Poker anyone?


I lost in a poker game. At the time I didn’t think it to be that big of a deal. It was just a short story with no real proclaimed protagonist or driving motivational plot theme. It was developed of course and I “knew” where I was going to lead the prose but it wasn’t written. Like so many of the tasks taken on in my life, it was unfinished. So I lost it. Gave it away more likely. Calling with 3 Jacks? What was I thinking? The Jacks always lose. But I was 4 rum and cokes past my usual 4 and I began to think the whimsical look of the Jack of Hearts was really the blank look of a killer. No one would believe that I wrote it anyway. 28 year old college drop-out couldn’t produce fiction genious such as that anyway. He! He, how ever was near 40 and already published. He! Now He, could produce such wit and originality. He! He traveled in the small and cliqueish circles of the literary accomplishers. He! He drank with Chuck Palahniuk, shot skeet with Stephen King and edited J.K. Rowling. He! He drove a red CTS and had the 20 something year old blonde bombshell girlfriend with big-o-fake boobies. He! He was raising me.
“How about that little short you’ve been working on?” he said with a look that mimicked the Jack of Hearts. “It’s coming along. I got an idea of where I’m taking it and I think it can be publishable as long as I can get an agent interested.” I reply to him but only looking at the big-o-fake ones. “No Dropout (He! He called me Dropout). I mean how about you putting that in the pot…since you’re out of money. I can tell you’re holding on to a strong hand there.” It was true. I was out of money. “Sure.” I think to myself. “How bouts you puttin’ up big-o-fake ones?” I keep thinking to myself. “Deal.” he says. “You’re short for my Shorty.” OH SHIT I JUST SAID THAT OUT LOUD!