The clock was almost done counting down, but Deck was the only one who noticed. Everyone else left in the tournament had gotten up, taken a walk, or smoked a cigarette, or went to make a call, or whatever. He was still in his seat though, watching the break clock tick down. He was afraid that if he got up, he would lose it, whatever it was that had happened to carry him to the final 18 players.
Whatever it was, it seemed to be running out. He was 17th in chips out of 18th, with 12,475 chips left. The next level was going to be 1,000/2,000 with a 300 ante. He was actually kind of pissed about the ante being so high, but what the hell, it wasn't going to matter now. And only the top 9 got paid.
"Hey Deck, you still in this thing?"
He swiveled around in his chair, to see Carrie walking over towards him -- he'd heard someone else call her that, which saved him the embarrassment of asking. For a moment, he forgot about the tournament and his now completely-empty wallet, as he watched her cover the length of the card room with her long, smooth strides. He felt a little a tingle down his spine as the thought crossed his mind that she was walking over specifically for him, seeing that she had changed back into her streets.
"Barely Carrie, just barely." He immediately regretted the inadvertent rhyme.
She cracked an easy smile, her eyes a little brighter now too. Maybe it was because she'd finally gotten off work. He allowed himself the fleeting pleasure of thinking maybe it had something to do with him.
"Well Dr. Seuss, I'm bone-tired and ready to crash, so I can't stick around to watch you kick some more ass," she joked. She stood next to him, and gently rested a hand on his shoulder. "So don't let me down." She gave him a light squeeze.
He was still frozen to the chair, unable to move, but now for different reasons. He almost couldn't believe how light and tingly and strange her hand felt on his shoulder. He convinced himself he'd probably been born with ridiculous amounts of extra nerve endings in his left shoulder.
"I'll uh, I'll do my best, but you know what, it's gonna be tough, with my chips." He gave a half-hearted wave towards his unimpressive chip stack.
"Oh come on, you gotta have a little faith in yourself. Here, how about this," she said as she smoothly put both hands on his shoulders and pulled him up out of his chair, "since that last kiss seemed to work pretty well for you, how about another?"
Without waiting for a reply -- and he was too nervous to say anything anyways -- she took a step forward, and with one hand on his cheek and the other tickling its way up his back, she tugged him in close and kissed him. This time, she let her full, soft lips linger on his for a few, devastating seconds. Somewhere behind him, the tournament director was announcing that the break was over, and telling dealers to shuffle up and deal. He couldn't have cared less.
She pulled back slowly, letting the gentle pressure of her lips ease off ever so delicately from his. In his mind, he could almost feel her there still, and he tried his damnedest to hold on to the feeling.
Pausing for just a second and smiling to herself as she saw the effect she'd had on Deck plainly visible on his face, she reached into her purse, pulled out a scrap of paper and a pen, and scribbled a few digits on there.
"Call me," she said, "and let me know how it went."
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Thank You (pt. 1)
Staring down at the beaten-up brown leather of the wallet he was holding between his dirty, sweaty fingers, Deck Winters realized something.
Well, one of either two things, really: either this wasn't his wallet, or -- and this latter option was much more likely -- he was actually down to his last $78. Counting the $6.83 sitting in his checking account and the seven pennies underneath his dad's old '96 Corolla's passenger seat, his entire net worth as of this moment stood squarely at a thoroughly unimpressive $84.90. Of course if he had actually let himself think about his overdue rent checks and his piled-up credit card bills, he might have even -- no, he chose not to go there.
Where he did choose to go was up to bar, craning his neck over and looking left and right, trying to find the red-headed waitress to whom he'd just tipped away 3.4% of his net worth. God, what was her name? Sherrie? Sheryl?
"I'm sorry, you wanted a regular Coke, right? I think I gave you a diet," said a soft, tired voice from over his shoulder.
He turned around and grinned awkwardly at her. Usually his main concern when talking to the waitresses here was just to keep his eyes focused on their faces and not on their chests; with the "uniforms" they had to wear, it was always a losing battle.
"Oh yeah, hey, I was just umm, just looking for you." Jesus, how was he going to do this?
"Hang on one sec sweetheart, lemme go grab you a fresh one." She brushed right past him, giving him a chance to breathe in her fragrant, fruity aroma. Peach, was it? Whatever it was, it was a welcome change from the smell of dirty chips, sweaty fat guys sandwiched together, young college kids nervously fumbling their tuition money just before they surrendered their wads of bills to the dealer for yet another buy-in. In a room filled with the stench of desperation and disgust, the smell that Deck himself was drenched in, she was able to somehow keep a bubble of freshness around herself.
"Sorry, it's been a really long day for me. A friend of mine asked me to cover her shift, so I've been here 12 hours already," she called back to him, as she went behind the bar and grabbed a fresh glass. "Here's your Coke, sorry for the mix-up." She smiled as she slid the glass across to him. She looked tired, rushed, but that wide, warm smile was always there. It was there to greet every sob story story, every bad beat, and every bust-out. It greeted Deck now, and he somehow felt just a little less broke.
"Well, I was actually looking for you to ask you for something... else," he started saying.
"Oh gosh, you're not going to try and ask me out too, are you? I mean, you look like a nice enough guy, but I'm really not supposed to--"
"Oh God no, no, I wasn't going to- no, sorry, I wouldn't put you on the spot like that. I was just going to ask if -- jeez, there's no good way to say this -- I was gonna ask, if you could, ya' know, maybe, uhh, give me back that tip I just gave you?"
One of the other girls at the bar looked up, probably just catching the last part of that sentence. She froze for an instant, getting caught off-guard.
"Nononono, it's not about the Coke or anything. God, this is so embarassing... it's just that, I need the money. See, I've got $78 bucks here, and this next tournament is $80 to buy-in, and I only got $6 or $7 bucks left in the bank so I can't use the ATM, so I was just wondering if maybe I could get those last $2 bucks back from you, maybe... ?" Deck tried to explain as best he could. He was babbling. She was listening intently, giving him not her full, gorgeous smile but a quiet, sympathetic grin.
Seeing that he was losing his nerve, she quickly jumped in. "Don't sweat it Deck, really, it's not a problem at all." She pulled two crumpled dollar bills from a pocket hidden somewhere in her skirt, which was quite a feat considering Deck didn't think the thing was long enough to have any pockets. She held the bills out to him, which he shyly accepted. He mumbled something about "thanks," his cheeks red with shame, and tried to disappear into thin air. When that didn't happen, he made himself tear his eyes off her skimpy skirt, only to run them up to her skimpy tank top, and finally just gave up, closed his eyes and tried to turn around as quickly as he could.
She reached out, and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Hang on, you forgot something."
"Oh. Sorry... what is it?"
"How about a good luck kiss?"
(to be continued)
-------------
Huzzah for snapping the recent losing streak, all thanks to my own personal Lady Luck. With the help of a big-ish tourney cash and some adventures at the $5/$10 NL table, not to mention playing 6-max $0.10/$0.25 NL well (now that I'm actually rolled for it), I've finally turned a -$602 loss for the summer into a +$116 profit in the past 24 hours.
Ms. Luck, I owe you dinner and a night on the town.
Well, one of either two things, really: either this wasn't his wallet, or -- and this latter option was much more likely -- he was actually down to his last $78. Counting the $6.83 sitting in his checking account and the seven pennies underneath his dad's old '96 Corolla's passenger seat, his entire net worth as of this moment stood squarely at a thoroughly unimpressive $84.90. Of course if he had actually let himself think about his overdue rent checks and his piled-up credit card bills, he might have even -- no, he chose not to go there.
Where he did choose to go was up to bar, craning his neck over and looking left and right, trying to find the red-headed waitress to whom he'd just tipped away 3.4% of his net worth. God, what was her name? Sherrie? Sheryl?
"I'm sorry, you wanted a regular Coke, right? I think I gave you a diet," said a soft, tired voice from over his shoulder.
He turned around and grinned awkwardly at her. Usually his main concern when talking to the waitresses here was just to keep his eyes focused on their faces and not on their chests; with the "uniforms" they had to wear, it was always a losing battle.
"Oh yeah, hey, I was just umm, just looking for you." Jesus, how was he going to do this?
"Hang on one sec sweetheart, lemme go grab you a fresh one." She brushed right past him, giving him a chance to breathe in her fragrant, fruity aroma. Peach, was it? Whatever it was, it was a welcome change from the smell of dirty chips, sweaty fat guys sandwiched together, young college kids nervously fumbling their tuition money just before they surrendered their wads of bills to the dealer for yet another buy-in. In a room filled with the stench of desperation and disgust, the smell that Deck himself was drenched in, she was able to somehow keep a bubble of freshness around herself.
"Sorry, it's been a really long day for me. A friend of mine asked me to cover her shift, so I've been here 12 hours already," she called back to him, as she went behind the bar and grabbed a fresh glass. "Here's your Coke, sorry for the mix-up." She smiled as she slid the glass across to him. She looked tired, rushed, but that wide, warm smile was always there. It was there to greet every sob story story, every bad beat, and every bust-out. It greeted Deck now, and he somehow felt just a little less broke.
"Well, I was actually looking for you to ask you for something... else," he started saying.
"Oh gosh, you're not going to try and ask me out too, are you? I mean, you look like a nice enough guy, but I'm really not supposed to--"
"Oh God no, no, I wasn't going to- no, sorry, I wouldn't put you on the spot like that. I was just going to ask if -- jeez, there's no good way to say this -- I was gonna ask, if you could, ya' know, maybe, uhh, give me back that tip I just gave you?"
One of the other girls at the bar looked up, probably just catching the last part of that sentence. She froze for an instant, getting caught off-guard.
"Nononono, it's not about the Coke or anything. God, this is so embarassing... it's just that, I need the money. See, I've got $78 bucks here, and this next tournament is $80 to buy-in, and I only got $6 or $7 bucks left in the bank so I can't use the ATM, so I was just wondering if maybe I could get those last $2 bucks back from you, maybe... ?" Deck tried to explain as best he could. He was babbling. She was listening intently, giving him not her full, gorgeous smile but a quiet, sympathetic grin.
Seeing that he was losing his nerve, she quickly jumped in. "Don't sweat it Deck, really, it's not a problem at all." She pulled two crumpled dollar bills from a pocket hidden somewhere in her skirt, which was quite a feat considering Deck didn't think the thing was long enough to have any pockets. She held the bills out to him, which he shyly accepted. He mumbled something about "thanks," his cheeks red with shame, and tried to disappear into thin air. When that didn't happen, he made himself tear his eyes off her skimpy skirt, only to run them up to her skimpy tank top, and finally just gave up, closed his eyes and tried to turn around as quickly as he could.
She reached out, and put a gentle hand on his shoulder.
"Hang on, you forgot something."
"Oh. Sorry... what is it?"
"How about a good luck kiss?"
(to be continued)
-------------
Huzzah for snapping the recent losing streak, all thanks to my own personal Lady Luck. With the help of a big-ish tourney cash and some adventures at the $5/$10 NL table, not to mention playing 6-max $0.10/$0.25 NL well (now that I'm actually rolled for it), I've finally turned a -$602 loss for the summer into a +$116 profit in the past 24 hours.
Ms. Luck, I owe you dinner and a night on the town.
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