I start with fifty-two dollars. I’m limited on time—with Dad not working and all—he’ll be home to check up on me. So, I go straight after school. Dad thinks I’m at practice. Technically I’m not lying about it, it’s just that I haven’t got around to telling him that I quit.
Nate’s off on Wednesdays, and I’m glad about that because I need to stay focused. I’m standing at the check-in counter for less than ten minutes when he sends me a text (first one ever!) that says, “Hi. You’re playin’ tonight?”
I read it, then start to look around. Where is he? How does he know this?
I text back. “Are you here?”
He responds, “No.”
I keep looking around.
“Um, then how do you know I’m here?”
After a slight delay, he responds, “I have eyes all over that casino.”
I look up at the cameras in the ceiling. I look around at the other employees. Who is watching me? And what’s more, who has Nate told about me? I start to bite the skin around my thumbnail.
I’m standing right there in front of the guy who pulls the microphone over and says, “Chandra, your no limit table is ready . . . Chan-dra, come on down.” He gets immense pleasure out of pretending he’s on The Price is Right. I raise my pointer finger to signal that, Hel-lo guy, I’m Chandra. Remember me from just ten minutes ago?
“Table six, Chandra.” He makes that clicking sound to go along with his wink. “Good luck.”
I breathe in. I breathe out. Once again, it’s good to be home.
When I sit down and place my three twenties on the table I request single dollar chips. I hate it when they chip me in fives because the stack seems so small. There are two regulars at the table, and they all smile and acknowledge me entering the game. The dealer, a familiar face too, reaches for my twenties. I keep my phone in my lap. She tucks my twenties into her tray then readjusts a bobby pin holding her blond, short hair behind her ear.
It’s my third hand that doubles my stack.
But I need more.
I stare back at the screen displaying table games, and I become curious about what it takes to play on a higher-stakes table. After a few smaller wins, I get up the nerve to ask the dealer. I’m glad to be sitting right next to her, and I keep my voice low.
“So how much do you need to start with to play on the 5-10 table?”
She leans toward me as she continues to deal the cards, multitasking being a prerequisite to poker dealing.
“Eh, the pots can get pretty big over there. It just depends what kind of player you are. The key is to double-up fast because you just have more power with a big stack.”
I shake my head and look at the cards I’ve been dealt. “Could you start with a couple hundred dollars?” She turns over the community cards.
“Mmm, yeah. But I wouldn’t start with any less than that.”
I’m holding a pair with a pair on the board; the bet makes its way to me.
“I’m all in.” I push $120—give or take—to the middle.
People toss in their cards without even waiting their turn. All but one, a young kid with curly hair and ear buds. He’s staring at his hold cards, tapping them up and down, and bobbing his head to whatever music it is he’s listening to. He knows it’s his move, but he can’t get a read on me. I start playing with my phone in my lap.
The dealer, in a whisper, says, “No phones during a hand,” so I quickly stick it in my purse. She taps her fingers on his side of the table and says, “We need a call or a fold,” and he pulls out one ear bud. She repeats, “We need a call or a fold.” He starts to count out his chips, and the dealer confirms its $118 for the call. He counts them out, separates them from his stack, but chooses to sit there a bit longer to ponder his hand.
Players get antsy. One speaks up.
“Come on already.”
He’s not intimidated by the player’s comment, and at this point I begin to worry about his hand. There’s no way he’d be agonizing if it was all that good. No way.
He cocks his head like why-the-hell-am-I-doing-this and pushes the pre-counted stack toward the middle.
I toss my cards down—two pair—and I hear a regular say, “She went all in with that?!”
My opponent looks at my cards, really studies them, and chooses not to reveal his own. He puts his ear bud back in and leans on the table to rest his chin in the palm of his hand.
“Good hand,” my neighbor says. Then the players chatter and there’s nine kinds of speculation and assessment over what it was he had and why he stayed.
I get up to get a tray.
And get my name back on the list.