Poker

The radio was humming in the background with some shitty old jazz. The smoke was rolling around our heads in thick clouds. I inhaled that scent deeply; it was a breath of life. Joe was holding a seven of clubs, I saw out of the corner of my eye. He was always a shitty poker player. The queen of diamonds was in my hand. I had a sweet spot for her. I used to screw people over by playing with a deck that didn’t have a queen of diamonds. Joe was no poker player, but he was a card counter and he got me on that one.

“Hey Tony, pass that bottle o’ whiskey, will ya?”

I put my cards on my knee and dragged the bottle off the shelf behind me. I poured some into Frank’s glass. He reached for it and I saw the jack of hearts and the four of diamonds.

We began to bet, and I went hard. I downed a glass of whiskey and watched Frank fold. After a couple rounds, I pulled in the cash.

“Fuck you, Tony,” Joe said good-spiritedly and puffed smoke in my face. I breathed it in and took his money.

The next hand was shit and I folded. But the whiskey was going to my head now, and I didn’t care. The radio was still buzzing, and made the smoke seem thicker. Without a window open, the fog became heavy and we sank into a stupor. The 2 am blues we called it, and it happened almost every night. I dropped off with the whiskey still coursing through me violently.

Then they took my money. It always happened like that.