I’m confident Nate’s not working when I pull in. He’s probably sharing pizza and a pitcher of beer with his date right now, but when I walk through the doors, I look for him anyway.
It’s not that crowded, for a weekend night, I think to myself. There’s a country band playing in the corner—people sitting around playing slot machines while they listen to a guy trying to sound like George Strait. Key word: trying.
There’s no waiting list for the poker room. A guy in a suit points me back to table seven, and in no time I’m back in business.
I join the table during a dealer change, so players are making small talk and pulling out their phones. I look around and relax knowing that 100 percent for sure there’s no Nate.
For it not to be crowded, it smells extra smoky tonight. One would think that I would be building some sort of immunity to the smell of smoke . . . maybe get used to it by now . . . but I fight the urge to pull my t-shirt over my nose and mouth to serve as a filter . . . it’s bad. Way bad.
I know the routine. I place my $100 on the table and wait for chips.
I’m comforted when the Sunday-school-looking teacher from the other night gets up to move next to me. She sits down, squeezes her shawl with one hand, and straightens her chips with the other. She smells unlike a typical granny; it’s a clean and fresh smell. A bath spray . . . berries or something of that sort. Her smell is like an oxygen line in this smoke infestation. As she straightens her stacks, I decide that this is a woman who takes care of herself. Her hands are old, yet moisturized. Her skin is the best it could possibly be for a woman her age—milky and wrinkled, but in a beautiful way. There’s no wedding ring, and this makes my mind wander. Was she married? Does she have kids that check in on her? Did her husband of a million years pass suddenly? There are players here to pay the mortgage, and there are players here for entertainment. She’s here for entertainment, no question. And this hurts my heart for reasons I can’t figure out. I want to be her friend. I want to make sure she has “people.”
“Havin’ a good night?” I ask as I nod down to her stack of chips.
She giggles. “Oh, honey. It depends what you consider a good night.” She giggles again.
“It looks good to me.”
“Easy come . . . easy go. You know how this game works.” She punctuates, again, with a giggle.
The dealer, a tall, thin guy with a ponytail and wire rim glasses, twists to pop his back, then stretches from one side to the other. He sits down on his personal donut cushion and says, “Let’s get this party started, shall we?”
A beer bottle is raised and a “Hellllll yeah!” comes from a guy in a cowboy hat that has obviously started his party hours ago.
I look at each of them. But mostly, I look at their chips. I need their chips. In a really big way.
The dealer pops his back one last time, and then shuffles the cards. He claps his hands once, shows his palms to the security cameras in the ceiling, then says, “Good luck, everyone.”
I pat Granny on the back, lean over and whisper, “Watch out, boys.”
“Girl power!” She whispers back.
On the opposite end of the table, an old, chunky lady with yellow hair and black roots picks up a troll doll and kisses it. She sets it back on the table next to her, and I can’t help but wonder if that technique has worked for her in the past.
The cards find their way to my hands, and I get the warm fuzzies before I even take a look.
Girl power. Yes, indeed. “I raise six dollars.”
Granny, to my left, folds.
My hand—a king and queen—has done it for me in the past, and I begin to study the players that have wagered to join me.
The betting makes its way around the table, but comes to a halt with the drunk guy. It’s obvious that this isn’t the first time the dealer has dealt with this joker. “Joe. Are you in?!”
Joe dramatically scratches his head, squints at his cards, and says (loud enough for the people at the next table to hear) “Does a bar have beer?! Hell, yeah, I’m in!” He’s cracked himself up.
No one else is amused, to say the least.
Joe throws his chips in and one goes rolling over to our side of the table.
The dealer takes notice and stares down Joe.
“We’ll consider that your warning, big guy.”
“Warning?! Hell, what’d I do? You mean to tell me . . .” (Pause while Joe collects his thoughts.) “That a guy can’t . . .” (Pause while Joe blinks slowly and . . . continues to . . . collect his thoughts.) “That a guy can’t splash the pot every once in a while?”
The dealer spends no energy on this. He’s moving on.
Cards are dealt. I’m in good shape. I send him a telepathic sympathy note.
Joe, I’m sorry for your misfortune of drinking too much and letting me win your money tonight.
Bets are moving around the table, and the troll doll lady catches me off guard. “I’m all in.”
Where the hell did that come from?
Is she bluffing?
She picks up the troll doll and holds it next to her heart, face out.
This is . . . weird.
The troll doll is staring me down.
I clasp my hands together and take a deep breath.
I roll my head to pop my neck.
Three of a kind. Queens are what I have . . . Granny did say ‘girl power’ before the hand. They are queens. Queens are girls . . . I’m rationalizing every possibility to stay in this hand.
She’s frozen with the troll doll. I stare her down for thirty seconds, at least.
She pulls the troll doll from her chest, smooths its hair, and then brings it back to her chest. Bingo.
“I call.” At least half the money I came with I push to the center of the table. I push thoughts of Cassidy out of my mind and convince myself that she wouldn’t get it. She doesn’t understand my situation. She’s never had to worry about money. She’d be doing this too if she were in my position. $100 is like ten to her. I’m just earning interest on her money. She would be doing this too.
Troll doll is brought to the lady’s lips, and she kisses it a few times for good luck.
What is she playing for? Does she want a new pair of hot-pink, strappy heels? A new shade of lipstick? Or is it down to the wire and she needs gas money to get to her job at the outlet mall?
Other than the drunk guy closing his eyes for a power nap, everyone at the table is ready to see the results.
The dealer says, “Let’s see ‘em.”
I can hardly breathe. This has to be the equivalent of running a 5K. I picture Dad and me sitting in the dark eating by candlelight after they’ve shut off our electricity.
I’m slow to turn my cards over as I watch the lady stand, place the troll doll on her stack of chips (he’s been freed), and reveal her hand.
THANK YOU. THANK YOU. THANK YOU, JESUS. It’s just two pair.
Sunday school teacher gives me a pat on the back and mumbles under breath, “That’s what she gets for believing in a troll doll. Those things give me the creeps.”
“No kidding.” I smile but can’t look at the lady that I just beat. I hope it was just lipstick she was playing for.
I hope she can still get to work.
Before I can even get my chips stacked, we’re on to the next hand. I finally get the nerve to look across the table, and she’s tucking the troll doll away in her purse. It’s as if he’s being punished. He’s being replaced. A bigger, better, blue-haired troll doll is placed on top of her dwindling stack of chips, then she takes a look at her cards.
When Sunday school teacher asks me to go share a plate of nachos with her I can’t say no—hole in my stomach aside. There’s something I like about her. Like one of those people you automatically connect with. I leave my poker chips on the table and walk across the casino to a small strip of fast food joints, a mini-version of a food court in the mall. When we make our way to the register of Taco Time she’s greeted by a kid wearing a hairnet who looks, maybe fourteen.
“Hey, Miss Stella.” He’s a bit confused, like I’ve disrupted their regular routine.
Stella plops her purse on the counter and smiles.
“How’s my favorite chef?” she asks. It’s a one-man band, Taco Time. It appears he does the order taking, the cashiering, and the cooking too.
“Doin’ okay. Doin’ okay, Miss Stella.”
“Good deal, Deon.” She looks up at the menu, but already knows.
“The usual?” He asks, then looks at me again in confusion.
“Deon, I’m living on the edge today. Give me a large order of nachos, hon.”
“Well, well . . . That poker table must be treatin’ ya alright then, Miss Stella?” He punches the order into the register. “Large nach-os. Sprite today, pretty lady?”
“Yes, and one for my friend here, too.”
I feel warm when she calls me her friend. Stella has that aura about her, warm and sunshiny. Her presence is comforting. We find a table and sit across from one another. She gets up to get salsa, and I wait to start eating until she gets back.
“Dig in, hon.” She grabs a nacho as she sits down. “I want to help you out, Chandra.”
“Help me out?” Help me out? Does she know I’m desperate for money? Does she know I’m without a mother? How does she know I need help?
She finishes chewing before speaking.
“Let me tell ya something, hon. That table. If the joker in the straw hat raises on the second round, get out. Fold without thinking. Don’t ever, ever . . .” she looked me in the eyes, “stay in a hand with Jim. That is, after he’s raised on the second round.”
Oh, I get it now.
“Well thanks, good to know.” I take a loaded nacho from the middle, one with a mound of meat and sour cream. “Anything else?”
She thinks a few seconds as she chews.
“Do you have kids?”
I giggle.
“Oh, I meant are there any other poker tips?”
“I know what you meant, hon. You have kids?”
My first thought was Dad. Well yeah, I have a kid.
“Nope, no kids yet.”
She goes for the middle of the nacho plate too.
“Hmm. No kids, huh. How old are you?” She doesn’t give me time to answer. “When I was your age I already had one and one on the way.”
I laugh.
“It will be a while before kids.”
We sit and enjoy our nachos together, with slot machines ringing in the background.
“So how many kids do you have?” I ask.
She pauses a minute, contemplating her answer.
“Oh, never mind them, hon.”
I knew it. Stella has sadness. She has some type of sadness in her life. I knew it. So maybe that’s our connection.
We sit in silence for just a few minutes as we finish eating. Ms. Stella digs in her granny-style purse and pulls out a stack of business cards wrapped with a rubber band. She pulls one from the stack and pushes it across the table with me. “Here, hon.” She taps the card a couple of times. “If you ever need anything.”
I read the bright pink card. STELLA’S SILVER SCISSORS - ALERATIONS AND SEWING. 4544 Bluffcreek Drive. 405-912-0909.
“Oh, thanks, but I don’t ever really get any of my clothes altered.”
She smiles a motherly smile.
“Not for alterations, sweetie. For just anything.”
I place the card in my purse to let her know that yes, I may need her. “Thanks, Ms. Stella.”
“Goodnight, doll.” She leaves.
And that’s where the goodness ended. When I get back to the table I don’t win another single hand. The one against the troll doll is the only hand I win all night long. I didn’t give drunk guy enough credit. The more he drank, the more careless I played, the more he won. Pathetic.
Down to my last three dollars, and I hate myself. I should have gotten up after that first big win. I know better. I sit through three hands in total disbelief before I force myself to the door.
Although it’s four o’clock in the morning, I stop and pump three dollars’ worth of gas. Actually, I stop pumping at $2.99 because I’m scared to death the stupid thing will run over by two cents or something, and I don’t have the extra two cents. The drive seems longer than usual. It’s eerie because I’m literally the only one on the road—highway and side streets. The rest of the town is tucked in to their warm beds and not worrying about their electricity being shut off.
When I get home I make myself a cheese sandwich and eat just two bites before I go to my room, climb into bed, and curl up into fetal position. I don’t want to deal with this mess.
I don’t want to be me.