by Salvatore Difalco

Glinski has had my number all night. Can’t make a move without him breathing down my neck, going over the top, calling my bluffs, or just toying with me like a cat with a mouse. Stacked me twice already and he’s eyeing my third stack like I’m just keeping it warm for him. That and he’s wearing a vest, this mustard-baby-shit-yellow velour vest, surely meant to get under my skin. Sometimes I think he exists in my world solely to torment me like a Promethean eagle. Who the fuck wears vests anymore?

OK, so I’ve been running like a three-legged horse for months. People talk about variance. Wild swings. Freakish bad luck. Well, I’m on a silicon-slicked downslope, and I’ve been sliding to the bottom for so long I’ve forgotten what climbing the victory ladder is like. Very next hand Carmine deals me two black bullets, and Glinski snap-calls my ten x the blind bet. Who calls ten x the blind unless they have bullets or cowboys? Well, Glinski calls. And I can bet a million dollars I don’t have that neither bullets nor cowboys nor anything ranking as premium occupy his thick fingers. His smirk prompts a wave of nausea in the back of my gullet that I have trouble containing. I pray for a win in the deeps of my mind, with that little voice behind the little voice. I don’t ask for improbability. Only that my bullets hold up to whatever garbage Glinski holds.

Carmine serves the flop and says, “Rainbow, boys. Johnny, queen and a duck.”

Glinski donk-bets, and I gape such that Carmine asks if I’m OK.

“A little existentially nauseated,” I want to say, and perhaps my weak smile offers the same message. Nevertheless, I raise Glinksi’s donk bet enough that if he calls he’ll have less than a pot bet behind it. But the son of a bitch goes all in without a second thought. I figure for sure he mined a set of ladies; otherwise the shove makes zero sense.

I tank and tank. All eyes watch me. Arnie with the ponytail, smoking a cheroot, squints at me like Clint Eastwood were he a degenerate gambler. Carmine rubs his huge hirsute hands together and grunt-chuckles. I shoot him a hard look, and he dips his bearded chin and stares at me with the tops of his black eyes.

“So you have a set of ladies, Glinski,” I say more to myself than anything. But possibly worse than losing to a set of Glinski’s ladies is letting him bluff me off my aces with some random queen x holding. Tytle with his bloodshot eyes and beer breath threatens to call the clock. “We don’t have a clock, you idiot,” I say.

“Yeah,” Carmine says. “It’s broken.”

“Well, time down a minute,” Tytle says.

Time, what is time? Even as I sit here, I feel my time running out. Not just for this decision, but on the whole. I’ve wasted half my life with my elbows rubbing green felt and my fingers getting calloused from handling poker chips. So does it matter if I lose? They say folks like me like losing. I can’t say I like it. But I understand how one arrives at this conclusion. I’m going to lose now, no doubt. But does it matter? Why fight it, if I can’t? Reluctantly, I shove the rest of my stack and Glinski turns over a queen and two of clubs. A two of effin clubs. I show the bullets and everyone gasps. The river is a brick, and Glinski’s horseshit two pair holds up. He gathers the chips, biting back a grin, but surely savoring the moment.

“Bad beat,” Carmine intones, and I look at him as though he’s slain my family.

“Don’t feel bad,” Glinski says. “Next time, you’ll be stacking me, bro.”

One would think that Glinski is reaching out with the full measure of sportsmanship and bonhomie, but the last time he lost playing cards happened during the Biden administration. I’m considering taking up a new pastime. I’d say horses, but we know horses only lead to horseshit and misery. And besides, compare sitting at a nice big table sipping a whisky, smoking a spliff, and breaking balls with hanging out at the dirty track, dodging the vampires, checking your chits, and losing your mortgage payment. And what do I know about horses, anyway? Effin horses.

“Carmine, you like the ponies?” I ask.

“How do you mean? Riding them?”

“No, man, betting on them.”

“That’s a sucker’s road,” Glinski interjects. “You don’t wanna get into the ponies, believe me. And why, you don’t wanna play with us no more?”

How do I tell Glinski that I don’t want to play with him anymore? Am I being too harsh? Am I a sore loser? Am I one of those losers who blame the world for their problems? Well, the world is at least partly at fault, no? I’m not the sole engine of my misery. But maybe I am.

“Everyone has an off night,” Carmine says, stifling a yawn. “Even you.”

“Even me? Even me? Carmine, I haven’t had a winning session in months.”

My complaints fall on dead ears.

“Deal the cards,” Arnie says.

It happens to be my turn and I quickly deal the cards to these thieves. I’ve dealt myself another pair of bullets. How about that? Back to back. And how will I lose this time? How the fuck will Glinski in his hideous yellow vest dirty me this time? Will he call with an off-suit deuce-three and hit a boat? Or will he flush out with two random suited cards, or hit two effin pair again with a queen and deuce? Does it matter? It’s only one hand. Even if I win, my fortunes won’t change. And if I lose, well, I expect to lose, so in a way it’s comforting to know this.