When Nate suggests going to play poker after dinner, I slightly panic.
“You play poker?” I ask as we walk out onto the street.
“Yep. All casino workers play. Every one of them. We’re basically slaves to the casino. Shoot, half those people never even make it home with a check.”
This surprises me.
“Wow.”
He’s persistent on going to play poker, not in a casino, but at his friend’s house. His buddies have been playing since they were fifteen . . . they’re good guys . . . He’ll make them watch their language.
I basically answer his question when I follow him to his car. Yes, of course I’ll go.
He has a nice car for a guy in his early twenties. A black SUV, tinted windows, leather seats. The car chirps when Nate pushes his remote, and he walks to the passenger side to let me in. Being the non-drinker I am, I have a buzz going after the two margaritas at dinner. I grab the car door to steady myself, and hop into the best smelling vehicle I’ve ever stepped foot in. Did he spray men’s cologne on the seats to make them smell this good?
He gets in, and we’re off. The dashboard lights his face in the darkness, and he turns down his music to a perfect volume, one where we can listen and talk at the same time. Rolling Stones, “Beast of Burden.” This makes him that much more attractive . . . Let’s go home and draw the curtains.
We don’t say much on the quick drive. His friend lives in a new downtown development—high-end apartments surrounded by a quaint sandwich shop and a cupcake bakery. Parking is difficult, and we drive around for at least ten minutes waiting for someone else to surrender their space. The margaritas are my saving grace; they’ve downgraded my shakes from convulsive to internal. I’m shaking on the inside, but I don’t think it will be noticeable.
We walk up a brick pathway to a door with hanging plants. It’s unusual that a bachelor would go through the trouble of hanging plants, but whatever. Noise behind the door lets us know that we’ve definitely found the party.
After three rings and no answer, Nate grabs my hand when we just walk in.
I hear voices, but I can’t make out faces; the cigar smoke makes it difficult to see. We break through the cloud of smoke and, in unison, his buddies holler out, “Heeeey! It’s Nate!”
“And a girl?!” A guy in a visor with a cigarette behind his ear lets me know I’ve just walked into a boys’ club.
Nate waves his hand through the smoke. “This girl can outplay every single one of you amateurs. Give her some chips.” Nate throws down $100 on a green felt table. It’s a table straight out of a casino. In the formal dining area.
A scruffy looking guy in a hoodie takes a long hit off his cigar and demands, “Get the girl some chips.” He slurs his words. “And a shot of Jack if she’s going to run with this wolf pack.” They consider it a good enough reason for a cheers! Glasses clink together, and they crack up so long it’s forgotten what they were laughing about to begin with.
Drunk guys playing poker.
Really, really drunk guys playing poker.
Opportunity knocks.
Nate tells me he doesn’t want to play against me. He pushes a fold up chair to the table, the kind you take with you on a camping trip. A guy in dark shades starts stacking my chips in front of me, and I sit down in the chair. It’s embarrassing because my chair is shorter than everyone else’s, and I’m sunk down about six inches lower than the other players. I can’t stomach the Jack Daniels. There’s no way. I hand mine to Nate, and he shoots it back and announces that will be his last. I hope so. He is driving!
Once I settle into my chair I start to look around the apartment. It’s tidy. It’s decorated in a cute, eclectic way . . . turquoise painted furniture, candles, and fresh flowers in milk glass vases . . . the exact opposite of a bachelor’s pad. My eyes widen when I see the guy in the visor pictured on his wedding day. The classic picture: he’s scooped her up in her gorgeous gown, and she’s beautiful. He’s married?! Oh my! Married?! I’m reminded of my youngness.
“Ante up, losers.” The dealer calls the game. “Follow the queen.”
“Yeah, he’s always wanting to follow a queen.” A player adds, and they all explode into laughter. Again.
I just smile politely, and Nate says, “Don’t start it you guys, we have a lady in the house.”
The same guy adds, “Lady in da house.” In his best high-pitched, hip-hop voice.
I pull closer to the table, and take a look at my cards. I’m two margaritas brave. I clear my voice and say, “May the best man win.”
The cards are good to me, and my stack grows quickly.
About an hour into it, the guy’s wife comes home. She goes toward the living area and pulls a blanket from an old trunk that’s being used as a coffee table. She sits down, turns on the television, and makes herself comfy. I think about how cool it is to be married and all grown up. She flips through the channels, and rests her head on a throw pillow tolerating the rowdy group of boys acting like they’re at a frat house.
Nate hollers over to her.
“Amber, come here. I want you to meet someone.”
We make eye contact; she smiles, then gets up and walks to the table.
“This is Chandra.” Nate nods his head to me.
She offers her hand. “Hi, I’m Amber.” She looks me up and down to the point of extreme discomfort.
She knows.
She knows I’m young.
Girls have that instinct.
She knows I’m young and don’t belong here.
“It’s nice to meet you, Amber.” I say, then turn back to Nate and whisper that we better get going.
Nate’s ready too.
“Cash the lady out.”
Everyone rebukes.
“What? You guys are leaving?” They’re all in a tizzy.
“You heard me. Cash the lady out. It’s my bedtime.”
The word “bedtime” is received as one last hilarious revelation.
One guy elbows his neighbor and says, “Oh, it’s his bedtime, alright.” And they laugh and strengthen the ties that bind the boys’ club to which they belong.
Nate does laugh, but plays it off with, “We’ve gotta get out of here before things get really ugly. Amber, they’re all yours, honey.”
Amber’s not amused. You can tell this isn’t her first time to deal with cigar smoke and sloppy drunks.
“Gee, thanks. I’m so lucky.”
Her husband likes this comment.
“Luckier than a leprechaun with a winning lottery ticket.” And the crowd goes wild.
I’m smiling but more focused on the money that’s being counted out: $257.
I needed this. I really, really needed this.
Amber walks us to the door and politely says the, “It was nice to meet you,” line. I wonder how many “nice to meet yous” Amber has dealt with over the years.
We walk out the door, and I hand Nate back the $100 I started with. He grabs my hand and pulls me close to him. “We should get you on the poker circuit; you’re a money-makin’ machine.”
“Yeah, it doesn’t always go that way.”
He drives me to my parking lot, pulls behind my car, and shifts to park. “I had a great time tonight, Chandra.”
I’m melting.
“Me too. I had a great time.”
“I’ll follow you home to make sure you get in safely.”
“No.” I stumble with my words. “I mean, thanks, but I’ll be fine.”
He squints at me like I’m hiding something, and I know he knows there’s a piece of the puzzle missing. I just pray he doesn’t find it.