by Julie Dill
“Oh. Where’s home?”
And I can’t come up with an answer. How am I supposed to know which towns have casinos?
“Out of state,” is the only thing I can come up with. I continue, “I just moved here not too long ago.”
Will I be handcuffed?
He points the other way, “Well, Chandra, let me get you set up with a Players’ Club Card. That way you can earn points for free meals when you play. That lady right over there will help you.” He points to a lady that could pass for the cashier’s twin.
My luck didn’t stop at the poker table. Thankyou. Thankyou. Thank. You.
I smile.
“Hey, thanks. I’ll do that next time; I’m kind of in a hurry.”
He adjusts his blazer lapel and says, “Oh, alrighty. We’ll see ya next time then, Chandra.”
It’s odd that a guy that could play a part in The Sopranos would use the word “alrighty,” but maybe his suit and earpiece aren’t indicative of who he really is. Interesting.
I walk briskly to my car. When I step outside, the oxygen feels extra crisp and clean. A blue truck begins to follow me down the row of parked cars, and this makes me pick up my pace. I make eye contact with the driver. He’s a clean-cut guy wearing a baseball hat.
Wait, but serial killers can look clean-cut.
Or what if he’s an undercover cop coming to arrest me?
I move even faster. When I get to my car I can hardly get my keys out of my purse. Between the poker win and this, my hands aren’t functioning as they should, and I drop my keys on the ground. I hurry and pick them up, then force my hand to get the freaking key in the keyhole. Finally, I jump in my car and lock the doors. My eyes dart back to the blue truck. He’s got his blinker on, waiting for my space. He pulls his hand up off the steering wheel and waves. I blow out a long breath then back my car out.
After I leave, I’m still in disbelief that this whole thing happened so I pull over at the gas station parking lot under a light to count my cash and make sure it’s for real.
394 freakin’ dollars. $294 more than I had before. For real.
That just happened.
Wow!
Bye-bye cutoff notice. Plus, I’ll buy new jeans. I need some jewelry. It’s name-brand cereal this week. Coke instead of water—I’ll splurge on the good stuff. Hair products. I’ll buy hair products! Like the ones that Cassidy and all the other girls use. My hair will be shiny and gorgeous like theirs. Even smell expensive. I KNOW! I’ll go to the salon and get my hair done by a hairdresser! An actual hairdresser!
__________
“Honey, come here. Let’s try to brush out these knots. You can’t go to school with a bunch of knots now, can you?” Dad waved me over with his comb.
I shook my head no, buckled my sandal, and headed toward the sink and mirror. I saw my reflection. My sun-bleached hair looked as if it had gotten caught up in the bottom of a vacuum cleaner.
Dad ran the water and wet the comb, then went to work.
“Ouch! DAD! OUCH! You’re hurting me!”
Dad rubbed my scalp with his fingers. “I’m sorry, honey, but these things have to be brushed out.”
He rewet the comb.
It hurt badly. “OUCH!” Tears flooded my eyes.
“Honey, I know it hurts. Just give me a second here.”
He yanked some more.
I cried some more.
After minutes of agonizing yanking, my hair lay against my head, wet strands free of tangles.
I slid my palm down my hair. My cry came to an end, and I caught my breath in between words. “Can . . . I . . . have . . . a ponytail?”
“A what?” Dad asked sympathetically.
“A ponytail. Like Mama used to do.” I watched his face in the mirror. He looked around the vanity area knowing there wasn’t a rubber band in sight.
“Stay right here.”
I watched myself sniffle and take quick breaths, and continued flattening my wet hair with my palm.
“A ponytail it is, my little first grader,” he happily chanted from the other room. I heard him walk out the front door then walk back in.
He returned with the newspaper and pulled off the rubber band. I smiled with wet, red eyes, and faced the mirror once more.
“Be real still.” Dad was determined. He wet the comb one last time, and slicked me down for a low pony.
“Let’s see here.” Awkwardly, he wrapped the newspaper rubber band around my hair until the ponytail was complete.
“Voilà!” He pointed the comb at my head as if he just made a rabbit appear then broke out in song. “Hereeee sheeee issssss: Misssss Americaaa . . .”
__________
The movies. I’ll go to the movies and actually pay for a ticket. I’ll get popcorn. Popcorn, candy, and a Coke. Or a good bra. From the mall! I can buy a good bra! One where the wire doesn’t come out and poke me all day long. Or expensive sunglasses. Or a flat iron! A mani/pedi, that’s what I’ll do with this money! Mani/pedi!
I spend the money 3 million ways in my head.
Or maybe . . . just maybe . . . I could get my picture taken. By, like, a professional or something. Like the other girls do. Gorgeous background, an edited smile in an expensive frame. Finally! It will be rich in color, for sure. Expensive looking. I like that one of Cassidy at the botanical gardens with water in the background. I could do that. I could totally do that! Cheeeeeeeese.
I smile all the way home.
Chapter 5
By the next cheer practice, I walk in a new woman. I can literally feel the stares at my feet and sense the other girls thinking, “Well it’s about time.” Everyone else has had their white leather cheer shoes for some time now, while I’ve practiced in my white/turning yellow canvas ones.
And just like little kids that run faster with new shoes, I cheer better. The shoes are way lighter than my heavy, clunky things, and my kicks just seem to go a little higher. We practice for two hours, and it marks the first time I actually feel like part of the team. Don’t really know if it has anything to do with the shoes, but things are just clicking. I remember the choreography. I hit stunts. My jumps are rockin’. I’m soaring high, and the thought of being crowned Homecoming Queen while wearing a fancy dress makes a quick appearance in my head.
Now that I’ve got my shoes, I’m thinking I really need the $120 pair of jeans I saw the other day. And that would take me, what . . . an hour on the poker table?
“Let’s run the dance one more time and then we’re outta here.” Rylee, the cheer captain, leads us into the dance again. The music begins to thump, and I go through the motions because I am too excited about my soon-to-be new jeans to think about anything else. Rhinestones or no rhinestones? Decisions, decisions . . .
Should I go back tonight? The fact that I was just at the casino two nights ago makes me a bit nervous. But then again, the casino peeps should remember me and not bother to ask for ID . . . right?
After the dance, Rylee jumps in front, faces us, and readjusts her headband.
“Practice again tomorrow. If you haven’t paid choreography fees to Miss Mound yet, do it by the end of next week. Good practice today! Can’t wait for football season!” She claps her hands, and the group of ponytails disperses to grab their bags and water bottles.
Shit. Choreography fees.
I’ve got my work cut out for me. For sure.
Choreography fees plus rhinestone jeans equals . . . poker. TONIGHT.
I check my phone, grab my bag, and head for the parking lot. The days are still long, and the sun is still shining. I trot across the parking lot to my lonely car, and wonder if I could win enough to buy me a new one. Well, of course I could!
I throw my things on top of a pile of junk that sits upon more junk. Random stuff that, at a glimpse, would make me appear to be a packrat. America’s
Junkiest Cars. Now there’s a reality show waiting to happen. Sunglasses, umbrella, empty chip bag, and I know my geography binder is under there somewhere.
Anticipating the check-in call to Dad, I start to consider my lie options.
I’m going to the library. Nah.
I’ll be at Cassidy’s. No. He drives by her house on the way to his night shift.
I’m washing my car. Nah.
I’m going to Walmart for some personal items. Now there’s something he won’t question.
As I pull out of the school parking lot, I hold one hand on the steering wheel and dig around in my purse for my phone with the other. When I find the little, cheap thing, I decide that with my future abundant poker winnings, a smart phone is definitely on the “to buy” list.
“Hey, Dad. What’s up?”
“Just put a gourmet dinner in the oven. I’m trying a new recipe. Are you comin’ home?”
“Dad, frozen pepperoni pizza is not a recipe.”
He laughs.
“It is when you add extra Parmesan cheese.”
Here it goes.
“I won’t be home until later. I need to run by Wal-Mart for some personal things, and it may take a while.” No matter how close I am to my dad, the mention of personal things is ten kinds of awkward.
“Oh okay, honey. Do you still have that twenty I gave you last week?”
That twenty was gone in two days.
“Yeah, Dad. I’ll use that. It’ll be plenty.”
“Alright, honey. If you don’t get home before I leave, be careful and call me before you go to bed.”
“I will. Love you, Dad.”
“Love you too, honey.”
That was easy.
I’m two miles into the drive before I decide my cheer practice clothes won’t cut it in a casino. Although there’s no picture of a mascot, anyone could look at my clothes and pin me a cheerleader. But I can’t go home to change.
I have $102. I need every cent of that for the poker table, which rules out stopping to buy a new shirt.
Unless I go to Goodwill, a place Dad and I frequent from time to time.
I head for the store and brainstorm how I’m going to wash a shirt without going home. This could be complicated. When I walk in, it’s the same, familiar, old lady perfume stench. It’s crowded, and there’s a screaming kid on the loose with no apparent supervision. Flipping through the clothes, I look for the one with the least amount of snot, lint, or crust.
A long sleeved button-up should suffice. That way I can keep my t-shirt on and wear it as a jacket, and the dirtiness will only touch my skin from the elbows down. A pretty lavender plaid will do for $2.49. Although the shirt will be on my body in twenty short minutes, I don’t allow it to touch any part of my car, like it has cooties or something. I tuck the bag into the floorboard, away from my other stuff.
As I drive to the casino, I am over-the-top excited. I can’t get there fast enough.
Is this the same high you get from smoking pot?
I park in the back because I know what I’m doing. I reach down for the shirt. Usually when I wash a thrift store shirt I switch the washing machine setting to hot and use an extra scoop of detergent. Never have I put on a shirt straight from the bag.
I pull it out.
Ew . . . I remove the price tag using my teeth. EW.
Then I shake it out and pull it on.
Ew.
Ew. Ew. Ew. EW.
I feel as if bugs are crawling into my hair. To escape it, I repeatedly squirt mango body spray all over myself and hurry up and get out of the car.
When I walk up and see Cute Mafia Guy is working the poker room, I disappear to the bathroom before he sees me. I double check my makeup, powder my face, and then take a long look at myself in the full-length mirror. I remove my ponytail holder and tease my hair to bring it in front of my shoulders. The Goodwill shirt looks wrinkly, like I pulled it straight from the hamper. If only. To make the best of it, I tie it up at the waist.
There’s no waiting list for my table, so I’m immediately seated. I can’t seem to catch my breath. I was expecting a little wait time.
Cards are flying, and I don’t recognize any of the players from the other night. I need Cozy Pops back. I pull the $100 bill from my purse, and the dealer—a man who apparently forgot his morning shave—hollers, “Changing $100.” He stuffs my bill into a slit in the table so I’ll forget it ever existed.
When I reach across the table to scoot my chips closer, I get a whiff of my shirt. Ohmygosh. Beyond stinky. Hopefully the cigarette smoke will overpower me.
It’s arctic freezing in the poker room, and the combination of my nerves and frozenness makes me stiffen my body to refrain from jolting. I quickly look away after Cute Mafia Guy and I make eye contact. Now he knows I’m here. He knows I know he’s here. I run my hand through my hair then look over at him again. He’s talking to a player wearing a baseball cap, but he’s still looking at me. This makes me shake even more.
My chip pile looks tiny because it’s all red five dollar chips. My competitors, however, have mounds of color in front of them. I take a deep breath and start to examine their faces. No smiles. Strictly business. With some empty seats at the table, it’s me and three males.
The dealer looks at me then begins his routine of mix, stack, and deal. The players exchange looks, and a couple of them even look at my stack of chips. I’ve already been assessed and determined fresh meat, and this increases my heart rate. A gent that could pass for a preacher opens the betting with six dollars, a bit arrogant for the first round.
My hand sucks so I toss in the cards and wait patiently for the next hand. Meanwhile, my eyes dart around, searching for Cute Mafia Guy. He’s talking to the regulars, and I can tell he’s gradually making his way over to my table. Two tables over, the extra tan, extra cleavage-y cocktail waitress is reaching over to deliver a Budweiser, and I hope he’s not seeing what I am. They’re probably sleeping together. It’s probably his longtime girlfriend, and she’s waitressing to work her way through med school, and they probably have plans to get married, have four gorgeous kids, and live in a two-story house with a pool so she can lounge around in her string bikini while he does cannonballs to splash her.
Really, he’s too old for me anyway.
I look for gum in my purse while the last hand ends and the next one begins.
“Hey, I see you’re back.” A hand touches my back.
I jump as if a gun has been fired and there he is, and God, is he cute.
“Oh, yeah, just getting a few hands in before I go to the store.” Did that sound grown-up?!
He smiles. Dimples, dark eyes, buzz cut, perfect suit. I’m trying to figure out whose turn it is to talk. I’m too entranced for my brain to function normally. I feel the cards hit my hands and take a peek. King/jack. Come to mama.
He touches my back again.
“Well I’ll let you get down to business. Good luck.”
I throw my cards to the dealer, and turn around to catch him before he walks off.
“Well,” I glance down at his nametag. Nate Bradley. “Looks like I’m going to need some luck tonight.”
“Don’t we all,” the old man sitting next to me butts in. Nate chuckles and walks away to do casino-y stuff. I hate myself for throwing away a good hand in exchange for one chuckle. I can’t let it go . . . King, jack, king, jack, king, jack. I want a do-over.
The hand unfolds as the pot grows and another king comes up.
Chapter 6
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 str
ategically 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.