I’ve never had $472 before. Ever. Choreography fees? Check!
I count the money three more times before I leave my bedroom. Dad is packing his sack lunch that he’ll be eating around one in the morning.
“How’s my favorite girl?” He says as he rolls the top of his brown bag.
“Tired.”
“Tired? You’ve slept most the day. You must be growin’ again.” He’s been saying this to me as long as I can remember.
“I feel like I’m fighting off a cold.”
“Yeah, you sound stopped up. You better drink some orange juice.”
“I will, Dad.” It dawns on me. It’s the casino’s cigarette smoke that has wreaked havoc. I have a smoker’s cough. Suddenly my lungs feel black.
“Do you have any plans tonight? Movies or anything?” He reaches to his back pocket and takes out his wallet. He offers, knowing I won’t take it.
“Nah. I’m just going to stay home tonight. I don’t need any money.” Wait, what am I doing tonight? After hugs and a kiss on the forehead, Dad leaves for work.
I feel out of place.
I have no one to call.
I’m wide awake.
I have $472.
What’s a girl to do with all of that?
__________
“Chandra, your 1-2 no limit table is available, Chaaan-dra.”
I’m standing three feet away from the guy who speaks into a microphone. I don’t recognize him, but he acts all personal with everyone as if he’s been doing this his whole life.
The room’s crowded. I can tell it’s a Saturday night. Double the cocktail waitresses, double the noise, double the smoke. The background music seems louder than usual.
I’m hopeful that Nate may still be working. A fourteen-hour shift wouldn’t be totally out of the question. I sit down at my table, one in the corner. My back’s against the wall, and everyone is nice and cozy. I look around the room for a suit.
“YOU SORRY SACK OF SHIT!” A player stands up and yells. He flings his cards across the table and a kid in a baseball cap—who appears to be even younger than me—starts scooping up a heap of chips. The hand’s loser, a guy with five o’clock shadow, slams his chair into the table and causes the lady next to him to jump.
Immediately, there are three suit guys at our table—none of whom happen to be Nate—grabbing onto his elbows and escorting him out. The dealer holds the deck of cards in his hand and stares at the chaos until it’s no longer in view.
The dealer I recognize. He looks at me, smiles for one second, then says, “Welcome to the game.”
I look away at the commotion.
“Thanks.”
A whole discussion starts about how the casino should just ban the guy from ever coming back . . . It’s not the first time . . . He usually throws something . . . Has ruined the felt on the table by throwing a full Bloody Mary before . . .
Dad would freak if he knew I was here. Completely FREAK.
I get $200 worth of chips from the dealer. The Black Eyed Peas song, “Tonight’s Gonna Be a Good Night,” is playing, and I think to myself, Let’s hope so.
I take some inconspicuous deep breaths and pop my neck to try and relax while the cards are dealt around. Meanwhile, the lunatic player’s seat is being filled by the sweetest looking granny you’ve ever seen. She’s wearing pearls and a floral dress, and I’d place her as a Sunday school teacher before a poker player.
Tonight’s the night!
Let’s live it up!
The Black Eyed Peas are encouraging me to bet. I look at my cards, jack/queen, and take another deep breath.
I call the first bet. I feel at home. Here it goes.
Everyone stays, and the pot is looking to be a good one.
The community cards are dealt, and my heart about beats through my chest when two more queens come up. I’m short of breath.
Calm down, don’t blow this. I tell my brain.
My hands don’t get the message. They’re shaking worse than the granny’s at the table, only her shaky hands probably have something to do with meds.
The bet’s to me.
I’m a nervous freakin’ wreck.
I sound like a teenage boy going through puberty when I ask, “What’s the limit?”
Everyone laughs.
The dealer explains, “You’re at a no-limit table, Miss. You can bet every chip in your stack if you want.”
I feel my face turn red.
I look at the cards again to make sure the three queens are still there.
The pot is huge.
I need a new pair of jeans . . . and boots.
I remember the phrase from TV, and say, “I’m all in.”
It’s an out-of-body experience.
The dealer cocks his head and raises his eyebrows like, are you sure about this? “Little lady’s all in.” He scoots my chips to the middle of the table and stacks and counts. “$200 to call.”
Three of them exhale, making a sshhh noise. They stare me down as if I’m disrupting their mojo.
My brain repeatedly asks, Did I really just throw in $200 for one bet?
People are shifting in their chairs.
Sweet, granny Sunday school teacher has already folded—out of turn, at that.
However, the rest aren’t scared.
Five.
People.
Call.
Me.
And there’s $1000 in the middle up for grabs.
My pores open and release beads of sweat.
My vision blurs. Green table felt, colored poker chips, and the dealer’s hands blend together and look like a melting photograph.
Vomit percolates in my pipes. This can’t be happening. Don’t pass out.
$1000 in the middle. A thousand freakin’ dollars in the middle!
One opponent stands. One clasps his hands above his head, tilts his head back, and exhales toward the ceiling looking for a poker God, I assume.
Are they trying to bully me? Are they all in cahoots?
Surely $1000 pots don’t happen on a regular basis. This is incredible.
I realize that not one of them has looked at me since my bet. They can’t make eye contact with me. That’s a good thing.
My thumbnail finds my teeth and I go to town.
Workers start gathering at our table and whisper to themselves.
Nate’s here.
Shit, not now.
Nate’s here?
I’m every emotion all at once to the hundredth degree. It’s like flicking a spinner and wondering what the hell it’s going to land on, but it’s taking five minutes in slow motion to do so.
What cards do these people hold in their hands?
The river. The last card of the hand gives me a full house. Good enough?