My eyes shift back and forth, back and forth . . . back and forth . . . from the game to Mr. Lackey’s location in the room. He’s at a safe distance, but it stresses me out, no doubt.
A pair of queens in the hole temporarily takes my mind off the Lackey factor. I bet heavy, and come out a winner. My stack is growing nicely. The guys at the table think I’m just a dumb blonde getting lucky every once in a while. What they don’t know is that I’ve got them all figured out, but one. Their “tells” include: excessive blinking, shaky hands, knuckle cracking, and cigarette lighting, all independent of one another. It’s just another day at the office. After thirty minutes of my stomach growling, I take a break to go get a burrito from the food court.
At the cashier’s window I exchange a five dollar chip for the cash, then walk and get in line behind a couple scraping their change to come up with as much as they can. She’s digging around at the bottom of her purse; he’s checking every pocket in his jeans to make sure he hasn’t missed a single coin. Discovering a hidden quarter right now would be like hitting the jackpot.
I overhear their conversation. It’s hostile.
“If you wouldn’t have played it all back we’d have some to eat on!” She sets her purse on the floor and squats to get in a better digging position. Her khaki capris are in decent shape, but her white canvas tennis shoes have seen better days.
He responds with a sarcastic laugh. He wants to fight. “How do I always get blamed for this?!”
She continues to dig.
I take two dollar bills and hand them to her. “Here. Take this . . . Yes, I’m sure.”
They’re so very appreciative. One would think that I just ordered them steaks and lobster tail.
“No, really . . . It’s no big deal. I’m having a good day,” I say.
I hear the couple as they discuss the sum of their loose coin and my donation: $5.37. Then, they step up to the cashier and place their order . . . I’m directly behind them, so of course I hear everything. The lady orders for both of them.
“One burrito, one taco, and two waters.”
The cashier punches in the order, and I catch a glance of the digital numbers that light up the total before the lady steps in front of it in effort to conceal it.
$2.01! Their order total is $2.01, and they have no intention of handing me back my money! They scoot down the counter and grab their sack of food with a sense of urgency, and I stand in disbelief.
My anger turns to sadness quickly, because I realize that they have a serious gambling problem, and there’s no doubt in my mind that my two dollars—their last two dollars—will end up in a slot machine. It’s so incredibly sad. These people have problems.
I get my burrito, devour it in a few bites, and make sure I top off my Coke before I go back to the table. I purposefully do not look down the rows of slot machines. I do not want to see the couple that just put me together for two bucks. I file the situation in a folder in my brain that I will never open again. There are a couple of empty seats when I return to the table, but chips reserve their place.
I get comfortable in my chair, work my tongue around my teeth to remove the remaining tortilla and bean shells, and survey my stack. I’m consciously aware that life is good with a full belly, a stack of chips, Nate in the building, and cards flying across the table declaring a new hand.
Then, it happens.
Two big-bellied security guards and a woman in a black skirt suit walk over to Mr. Lackey’s table. He stops his deal, even stands up mid-hand, and nods my direction. My heart pounds like never before, and I start to feel woozy.
They all look directly at me, and Mr. Lackey nods his head.
The thought crosses my mind to pick up my chips and run for the door, but I become paralyzed. I can’t move.
I toss in my cards, out of turn, and slump down in my chair, hoping, PRAYING, that it’s not happening.
With the suit lady as their leader and without urgency, they walk straight to me. I know this not by looking directly at them, but by using every capability of my peripheral vision. I know a black blur comes around the table then stops directly behind me.
The lady leans down and whispers in my ear.
“You need to come with us.”
My hands are shaking at convulsive levels . . . ironically like the time I took down my first big pot. I don’t reply; I just start stacking my chips to take with me, wherever it is I’m going.
The lady leans down again.
“You won’t need those. Leave your chips on the table.” She is firm, and there’s a military aura about her.
I release the chips from my hands.
I know this is it.
I know somewhere that Nate is processing what is happening to me. Is he mad? Does he hate me? Is he embarrassed?
I comply.
We walk through the main walkway of the casino. They don’t grab my arm and lead me, nor do they place me in handcuffs. I even get the sense that one of the security guards feels sorry for me.
The ringing of the slot machines sounds muffled. It’s all surreal, and I don’t even feel like I’m in my own body. I think of Dad, and I stop a tear with my hand before it rolls down my face. My nose becomes runny, and of course I sniffle. We walk in formation: me in the middle, security guards on each side, and the lady behind me. It seems endless, like we’re walking across the country.
We enter a door that leads to an area with a couch, kitchen, television, and reclining chairs. There’s another security guard kicked back eating a sandwich and watching TV. A walkway separates the living space and the offices, divided only by glass windows.
Still no sign of Nate.
The security guards join their coworker to watch Wheel of Fortune, and I realize it’s at least six-thirty in the evening, later than I thought.
I’d do anything to be in my living room watching Wheel of Fortune with Dad.
I’m still in shock when the lady motions for me to go in her office. “Let’s go in here,” she says.
She sits behind her desk, and I catch a glimpse of her family photo displaying four kids, a husband, and golden retriever. I’m surprised, because she doesn’t come across as the motherly type.
“Have a seat,” she commands.
I settle into a cheap plastic chair. I know she knows I’m scared to death. Her hair is pulled up in a stylish way. She pulls paperwork and an old Polaroid camera from her desk drawer. I wonder if the cops have already been called.
“Do you know why you’re here?” she asks.
I choose not to respond.
She “Can I see some identification?”
I cry.
I unzip my purse and my shaky hands manage to pull my driver’s license from my wallet. I place it on her desk, then scoot back in my chair, as far back as I can go.
She stares at me, almost hesitating, then picks up the plastic card that tells who I am. She only looks at the picture for a second because she has no doubt that it’s me.
She puts on her red-rimmed reading glasses, and reads the information aloud.
“Chelsea. Chelsea Knowles.” She goes on to read my birth date, address, weight, and every other detail that the Department of Public Safety finds necessary to include on a driver’s license. She sets my license down and folds her arms. “So you’re only seventeen?”
I can’t answer verbally. I just shake my head yes.
“Well, Miss Chelsea, do you know the legal gambling age in the state of Oklahoma?”
I nod yes, again.
She answers her own question.
“It’s eighteen. You must be eighteen-years-old to gamble.”
My nose is runny and the tears just keep coming. She surprisingly hands me a tissue.
I look back through the glass windows to see if the real policemen have arrived yet.
The police have not arrived.
But Nate has. He’s standing in the hallway with his hands on his hips, staring in our office.
Bad has gotten worse.