Three hours later I’m down to eight bucks, and I make myself get up and leave. If my gas tank wasn’t nearly empty I’d give it one last shot, but I can’t risk losing any more with a thirty-minute drive home.
My breathing is shallow, I’m numb, and I hate myself for losing ninety-two dollars. I keep my eyes on Nate and strategically slip out when he has his back turned. He has probably figured out by now that I wasn’t exactly on my way to the “grocery store.” I rush to get out and trip over a lady’s purse as I find my way out of the poker room.
Everyone in this whole place looks like they’re attending a funeral. The constant ring of the slot machines is such a hoax. No one in this whole damn place is winning. I pay close attention to the pitiful cases as I walk toward the doors.
A grandma losing her retirement.
A mechanic losing his kid’s lunch money.
A college kid losing his tuition.
This is sick. I’m never coming back. Never. Ever. Never again.
When I walk out into the world of smoke-free oxygen, I’m glad the charade is over.
It’s dark, so I jog to my car in hopes that I don’t get mugged. When my doors are locked, I hug my steering wheel for a second, glad to be back in my real life.
I’ll just quit the squad. Things could be worse. There are kids without shoes and shelter and I’m stressed about a freakin’ cheer choreography fee.
I pull away from the flashing light and head across the street to pump gas. I grab my purse and go into the store that smells of Cheetos and candy. True to my luck of the night, the same big belly worker is behind the counter. There’s no cup of courtesy pennies on the counter, so I just hand him my eight bucks. He pops open his register and is put-out to count forty-nine cents because he has to break open a roll of pennies. I, however, enjoy it.
On my way home I replay the hand I could have won.
I had it won. Miguel, as they called him, intimidated me with his high bets every round. I knew I had him beat. Why didn’t I stay in? He didn’t have crap. Or did he? I should have stayed in to force him to show his hand. I need another re-do. Why didn’t I bet the maximum early in the hand? It would’ve built a bigger pot.
Thirty minutes of woulda-coulda-shouldas and I make my way home and pull into the driveway.
I lost ninety-two dollars.
Good GRIEF, just let it go.
NINETY-TWO FREAKIN’ DOLLARS.
I will never. Never. Ever. Go back again.