Playing a lot of poker

I’m not in a city known for gambling so the big games near me are mostly skeezy charity halls. Rundown, sketchy, and always in the back of an equally shitty business. Usually a bowling alley. The players are old, somehow more rundown than the rooms they’re in and with eyes telling the story of a lifetime pleading the same refrain, “One more hand. I just need one more hand and I can turn it around.” They’ve told it to their wives, their bosses, their kids. None of those tables payed so now they’re here. Some talk too much. Some not at all. When they do open their mouths they all smell of cigarettes and whatever’s cheap the waitress will serve them. No exceptions.

I am disgusted each time I sit. Not at where I am. Not at who I’m with. But disgusted that I feel at home. Finally with a group of people whose purpose matches mine. Nothing higher than love for a sick rollercoaster of self-punishment.

When I got mugged I swore I’d never go back. It wasn’t worth it. That was a gamble I couldn’t afford to lose. I didn’t last a month.

It was only 500. They didn’t get the secret 100 in my shoe. I’ve lost more in a night before. It only hurt because I thought I was a winner. Money won isn’t real.

The last one cuts to the truth. Money won isn’t real. I didn’t work for it. A chance and it’s mine. An apparition. It feels good for a second then is gone just as quick. Either out of my mind or truly out of my pockets. Money lost is the only real money.

There’s my real problem. I’ve always had unhealthy fixations on thrill-seeking behavior. I don’t even enjoy winning. I only love that moment where it’s all on the table. The moment you know you’ve got that fucker across the table in your sights only to realize too late it’s never a sure thing. That moment where you lurch over the edge and your balls ache in the weightless free fall. It’s all on the table and my life could be ruined, but deep down I want it ruined. I’m just going to fuck it up anyway so why not leave it to chance. The crushing gut punch of losing is just as satisfying.

Lately things have been up and that’s what scares me. The belief that I’m good at something leads to more possibilities than the familiar sulk home. At least then I can lick my wounds and feed the familiar need to redeem myself. A winner has to do something. Has to build to something. Even if I found something worth building myself into I know I’d only find joy in tearing it down.

I’ve doubled my check the last two paydays. Maybe it’s a streak or maybe I’m worth something now. Either way I get my Christmas bonus Friday and know where I’ll be. I hope I burn it all. One more hand. One more hand and I can turn it all around.