There is a pastime that is inherently all-American, immortalized not only in film and television, but music and even the hallowed theaters of Broadway as well. No, not baseball-gambling. Gambling is often degraded or referred to as idiotic, when in fact it has the power to change history; take, for example, the 1919 Chicago “Black Sox” scandal. Hmm, maybe gambling and baseball are linked after all (Pete Rose anyone?). So, it is in the name of historical tradition rather than petty entertainment and monetary desperation that Card Night has arisen.
The ritual has existed far longer than the current incarnation in which I am now marginally involved; I have only been able to sit in once this year, but oh what a lucrative three hours they were. I take pride in the fact that to this day, I am the only woman who has been allowed to sit at the genuine, green felt-upholstered card table, and I like to believe that my presence was not only to revive my gasping bank account, but strike a blow for feminism as well. Just call me Gloria S.-on second thought, please don’t. Anyhow, the pithy version of the night is as follows: I made a substantial profit, winning not only money for myself but getting my boyfriend’s money back as well. This was especially humorous when one takes into account that the only hands I lost big on that night were the ones he volunteered to “help” me with. To be fair, though, he did front me the $20 I needed for my buy-in (which I paid back that very night out of my substantial winnings).
Of course, there is more to the night than the loss or accumulation of chips. There are snacks, after all, not to mention a haze of cigarette smoke thicker than the fog of a London night and an overabundance of trash-talking. In fact, in the house I play at, there is an unspoken rule that anyone who can make a certain individual the butt of a good joke receives nickel chips from everyone else seated at the table. I must confess that several times during the night unbeknownst to anyone else, I tried focusing on the final card I was dealt in each hand like Mel Gibson in “Maverick”, making the ace of spades magically appear. I am a failure as a mentalist.
To those who would disparage the institution of Card Night as frivolous or even immoral, all I can say is that it paid for my groceries and my portion of the utility bill during what would have otherwise been a lean week. I plan to sit at the Round Table this upcoming Sunday after my sister’s weekend visit, as I am sure she will squander much of my money on frozen mochas at the Jazzman’s. I even bought a cute new shirt to wear. Who says there aren’t advantages to the female gender?
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