7 Come 11

I suppose one might look at their life like a poker hand, or a craps game. Destiny and fate intersected with luck and the stars. My game’s not going so well. Perhaps I don’t have the skills for it, or perhaps my luck is shot. The reason doesn’t matter.

I was in Vegas this weekend. Vegas was overcome with Nascar fans, and other sundry types of people. It teaches you that greed is universal. From blue haired old women, to fat old men with pinky rings with tortuous whores, to regular folks, and the poorest of the poor. I repeat, greed is universal without a glance towards racial or social structure. Everyone wants money. It’s about the two seconds before the dealer flips the cards. You feel your heart speed up, you feel your breath getting shallow, and your hands twitch.

And then they come. 21. Not for me, but hooray for the dealer. At one point my father-in-law asked the dealer, “Aren’t you even going to smile?” The ordinary looking woman wearing a preposterous skimpy outfit replied, “Would you like me to smile while I take her money?” Touché.

My life is going about the same as my luck this weekend. Heart racing, hands wringing and another 21 for the man in the sky. I’m taking a few bets right now. My hand’s been plaid to this point. Some bad moves, some righteous moves, but I have to wait for the flop. I might be up the river, literally.

Of course it’s all a lesson in expectations, you could say. Of course I went to Vegas hoping to find something I might have lost there a couple of years ago. It wasn’t there. I felt devastated not to find it, and he knew. He felt it to. We talked about divorce again. We talked about hope again. We cried because we are best friends, and at the end of it all we’re waiting on lady luck.

At this point, I’m still at the table with my loosing hand. At one point, I’ll have to get up. After all, it’s probably someone else’s seat.

But damn, you never know what that turn of the dice is going to bring you. 7 come 11.