all in -- part 2

I modified a bit of it, and added a few lines. not a great difference, but i thought i would post it anyway.

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All In


It’s cold. I’m not, however, surprised by this, and I’ve come prepared for the harshness of the dark winter air. The poorly made and scratchy woolen knit beanie affixed to my head rests slightly tilted to one side as it infuriates my scalp. My coat is fur lined and exceptionally warm in any weather, and in evidence of this, tiny beads of salty sweat begin to stain my shirt at the pits. This isolated stretch of land, this solitary stump amidst too much flatness is always cold whenever I come to it. I often joke with anyone who would listen that the cold is a half hearted attempt at divine intervention to prevent us sinners from entering this godless church.
The walk to the front door always feels the length of an eternity, despite its relative shortness in actual distance, with many chances to turn away, but far more reasons to keep going. The grass alongside the cracked concrete path is patchy and mostly deadish brown. Not the kind that couples sit on in spring. Not a place you’d find children playing, or men and women together eating burgers and drinking cheap wine. This is no one’s home. And yet…
The building is a depressed brown. No windows let passersby see in or allow lonely occupants to see out. There are no words on the lightless marquee, and the only source of light, a single incandescent bulb dangling by its socket on one side of the large front door, its cord crucified, flickers as it sways slightly in the enveloping frigidity.
This is no one’s home, and yet here I am. The lost souls inside were there yesterday, and the day before, and they’ll be there tomorrow and the day after, and the same is true for me. This is not home, but it pretends to be something similar. The men and women beyond the metal double doors are not my relatives, and they are not my friends, but they are my brothers and sisters in arms, fighting for their dreams of tomorrow. Not fighting with guns and bombs, but with clubs, and diamonds, and hearts, and spades.
The wind cuts at my eyes, and I quicken my pace to the front door. The intimidating slab of grey at the end of the narrow path opens outward. I take hold of the knob in my naked hand. Turn and open. A sudden wave of warm, stale and cigarette clouded air attacks my face as the cold wind seems to push me in. I close the door with a resounding thud that forces eyes to turn my way from the many circular felt-covered tables scattered across the floor. The inside of the building is markedly different from the outside. The air is warm, and the bright lights are many. Friendly pots of off color plastic foliage hang lazily from unfriendly metal hooks on the ceiling. There are no clocks, no televisions, and no radios. The low hum of the players is the only sound populating the space.
To my left is Frank, seated atop a wooden dinner table, with several sets of red, green, blue, and black poker chips and a tarnished metal lock box. The game begins here, before I even see my first hand. My eyes shift from wall to wall, making sure I make my apparent amateur discomfort known to the lookers on at the tables before me. My hand in my pocket jingles my car keys. There is still time to go home to my family, to my wife and child, who think I’m still at work. I could easily walk out the door. No one is forcing my hand except for me. So why am I here? I don’t know. But I’m here, so I might as well get started.
How much is the buy-in?
Hundred, even.
I don’t really need to ask. I already know the buy-in. It’s always a hundred, even. I take out my wallet and rummage through its contents. I count out the bills and place them in a nice neat stack in front of Frank and his lock box: two twenties, four tens, two fives, and ten ones, a hundred exactly. I can feel the hungry stares of the sharks on the back of my neck as they plan out their next meal.
Frank shakes his head subtly and offers a thin smile as he hands me a multicolored stack of chips. Frank knows me, so he knows my game. I pretend to be the guppy, new to this part of the pond and naïve about what dangers rest on the sandy bottom. Each step I take, each glance of my eye is well practiced and designed to give me an edge over the lesser sharks of the bunch. This tactic won’t work against many of the more experienced players, but an edge over some is still an edge, and in this game, any advantage is welcome.