Bluff

by Julie Dill

  “Chandra, your 5-10 no limit seat is ready. Chaaaaaaaandra.” The announcer gets his mouth way too close to the microphone.

  Nate pats my back. “You’re up.”

  “Are you going to be around here?” I ask hoping the answer is no.

  “Yeah, I’ll be around. Good luck.” He walks with no particular direction.

  My assigned table is front and center, so I take just a few steps and sit down in the empty seat. I don’t know what to expect and not one single player looks familiar. My eyes get big when I see the mound of chips in the center, and there are very few white chips that make up the heap.

  Good Mother of All Big Pots. Is this normal?

  I don’t want to give away that I’m a high-stakes virgin, so I don’t say a word and watch the hand pan out. A man with silver hair calls a bet by tossing even more colored chips to the center, and no words are spoken. The dealer even remains silent. It’s understood who does what and when it’s done. The dealer looks so sleepy, and it’s totally by default, because he’s got droopy sacks under his bloodshot eyes. He’s seemingly too tired to speak until the very end of the hand when he says, “Let’s see ‘em.”

  The opposing players turn over the cards and little emotion is shown by either of them.

  The guy with silver hair doesn’t care that he lost.

  And the twenty-something guy shows no excitement in winning around $800 (and that’s just me counting the chips I could see). It takes one hand for me to realize that it’s a whole different card game over here. After witnessing this, I feel like I’ve been playing Chutes and Ladders the past month.

  It’s totally embarrassing when I get my chips. These big dogs have no less than $1000 each in front of them, and one guy on the table could purchase a used car with what he’s sitting with.

  Still, no words.

  It’s so uncomfortable I have the urge to strike up a conversation just for the sake of changing the mood. I clear my voice.

  “So, you think it’s going to rain tonight?” I say to no one in particular.

  No one answers, but maybe they just didn’t hear me. I take a peek at my cards and almost hate that I’m dealt such good cards so early in my game. I would rather sit here awhile and get a feel for the table, but there’s no way you can toss your cards back in when you’re holding two kings.

  You just can’t.

  The betting moves around the table, and when it gets to me I must pay thirty dollars to keep the royalty in my hands (it’s just the first round of betting). I’m out of my league. Do people really play at this level? What do these people do for a living? Doctors? Lawyers? CEOs? One thing’s for sure, they’re not high school kids ordering off the dollar menu at McDonald’s.

  I call.

  I stop breathing as the dealer flops over the community cards. Two. Ace. Ace.

  Not good. I punish myself by thinking of all the things I could have spent that thirty bucks on. A sack of groceries. A flat iron. A half a tank of gas.

  I notice the players getting fidgety . . . one lights a cigarette, one leans back in his chair, and one takes off his glasses and rubs them down with a handkerchief.

  They can’t have the ace.

  Another round of betting, another thirty dollars, and I decide there’s no turning back now.

  A guy with a clean-shaven face—the shiny with moisturizer kind—forces me to go all-in.

  I have to. I’m already too invested in this pot. I can’t stand the thought of folding now, with all my chips that sit in the middle.

  It’s pocket change to him.

  It’s everything to me.

  Do. Not. Have. The. Ace. I eat at my cuticle. I sit on my foot to get a better view.

  I don’t have time to think about the $200 plus I have in the middle.

  Because I can’t even tell you what the guy had, what the last card was, or what the dealer said.

  It’s all a blur.

  I fade out. It’s like swimming underwater with a leaky mask.

  I come to when the guy next to me nudges my arm and says, “It’s your pot, little lady. Pull it in.”

  I look at him. In slow motion.

  I look at the pot. In slow motion.

  My arms are heavy, but I manage to stand and start scooping the chips to form stacks. Chip colors I ain’t EVER seen before.

  I sit through three hands without betting. I’ve heard people talk about a runner’s high before. I’m curious to know what chemicals my brain is currently releasing to create this gambler’s high of mine. I feel like laughing, crying, and screaming. It’s that feeling when your foot falls asleep, except this is a whole-body experience.

  Against Kenny Rogers’ better judgment, I start counting my money at the table. I can’t help myself. I separate the colors, and come to a grand total of $722.

  That’s almost a $500 gain, in JUST ONE HAND.

  I can’t believe it. This definitely puts a Band Aid on things. For now.

  It’s so easy, this high-stakes table.

  It’s so incredibly easy.

  I look on the dealer’s ID badge, to find his name. “Jim, can I please get a tray? I think I’m done here.”

  Nate meets me at the cashier. “Well, well. If it ain’t Ms. Annie Duke herself.”

  I have no idea what he’s talking about. He sees I have no idea what he’s talking about. “You know, Annie Duke. The Duke. Annie Legend. The Duchess of Poker.”

  Still, no idea what he’s talking about, but I fake it with a giggle. “Oh yeah, Annie.”

  I like that Nate’s here next to me. I like that he knew when I finished, and he’s already here. He whispers in my ear, “You need help getting that out to your car, ma’am?” He steps back and winks at me.

  He kisses me, again on the cheek, when he tucks me safely into my car and sends me on my way. He’ll call me tomorrow. Maybe we can do lunch. Lunch? That would be next to impossible considering high school kids get forty-five minutes for lunch. I envision Nate picking me up in the circle drive in front of my high school, me bouncing out with a backpack. Um, no.

  Although my winnings are already earmarked, I decide to indulge in yet one small treat. I’ve always heard about people getting pedicures, seen the little designs of flowers, pumpkins, or whatever the occasion called for. For a split second my throat tightens when I think about it because this is such a mother-daughter activity. Cassidy and her mom go every other Thursday and call it “Date Night.” But I shake it off, because today it’s my turn.

  Stella. I’ll swing by Miss Stella’s and ask if she’d like to join. I pull her card from my wallet to check the address then drive thirty minutes to her side of town.

  Her poofy white dog starts barking like crazy when I ring the doorbell. I can see him through the screen door balancing on his hind legs, yelping to his master that a visitor is on their porch.

  Stella scoops up the yippy thing and opens the door to greet me. She’s in a turquoise jogging suit, showing off her petite, little figure, and it’s weird to see her in something so casual.

  “Hi,” bark, bark-bark, bark, “Miss Stella.”

  “Well hello, Chandra. What a nice surprise.” The dog calms after Stella approves of me.

  “Stella, I came by to see if you wanted to splurge with me. I’m going to get a pedicure. Wanna come?”

  Stella kicks off her fancy flip-flop and examines her toes for a few seconds. Pretty feet for an old lady, not the jumbled up toes one would expect. “A pedicure, huh?”

  “Yeah, a pedi, like they say. Let’s go get a pedi, Miss Stella.”

  She giggles and says, “Something I’ve never done in my life!”

  “Well that makes two of us. Let’s do it!”

  I remember seeing a little place tucked in the corner of a strip mall, sandwiched nicely between a copy shop and a sushi take-out, so tha
t’s where I take us. We walk in, and there’s a strong scent of fingernail polish and chemicals. Three clipboards with sign-in sheets sit on the counter, and there are workers everywhere, but they’re too busy to greet us. I grab the ‘pedicure’ clipboard and write STELLA, then write my name underneath.

  Miss Stella smiles at me and glances at the clipboard. Her eyebrows scrunch in shock, like there’s something she doesn’t understand.

  “Chelsea? Who’s Chelsea?”

  My eyes widen. I can’t believe I’ve made such a stupid mistake. I start formulating lies at a very rapid pace. Chelsea’s my middle name . . . Chandra’s a nickname . . . my head spins with ideas, but I just can’t do it. I can’t lie to Miss Stella.

  After a few seconds, she breaks the silence.

  “Chelsea, huh.” She grabs my hand and squeezes. “Chelsea. Well I think that’s a beautiful name.”

  She asks no questions.

  This makes me emotional, and I fight back tears as a worker dressed in a white smock leads us back to our chairs.

  The worker starts filling the foot baths with water and tosses in some blue crystal-looking rocks. I’m not sure what to do, and Stella and I stand and wait for directions. The worker, in tall heels revealing longish red toenails with rhinestones, points to the chairs and it’s our signal to sit down.

  Stella giggles when she’s out of her comfort zone. I’ve noticed this about her at the poker table. So she can’t stop giggling when she pulls her jogging pants to her knees, sits down, and sticks her feet in the blue bubbly water.

  “Oooooweeeeee. Boy, this is the life!” she says, then closes her eyes and leans her head back in relaxation. I take a minute to stare. She’s a beautiful woman, Miss Stella.

  Another worker walks up and hands me a remote, but I’m confused because there’s no television in sight.

  “Massage.” The worker says, and I realize that I’m sitting in a massage chair like I’ve seen at the mall. Neck. Upper back. Lower back. I get to choose. I press the button for lower back, and I’m feeling like a queen.

  I worry that Stella thinks I’m a fraud. She has to know something’s not right with me, that Chandra is some kind of fake. I wonder if she knows it’s my age that I’m hiding. Still, no questions, and I already know she won’t pry. That’s not her style.

  I dip my feet into the water and mimic Stella by leaning my head back and closing my eyes. The jets feel fabulous. I can’t believe people get to do this all the time. A real treat!

  The worker asks, “Where’s your color?” and this is when I realize that we were supposed to pick out our polish before we sat down. Oops.

  “I’ll just take that teal color on the end,” I say.

  Stella says, “Me too.”

  We smile at each other, Stella and me, but we don’t speak another word. We don’t have to.

  After an hour of sheer foot bliss—salt scrubs, massages and lotion—the petite lady paints my toes. It’s the best my feet have ever looked. Ever. I tilt my head and stare down at my toes.

  __________

  “Dad, how do you get toe paint?” It was a hot summer day. I was barefoot. We sat on the porch steps.

  “Toe paint?”

  “Yeah, toe paint.”

  “Like paint for the walls?”

  “No, toe paint.”

  “Honey, I’m not sure what you mean. Are you talking about paint?”

  I wiped the sweat off my forehead, then showed him with my index finger.

  “No, Dad. Like this.” My pointer finger started painting my big toenail.

  He got it.

  “Ooohhh. Toe paint. You’re talking about fingernail polish.” He laughed.

  “No, Dad. FOR YOUR TOES, NOT YOUR FINGERS.”

  He laughed some more.

  “Well, you’re right. It’s nail polish. They call it nail polish, I think.”

  “Can we get some? The girls at my school have red and pink.” I continued painting with my finger.

  “Well, sure honey, we’ll find you some polish for these pretty little toes.” He reached over and started tickling them. “We can paint them like this, and like this . . . oh, and how about like this . . .” He tickled in between my toes.

  I was laughing so hard I could hardly get the words out, “. . . Stop, Daddy!”

  That night Dad painted my toes. Pink.

  __________

  Miss Stella loves hers too. It makes me laugh when she says, “Oh yes!” when asked if she wants a design. “I’ll take some daisies. Yes, daisies for sure!” She talks me into it too, and we leave with the prettiest daisy feet you’ve ever seen in your life.

  __________

  We become buddies, Miss Stella and me, and it helps to get my mind off of going to the casino. I drive to her place for dinner a couple of nights, and she spoils me rotten with home-cooked meals and yummy desserts. I walk around her living room and look at framed pictures as she sets the table in the kitchen. I learn that she has three kids, all out of state. This isn’t a comfortable subject for Miss Stella, so I don’t ask questions, just look at the photos and try to figure out what happened to what seemed to be a perfectly happy family.

  “Smells good, Miss Stella! What is it tonight?” I don’t know who enjoys this more, the giver or the receiver.

  She pulls the lid from some smell-good on the stovetop and smoke rolls into the air. “Ziti and meatballs. Garlic bread and tea for my girl.”

  My girl. Miss Stella has started using this when she talks about me.

  She asks for me to set the table, and I move to the kitchen to help her out.

  It’s as if we have this mutual unspoken understanding—you don’t ask me about my life, and I won’t ask about yours. And it works. She doesn’t have to have a degree in psychology to figure out that I’m missing something in my life.

  We sit at the table, and I chew extra slowly to savor the tastes of her food. Home-cooked meals have always been a fantasy on television until now. Miss Stella talks about things like flowers, recipes, and a gardening show she likes to watch. I listen, and tell her it would be neat to grow your own vegetables.

  She wipes the corners of her mouth with her napkin and says, “Well, that’s a project for us, then, Chandra. Next spring.”

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “You and I. We’ll build a garden in my backyard.”

  “Sounds fun. Let’s do it!” I’m excited about the garden, but even more excited that this little rendezvous is going to last until spring! It’s a feeling like a blanket being wrapped around me—a feeling of relief. A haven, a retreat.

  After a bite of garlic bread, I close my eyes. “Mmm. This is so delicious, Miss Stella. I don’t think I’ve ever had such good food in my life. Take that back. I KNOW I’ve never had such good, homemade food in my life.”

  “Well, you’re welcome.”

  Chapter 29

  Nate and I move to the next level, talking several times a day, keeping tabs on each other via text, yada, yada, yada. And it’s after a few more dates that I’m sitting in the back in Spanish discretely writing checks for a couple of bills when I feel my phone vibrate. I check the number and see that it’s Nate. I jump up and hobble to grab the restroom pass, and by the fifth ring I’m in the bathroom across the hall.

  “Hello?” I say softly hoping no one can hear.

  “Hey there.” Nate says.

  I smile and twist my hair with my finger and notice that I never twist my hair with my finger. “Hey. How’s it goin’?”

  “I’m good. What are you up to?”

  “Oh, just working.” I stare in the mirror and do more hair twisting.

  “Well, I won’t keep ya,” Nate talks faster than usual, “I just had a crazy idea and wanted to throw it out there and see what you thought.”

  “Oh yeah, what’s that?”


  “I thought that we could go to Tulsa Saturday and stay at the casino there. I have some business to take care of, but I’d love your company. It’s not too far of a drive. We could drive up tomorrow afternoon, stay the night, then come home Sunday. A little getaway.”

  My eyes go big in the mirror. Did he just say what I think he just said?!

  “Tulsa?” A getaway sounds so grown-up.

  “Yeah, it’s a sister casino of ours, and they have a nice hotel attached. It’s awesome.”

  Someone flushes in a stall, and I realize I’m not alone. I cup my phone with my hand hoping that Nate can’t hear the echo of the flush and step into the corner to try to escape it.

  “Yeah, that sounds like fun. I’m in!”

  “Cool. I’ll get ‘er booked then,” he says. “I’ll let you get back to work.”

  I go back to class and all I can think about is a weekend with Nate. A WHOLE ENTIRE WEEKEND WITH NATE. Like overnight. This is what couples do. This is what people in love do. We’ll have a grown-up dinner, and what will I wear? Will it be fancy or casual?

  I walk out of Spanish in a cloud of blissful thoughts.

  __________

  Nate and I make arrangements to meet at his place. I tell him my house is an embarrassing mess since I’ve been so busy at work, and it’ll just be easier if I come to him. He buys it.

  My hands are shaky, and I grip the steering wheel as I look for his apartment. Directions that I’ve chicken-scratched on the back of an envelope sit on my console, and I feel like I’m in a dream.

  He’s given me the gate code to enter his complex, and this makes me feel even closer to him. Almost like a girlfriend with a key to the front door or something like that. I’m ecstatic, to say the least, and it feels like we’re a couple or something when I pull my car into a numbered parking space right beside his. I grab my canvas bag with my overnight stuff, step out of the car, and readjust my clothing from the car ride. Perfect.

  When Nate answers the door and smiles, I melt. It feels as if warm wax moves through my veins as I step inside. He kisses my cheek. Melt. Melt. Melt.