Goodluck and Goodnight
by James Roland
When you are the chosen one, you realize something.
You will be crucified. Which, one might think, would dampen your day. Except that the day before and the day after you will NOT be chosen, and it will be your turn to crucify, which you will do.
Back in March at the last poker game I was all but ready to lynch Ben as each player in turn dealt him hand after hand after stinking good hand and his chips rose to match the New York City skyline.
But this time around it was I that sat in the Purple Throne. Which, after the last two poker matches, we have deemed the Magic Chair; the non-assuming violet seat at the head of the kitchen table. Somewhere, high above the Earth directly over that chair hovers a large, pure hole in the ozone layer where the light of divine power shines invisibly on one lucky soul the second Saturday of each month.
One night I had the following hands: 3 of a Kind, Flush, Four of a Kind (twice) and, on the very last round of the evening, a Royal Flush of Hearts.
According to the omnibus known as the Internet, the odds of a Royal Flush are: four hands in 2,598,960 or 0.000154%.
Do you want me to type that again? Cause I will . . . .
When you pull a hand like that if feels like you are on a thrill ride. The blood rises to your head as your heart speeds up. You check the cards again and again to make sure you’re not smoking peyote by mistake, and you clench your body to attempt sucking all the sweat back into your pores.
It makes me wonder about all that non-Western thought that I heard exists over the ocean. You know, all the ying-yang karma stuff. Because, if there really is a balance to maintain, I worry for the poor soul who, between the hours of 8 p.m. and 11:30 p.m. last Saturday, caught Ebola, got hit by a meteor, and had his cat eaten by a Velociraptor.
I really hope he’s alright. And I really hope he doesn’t find out it was all for a five dollar buy-in, because that would just be way too painful.
