Saturday, November 04, 2006

Games of Chance

Anyone who knows me knows that I have, arguably, the worst luck in town.
I lose at everything.
Games of chance are not my cup of tea.
Then there is my ability to bluff.
I cannot bluff. You can read me like a book,
with large print,
and in brail.

Hell, an audio book.

Put it this way, I have no luck and no bluffing ability.

Poker, though I love to play it, takes every penny that I put to the game.
Usually I am the first one out. Occasionally, when I have a run of good luck, I might be the second one out.

But last weekend, somehow unbeknownst to me, I managed to win.
Four games in a row.

I was up two hundred dollars.

Then I proceeded to lose. I lost a handful of games, but still walked out with a little over a hundred in my back pocket.

Go me!

Until now, I refused to talk about this run of luck, scared that it would kill me karmatically.

But last night, I played again. This time I played against a handful of Mexicans. All speaking Spanish at the table.*
Though my grasp of Spanish is nowhere near proficient, I knew enough of the language to understand that they were talking about some, well, interesting things.

Back to the game.
I lost a game. No big deal. I stayed in for a good while, but in the end I managed to bet on the wrong hand.

That game was all the fund-age that I could afford to play away. Unfortunately, one of the Spanish speakers wanted me to keep me and paid my way.

Game two started out sane enough. I lost here, won there.
Eventually it was just myself and one other player. The two of us, playing for all the marbles.
Him, in hard concentration.
Me, in a fit of giggles.

I was down in the chips and went all in, three hands in a row.

My winning streak gave me a few charmed cards and I won, all of them.
Suddenly, I have the lead.

Senior Poker was a little frustrated. He put himself all in. And though I was ahead, it wasn’t by much. This was the hand that would make a winner.
And a loser.

As I was about to deal the cards he leaned over,
And grabber my arm forcefully and started feeling around.

He was checking my bloody arm for cards!

He thought I was cheating,
He thought I had the capability and bluffing faculty to cheat, to use slight of had, to win this game through devious and unscrupulous means.

“What the hell?” I asked.

“Just checking, I thought I saw a heart in your sleeve.”

I stripped off my sweatshirt to reveal a tiny tank top to prove the lack of things in my sleeve. There was, by the way, nothing in my sleeves.

He just shrugged, looked at me with a skeptical glare, and motioned for me to deal.

So I did,

I dealt myself three sixes to win the game.

He tossed his cards to the floor and stormed out of the room.

Two weekends in a row I ended up walking out with money in my pocket.

And I think the Mexican mafia might have a hit out on me.

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