Wicked Good At Cards

Poker’s a funny game. It requires two different modes of literacy. You’ve obviously got to know how to read the cards—otherwise you’re just giving to charity. But if you really want to get good at the game, it’s not even really about the cards. I mean, the guys I play with, they’re just as good as me when it comes to cards. The trick is being able to read the person. If you know the guy sitting to your right, you know every card he’s holding. For instance, when Gordo’s got a pair of queens, he always cracks a gay joke. Three queens means it’s a lesbian orgy. And if his lip’s curled on the left side, he’s holding an ace-high. Most of the time it’s that easy—when you’re playing with guys that you know. But it takes a little more effort when you don’t know the marks you’re playing with, and that night at the social club proved to be a difficult one.

First off, I showed up half-drunk. I was also half-stoned, which means I was completely wrecked. I didn’t know anyone that I was supposed to be playing that night, either. I knew Gordo, and he knew the owner of the place, so he set the thing up, but he wasn’t playing, just holding the money and taking 10% of the winnings. Not a bad deal for him, but I ended up playing with total strangers. Well, I recognized two of them. There were these two off-duty cops—both with noses for weed, I might add. They’re snouts snapped right to attention when I walked through the door, and to my dismay, I had a quarter-ounce of it in my pocket. I played it off, though—made it seem like I wasn’t even worried. But I was, and the paranoia broke my concentration. After the first three hands, I was down $200.

The fourth man, Jim, was a short Irish guy with a red beard. He didn’t talk much, but his friend, Josue, did. He was a tall Puerto Rican cat about 4 or 5 years older than myself, and he would not stop laughing at me. From behind a cloud of smoke that hung over the table, he said, “Man, this boy’s too fucked up to know what he’s doing. Gordo, you better warn your boy before I take all his money.” His friend didn’t laugh, but the cops did.

I call them guys Mike and Ike because one of them’s named Mike, and the other, his sidekick just goes along with everything Mike says. Anyways, Mike asked me, “You drive here, buddy?”

“No, sir,” I said. “Uber. But you know, I think he was drunk. Swerving all over the place, texting on his phone. Said he was on the way to your mom's house.”

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To Be Continued
Short Story in Progress. Part 1: Intro

image source: https://pixabay.com/en/cards-diamond-diamonds-favorites-2029819/

Looking for feedback and constructive criticism. Thanks for reading