The Cards We’re Dealt
There are beer nights, and there are whiskey nights
Three of a kind can beat four aces
Don’t be too quick to fold
My father’s one-bedroom apartment smells of spilled beer soured into the carpet and SpaghettiOs etched onto the sides of the microwave. My little legs swing back and forth on the edge of the rickety dining room chair that I somehow managed to drag over to the coffee table, where he sits across from me, his caramel eyes peeking out from behind five blue-backed Bicycle playing cards he holds before him like a fan. I push another penny into the pot. He whistles. “Not what I’da done,” he says. “I don’t want to play anymore,” I say, imagining the royal flush he must have. I scatter my cards face up on the glass table and cross my arms, pouting in the way that only six-year-olds can. “Son,” he says, his voice gentle but firm. “Pick ’em up.” I do. “You can’t be too quick to fold, boy,” he says, putting his cards down slowly, one at a time. “You never know what the other guy’s holdin.” I fan my cards flat this time, instead of dropping them — a whole lot of nothing. Ace high. He laughs, …
