            Paul was playing because he just loved to hang out, laugh and drink with the boys. He wasn’t laughing now and had lost most of his money and only had a few chips remaining. He was nearly drunk and had lost the last five hands in a row.

            “I’ll raise five bucks, buddy,” he said.

            He smiled confidently but we knew he was bluffing— again.

            Dano had been the big winner the past four Friday nights and was on a run once again. He was drunk too but he was ahead thirty bucks. He sipped his beers and stared calmly at his hand.

            “I’ll see you that five and raise five more,” he said.

            Paul threw his cards down on the table.

            “Are you in, Richard?” Dano asked.

            Rich had been on a severe losing streak too, maybe two months. The cards continued to haunt him.

            “I’m in. I’ll raise you, Dano. This stack of chips— ten, fifteen, twenty. Count them asshole. You’re history,” Rich said.

            “Awright. Seeing you don’t have any more chips, I’ll call you.”

            “Done.”

            “Wait a minute. I haven’t folded yet,” I said.

            “Then fold.”

            I paused, holding the deck in my hands. The song was over. Suddenly the room filled with an unfamiliar strained silence. It felt like there were guns held to the players heads. The tape clicked to an end.

 

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            Not sure if this was based on an actual card game or just imagined it for my paper, simply called, A scene: Poker Game. I honestly can't remember. Whatever, it is an accurate depiction of a night playing cards back in 1988. In those days we played a lot of cards (the others still do). We played at my parents house, Rich's half finished basement/bedroom and sometimes Andy Silverman's house (before he went off the radar, although a few years ago, I found him on Facebook but he had no real interest in getting together with me and the guys again).

Anyway, moving through the heaping pile....