Tap, Tap, Flicker

“See, here is the thing.”

I am being lectured by the stranger next to me at the blackjack table.

“You have to only bring what you are willing to lose.”

His thick black mustache, Southern drawl, and flannel jacket contrast with his weathered face and thinning hairline.

“Until you are good enough to win. Y’all have to be prepared to lose.”

He is winning.

Again.

Annoyingly.

And if it is routine, he shows a twenty.

It is my turn now, and I show an unfortunate four.

I tap my finger on the table twice.

Six.

Tap. Tap.

One.

Tap. Tap.

Eight.

The cards give a subtle shock to my fingertips. I offer the dealer a begrudging wave, and let out a quiet sigh. My eye softly twitches. When I make the wrong move at the table, my body knows it and irks me.

My Southern friend notices, “You will get ‘em next time, buddy.” He laughs as the dealer waltzes into a twenty-two.

I cannot wait for him to break.

“Golly that was close, right? The cards smile at me, do they not? Bills be gone!” He laughs and the sound feels like old creaking joints. Something for me to be aware of.

When he breaks, I will feast.

The dealer smiles at him.

My pile dwindles and his expands. But, he does not know what I know.

Since I could gamble, I felt connected to a deck of cards. I do not count them. That would be illegal. But I do have a sense for what the deck intends to do next. When I want to hedge my bets, I let myself lose, get my opponent confident, and then take everything. Does it always work? No. I have been caught if the opponent is smart enough to leave the table. But, my Southern friend does not seem to be that type. My stomach lets me know I need food. But, I do not require the sort that the casino bar can provide. I need more. My addiction needs more.

He mentioned bills. If I feel like he is about to leave, I have never been above trash talk. Anger can be just as useful as overconfidence when trying to keep someone at the table. And, he gave me an in. A button.

A hit that satiates my boredom. When I gamble, I am the hunter and whoever is next to me is the prey. Truthfully, I do it because I must. My addiction to the hunt, to the next card, is too great to ignore. The next round starts. Mr. Roll Tide, as he has ambitiously nicknamed himself, shows a ten. My first card reveals itself to be a King. It acknowledges me. The King.

The dealer shows his card and my quarry draws a four. I look to see if he has a tell. If he will hit on fourteen and test his luck. Then, my second card shows to be a two; thirteen, perfect. It is back to Mr. Tide: a bead of sweat rolls down his forehead and I see his shoulders tense. The lights feel as if they dim and the air becomes dense. My eyes narrow on him. My pulse is strong and steady. Measured. Mechanical. I will win.

He gives the table a deep thud with his finger.

Six.

He releases the breath he was having.

“Would you look at that,” he says before the dealer asks for my decision.

I put my hand over the cards without touching them. They radiate a dull heat. “Hit,” I say.

Seven.

The cards warm beneath me. Any normal card player would stay at twenty. I am not them. “Hit.” The cards and I have an agreement. They know me. They move in rhythm when I am at the table.

The dealer double confirms and I nod.

“You sure about that, buddy? Losing got your math all messed up?” he laughs.

I notice a pulsing vein in his neck that seems strained.

The lights hum in the stale air and it feels like even the table is watching me. Questioning me. But, I am right.

My card slides across the table slowly.

One.

I try to hide my smirk.

“Dang, well-done, son!”

“Do not call me that.”

My stack starts to grow and I feel as if I am being watched beyond my table. Not by security, or the eyes-in-the-sky, something greater. Something that says it should be revered and acknowledged. Borderline feared. The lights, the ventilation, the alcohol. It all watches me. Waits for me to make my next pounce onto my target. There is no movement around our table; onlookers dare not enter the hunting grounds. The casino is my own coliseum. It is the one my wife left me over. I have ruined friendships and broken promises in the hunt for relief. Pressure builds behind my eye. I must keep winning. The casino is a deity in its own regard. One that judges me. I must show that I am worthy. I must ensure the bravado of the Southern man is crushed. His entire being reminds me of my Father-in-Law, and I cannot wait to destroy him. I ended him when my wife chose to host a poker night. He called me dangerous. Unhinged. He was prey.

The space begins to fall increasingly silent as my overseer waits to see what happens next. A puff of air releases from the automatic refresher above me and signals the dealer to begin. It is a quick round. He operates to a measure of foolhardiness and nearly hits twenty-five. The round is mine. And the lights above me quietly flicker. I would like to forget about my Father-in-Law. I do not regret it. Yet, his anguish remains in my mind like a deck’s joker: seldom useful, always prevalent. I look to my opponent. His leg begins to shake under the table and he buries his head between his palms. His shoulders rest on the table. He needs to win. But his will is not as strong as my skill. When players get nervous, they mess up. When they mess up, the hunt is all but over. I will indulge.

My coliseum’s temperature begins to drop. It judges my intent. Every casino has their own personality. This one tends to be harsh.

Cruel.

The lights flicker again and the next round begins.

Mr. Tide’s breathing has become irregular. He ends his turn at sixteen. The prey has become restless. I am precocious. I win the round after the cards decide what I do through warmth and shock. The pressure beneath my eyes starts to fade.

“Welp, I best stop while I have some winnings,” he starts to stand.

It cannot end like this.

The air falls thick. The pressure returns. I am not done winning. A puff from the refresher falls from the ceiling. It critiques me. I need more.

“Sit. Down.” I growl at him.

He looks at me puzzled. My eyes narrow.

He complies. I can tell my pupils have dilated.

My opponent sees the true me. The one my Father-in-Law saw. The hunter. The one he thought would be dangerous around his daughter. I loathe him.

The dealer freezes for a moment before the next round. He is a pillar in the coliseum, not a participant. My breathing becomes heavy and I feel the aura of fear around the Southern man. He will not look at me. He knows what will happen next and he cannot stop it. The dealer pauses for longer than necessary. Now, it’s my opponent's turn.

“Hit,” he says. His voice cracks. The cool resolve of Mr. Roll Tide has vanished. He tries to tap the table and his finger trembles on the short journey.

This is what I was made for, I think.

His mustache flattens from the sweat that now covers his face.

“Mr. Roll Tide,” I say stoically, “do you know what the difference is between obsession and addiction?”

He looks at me in an awkward mixture of curiosity and fear. There is no answer to break the thick silence.

“Obsession leaves you in a dangerous spot. There is nothing you would not do to get what you are obsessed over. Addiction is something you cannot do without.”

I watch as the words land on his shoulders as if they hold the weight of the world. He turns his head slowly to the dealer but there is no help. He has already been caught in my sight.

“Do you understand?”

He shakes his head imperceptibly slowly, as if something quick would capture the attention of his predator. He does not know that he has already been caught.

“I am not obsessed with winning, friend,” I pause for a moment as a card is dealt to me. “I am addicted to you losing.” My hand hovers over the card. The warmth has increased. It now feels like a stove’s burner set to low.

Tap. Tap.

Judgment comes for a repetitive flicker of the light. The room feels as if it has shrunk. It is not a casino. It is my opponent, my benefactor, myself and the cards. My eye pulses quickly as if it is communicating through Morse code.

“You think you came here to gamble? To make money?” I say, “No. You came here for me. You just were not aware.”

The Southerner’s throat bobs up and down like a buoy. His breath wavers and he still will not look at me. I win the round again, and he starts to rise from his chair.

A feeble attempt.

“You can leave. But can you really say you have enough for your bills?”

It works.

He returns and his breathing quickens.

“Are you willing to lose or hoping to win?”

There is no answer.

None ever comes as the dealer begins the next round. His hand hovers over the deck as if he is waiting for permission from the overseer. I wonder if he hears from the cards too. The cards wait another moment. I stare at the dealer with my eyebrows furrowed. I do not blink.

“I cannot do this,” he says.

A card slides to him face down.

“Too late, friend. The cards are dealt,” I pause. “They always have been.”

He moves his chair slightly away from me and prepares to gather his things. His eyes are wide: arms shaking, brow sweating, lip quivering. Behind the dealer, I see the guards of the coliseum approaching. The acolytes of the judge walk steadily. They will not interrupt my hunt. My cause is too great. Do they not know I work to appease their deity? I question their purpose.

The pressure behind my eye increases, and it feels like it is about to pop like a balloon. The arena goes silent. I hear no dealer, card slide, or meaningless conversation. Security steps closer to the table. The dealer slides a card to me. It takes longer than it should and then it appears to nearly jump into my quarters. It knows me. It sharpens in my sight and then softens.

The guards flank the table.

They cannot stop me.

They stand behind me.

The Southerner has no more chips to play.

He is mine.

It has chosen a winner.

One of their hands lands on my shoulder.

I hear my name: from them, or the dealer, or the deity. I cannot tell anymore.

My hand hovers over the last card. But my vision blurs.