Before I know it, the bet has moved around to me.
“Three to call, little lady.”
Little. That implies I look young, which is not a good thing.
A man appears with a small rack of 100 one dollar chips and sets them in front of me. And I can’t bring myself to answer the dealer.
He repeats, “Three to call.”
Nerves get the best of me and I respond.
“Um. I’m out.”
Red Head Lady to my left is extremely put out with me. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve slowed down the game or because I’ve invaded her one to seven women/men ratio.
She throws in her chips, and she’s in the game looking for some action. As the bet moves around the table she points to my cards and says, “You need to throw those back in to the dealer.” Not in a sweet, “I’m-here-to-help-you” way, rather a “you-are-already-on-my-nerves” way.
So I toss the cards back in then retuck my hands.
Suited-up Mafia Guy starts moving our direction, and I don’t know whether to make a mad dash for the door or apply more lipstick. CRAP.
The hand continues, and I’m completely oblivious to what’s going on because The Suit is getting closer and closer.
You are eighteen. You are eighteen. You are eighteen.
He finally reaches our table, and walks straight behind me.
Seriously?!
There’s no way he knows I’m underage. No way.
“Ma’am, can I get your rack?”
EXCUSE ME??!! I give him a blank stare, and I know way down deep that I’m busted. Visions of jail bars make a quick appearance in my brain.
He points down to my poker chips and says, “I can get that out of your way.”
Ohhhhh, poker chip rack. I get it now.
“Sure, thanks.” I start unloading my chips onto the felt table making a mess, knocking over stacks, the whole nine yards. After what feels like days later, I hand him the empty plastic rack and say, “Thanks.” I smile.
He smiles, then turns to walk away.
Cute guy . . . in a Sopranos kind of way.
By the time I focus back on the game, I already have two cards facedown and we’re onto the next hand.
Queen of hearts. Queen of spades.
Figuring out the casino’s betting system suddenly becomes urgent. I know how to play poker. A pair of queens in the hole is really good. The bet comes around to me, and Asian Guy on my right throws in a red five dollar chip and a white, one dollar chip. I count out six ones and throw them to the pot before the dealer can even look up, proving to the table that I’m a very fast learner.
Chips and cards fly around, then the dealer tidies up the pot and pounds the table twice with his fist.
He turns three community cards up, and I swear I’m seeing things. Two. Queen. Four.
My shaky hands are suddenly convulsing, and I wonder how I’m even going to handle picking up my chips.
No one bets for a while . . . until Asian Guy. He makes a statement when he throws in the limit—a red and a white, six bucks, and they scatter across the table. Either he’s very, very confident or he’s really, really bluffing.
I can’t catch my breath. It’s my turn. Wishing I had some red chips to make this easier, I start to count out twelve white ones. I’m embarrassed—no, humiliated, because my hands are jolting at a ridiculous level at this point. I finally complete my task and scoot them across the line.
“I call and raise six dollars.” My words are weak and shaky. I need to win this pot, I really, really need it, but just continued breathing will suffice at the moment.
Everyone at the table folds, but Asian Guy gives it one last go. He does the same: call and raise. Luckily, this time I don’t have to speak. I toss in my twelve bucks.
The dealer turns over the next community card. Two. My eyes widen.
That gives me a full house. Full house equals . . . Ohmygosh! I’M GOING TO WIN THIS THING.
I become entranced, staring at the pot. I’ve been on this table less than five minutes, and I’m already about to take one down.
The bet is on my opponent. He doesn’t hesitate.
“I check.”
What? I thought he had something!
He’s testing me. That’s the only thing I can figure.
I can’t give him the stare down because he’s seated next to me. The thought crosses my mind that he’s holding a pair of twos in his hands, four of a kind, which would beat me.
I let out a nervous giggle trying to buy time. How in the hell am I supposed to play this?!
I look at the pot and think of the cheer shoes I am in such desperate need of. Here goes nothing . . .
“Six dollars.” I push my white chips to the middle in disbelief that this has all happened so fast. I may not be eating for a month, but I’m all in.
My job is done. There’s nothing left to say. It’s all up to my opponent.
He rattles something under his breath, looks at his hand, and starts to tap his cards up and down. This is a huge relief. If he had four twos there’s no way he’d be thinking this over.
He continues the rattle and tap, and Red Head Lady next to me strikes up a conversation with Dealer Mike about the crab legs on the buffet.
“They’re no good,” she says.
Mike agrees about the crab legs then forces the game to continue.
“Six to call, Phong.”
He taps his cards one last time then begins to count out his chips.
He pauses one last time to take one last look at his cards, then places his neat stacks of chips over the line.
Holy Joker. He’s going for it.
“Let’s see ‘em.” Mike waves toward me first.
I flip over my cards to reveal my gem of a hand.
Mike raises his eyebrows and he’s more shocked than I am.
“Full house, queens full of twos.”
Phong flips his over to reveal a flush.
The dealer starts pushing the chips my way, and I force my body to stiffen like a statue for the next several minutes. We’re already into the next hand when I finally come to and start to stack my chips. Including the antes and previous rounds of betting, it’s a nice little heap of chips. I can’t even focus on the current hand because I’m replaying the last hand in my head over and over at a very fast rate. The scary thing? I had no idea that Phong had that good of a hand. A flush? No idea. I should’ve paid more attention that that was even a possibility. A flush wins like 110 percent of the time.
I’m still a nervous wreck, and I’m ready to get the heck out of this place.
The bets on me, and I barely give my cards a glance and throw them in.
I’m done.
I’m like, more than done.
My attention is suddenly split between my win and Mafia Guy, who just walked past the table again. He’s . . . cuuute. Older than me, definitely, but not by much. He looks about twenty-one. Maybe twenty-two, but he can’t be older than that. I stare when he’s not looking so he doesn’t catch me. He makes his way to the corner of the room to help a player who looks to be at least ninety. He lets the old man grab the crook of his arm, and together they walk very, very, very slowly across the room and out the door. So sweet and patient.
After a few more hands, and a couple of wins, I think of Dad at home probably beginning to wonder where I’m at.
Looking around for a cashier, I try to figure out how to carry these chips since Cute Mafia Guy took my chip tray. Do I just start loading them in my purse? Or can you do that? I spot the cashier window, and decide it will look ridiculous if I make three trips back and forth to get my chips up there. Once again, I’m letting everyone know about my newbie status.
Hmm.
Surely I won’t be the first one to ever ask . . . I look at the dealer.
“Mike, can I get one of those tray things back?”
Flashy Grandpa takes it upon himself to respond, “Oh. You’re not leaving us are ya? You just got started!” Everyone waits for my response. A lie formulates in my brain shockingly fast.
“I’ve got to get to work.”
“Well, you’ll have to come back when you can stay longer.” He manages to say all this while playing poker and throwing in chips at the same time.
“I will. Thanks.” Oh I will, all right.
Mike motions for someone to bring me a tray, and Cute Mafia Guy starts to make his way over.
He smiles at me as he approaches. Very cute. Dimples, shaved head, big brown eyes.
I’m embarrassed when one tray isn’t enough, and he goes back to the cashier’s cage to get another. He brings me the second one in a rush because there’s some kind of commotion/dispute going on at another table. Perfect for me, because that leaves us no time to talk. I fill the trays, tuck my clutch under my arm, and begin to make my way out. I can’t help but smile the whole way to the cashier.
The cashier, with hair sprayed up to Jesus and nine long red fingernails (one broken), counts my chips and opens her cash drawer. She counts my money, fans it on the counter, then shows her empty hands to what I’m assuming is an “eye in the sky.”
Oh yeah, baby! It’s all mine. Hello, electricity. HEL-LO new cheer shoes. No time for placing it neatly in my wallet, I fold it once and stuff it in my purse. Turning to make my exit, I literally run straight into Cute Mafia Guy.
He gently grabs my arm and says, “Got a minute?”