Poker Face

Non-Fiction
12/4/19

Seven glasses of booze and a lot of money.
     It was a typical Wednesday for me, but apparently it was a fantastic day for them.
     Two individuals were playing blackjack.  Their hundreds in the form of black chips stacked neatly in front of them, forming a mini wall I joking called The Great Wall of Chipa in my mind.  Dangerously close to the four-thousand-dollar mini structure, was an ever-growing line of glasses filled with unknown brands and types of alcohol. Some an amber color, some a dark brown, a few in the palish urine yellow color, all common drinks in a bar.
     The two men were loud and joyfully laughing about nothing as they kept downing drink after drink at the blackjack table, while I tried to ignore them, busy doing my job of making sure all payouts were their correct amounts.  The loud and slurred speech wasn’t helping me keep focus at all.
     Listening to their conversation I gathered the younger of the two recently landed a job, but what exactly it was, I had no idea.  He kept rambling on and on about how much money he was going to make.  How he would be set for life, taking a swig of another drink in between every other word. Periodically taking the time to tell the dealer to hit or stand on his current hand.
     The glasses accumulated and their speech worsened.  His buddy left the table to go to the rest room, never to be seen again that night, as he himself continued drinking and making bets.  The Great Wall of Chipa, now reduced to a Leaning Tower of Chipsa, was in the process of being deconstructed for another bet when he had a dry gag.  The dealer stepping away from the table said with authority “Not on the table.  If your gonna throw, there’s a trash can behind you and then you can leave.”
     “Naw man I’m good.  I can still play.  Bet my money.”
     “No sir, I think you’ve had enough.  You need to leave.”
     “Naw I’m telling you I’m good.  Bet my money.” Before suddenly oozing saliva from the orifice that was his hanging open mouth.
     “Ok! That does it.  I’m not dealing until you leave the table.”
     “WHAT?! NAW MAN I’M GOOD!  I KEEP TELLING YOU!  BET MY MONEY!”
     The floor men who roamed the area providing extra chips to the dealers and double-checking errors with payouts, began to gather.  The security detail took stances behind the drunk veteran as well.
     “Sir, you can always come back tomorrow after you’ve slept it off.”
     “NO GOD DAMN IT!  I SAID I’M FINE!  LOOK!  THAT’S 20, THAT’S ANOTHER 10 AND HERE IS 40 MORE!   I’M GOOD!  BET MY MOTHER FUCKING MONEY!” he said as he continued to ooze from the mouth.
     The manager of the facility made his way from the back room, approaching the shouting drunk with a look on his face that was all business.  After making his presence known, he began promising to call the cops to have him escorted out should he not leave quietly with the security now, or leave on his own.  This of course, only spurred on his drunken rage further.
     The veteran player threw around some more F-bombs before picking up his chips and relocating to the neighboring table, which was promptly closed to make a point by the management.  By this time, all eyes in the cardroom were glued to the scene of the shouting, drunk man.
     Within five minutes, a squad of four officers came in and repeated the same process the security guards had done, asking for him to quietly leave with them.  The drunk customer stood from his seat chips in hand, and got in the officer’s face.  He began yelling “YOU KNOW HOW MUCH MOTHER FUCKING MONEY I MAKE!?  YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I LOSE AT THIS PLACE WEEKLY!?  I’M GOOD!  I’M SET!  BET MY MONEY DEALER!  BET MY GOD DAMN MOTHER FUCKING MONEY!  DO IT!  BET MY MONEY! BET MY MONEY!”
     He turned his back to the officer giving him the opportunity he needed to pull out his cuffs and start fastening it around one of the man’s wrists.  The man spun around, and started to fight back before being face planted into a poker table.  The officer finished cuffing him.  He was escorted out of the building screaming about how much money he lost and how he’d make it all back.
     As he rambled on in his drunken shouts, I couldn’t help but wonder, if he made so much money, why did it matter if he lost a bunch of it? Better yet, if he wasn’t bothered by how much he lost, why did he keep bringing it up?
     “BET MY FUCKING MONEY! BET IT!  BET MY MON-“
     The door closed and through the glass front door, the poker room saw him perform a violent purge of his system all over the pavement.
     The night resumed.
     Just a normal Wednesday shift.