Hope Blanchard                            

Getting Lucky                                        

It was midnight. Or was it noon? His watch said 12:00.
12. A two and a ten. Plus nine. 21. Perfect.
His sweaty elbows kept slipping off the wooden edge of the card table. He considered rolling down his sleeves and then remembered why he had rolled them up in the first place. He was hot. Nervous. He tugged at his collar. Not nervous.
Anxious.
He rubbed the green cloth that covered the inside of the table with his thumb. As his thumb became red, he absent-mindedly wondered if he could win enough for his own table. Or had he done that already?
He tried to think back to when he had began, mentally computing his wins and losses. He quickly found he couldn’t do it. He had drank too much, spent too much, lost too much, won too much. Forgot too much.
When had he begun?
He was surrounded by pings, bells, and whistles, shouts of the rich, groans of the poor. Was he rich or poor? Slapping his cards down, his pudgy fingers dug through his pockets. He was rich—in lint. It was all gone. More than ever he needed this chance. This win.
“Gloria will be happy again,” he thought to himself. Fiddling with cards and tokens, he reflected on his wife. She was always so nervous lately. No, not nervous.
Anxious.
She would stay up at night, watching infomercials while patting her graying hair. Sometimes she would cook. Sometimes she would forget. She would sit in her threadbare armchair, murmuring to herself about money and houses and clothes and medicine, always patting her hair, patting her hair. No, not nervous.
Anxious.
He was suddenly pushed against the table by a stumbling couple, shaking him out of his reverie. It put him too close to his fate for comfort. Why wasn’t his turn up yet? He shifted his weight in his stool, looking around. The dealer was flirting with a server. No wonder. His hand slid through his sparse hair. More than ever he needed this chance.
This win.
He licked his lips. He adjusted his collar. He cleared his throat.
Many times.
The dealer’s eyes darted to the man. The man tapped the green table, once, twice, with his knuckle. The dealer smiled apologetically at the server before flipping a card.
And oh!, how slowly the card flipped! The machines were silent. There were no shouts, no groans. The card fell carefully, reveling in the moment of the unknown.
12. A two and a ten.
12. A two and a ten.
12. A two and a ten.
Plus nine. 21.
Perfect.