It was a misty and foggy mundane day in the bright city of Manhattan where I awoke to the sound of whistles christening the air, signaling the matrix of commuters riding to work. As I gently moved my fingers across my rugged face, I could feel the wrinkles, as deep as trenches. I live across the scenic Empire State building where my guitar and I rejoice by playing euphonic tunes. I busked for a living and was in need of money. On the odd day, I would save up to play poker, contemplating and hoping one day that it would lead me to immeasurable riches and fortune. The game of poker is a fascinating game, because despite the silence across table I could sense the players’ feelings of frustration, suspicion and anxiety, exacerbated by the stuttering of poker chips. Although I could sense the inner cry of the players, the game itself is quite calm and serene, a place of tranquility, yet there are murmurs. As I strolled towards the opulent casinos, my mind was a blank canvas, apart from the few momentary mental images of my loose game plan and repertoire of poker faces. I walked through mezzanine of the building only to engulf by the surrounding piercing stares of dilettantes. I could feel them conjuring cynical thoughts of an old grimy man, but this did not deter me from goal. As I pulled the lavish gold embossed chair from behind and took my seat, I called nearby waiter and ordered my poisonous liquor of choice. The awkward silence of the room became palpable, like a thick mystic fog on a casual Sunday morning. He returned with my absinthe, a lime green concoction that intoxicated my senses with its fresh fumes. The dealer rapidly sifted through the deck as if he was an illusionist. A glare beamed into my eye from an enriched gold plated Rolex Poljot chronograph. The man’s face was familiar, covered by a charming pair of matte black aviators. The name from the top my head Vivo Scarletto blurted out in my mind, and he was the man on top of the hierarchy, a man with such prosperity no one could come close. He owns every single piece of real estate in New York, take a punt on how much he makes? Typically, a poker game is a picture of peace. There is no drama, just low voiced whispers, evoking a serene and monotonous. The dealer began dealing, releasing a stream of cards from his mercurial hands. The pot started at five hundred thousand. Scaletto drew his card. Looking over his shoulder, I tried catching a quick glimpse of his hand, and noticed a seven, eight, nine, and ten of hearts; the foundation of a straight flush. I drew a Cuban cigar from my pristine shirt. Engulfed in its Smokey hallucinogenic fumes, I forgot its existence. There were plenty of emotions amalgamating in the air, but fortunately I was able to contain mine. I finished my tobacco, heaved it from my yellow stained teeth and launched it toward the silver plated grate, and without a blink I followed its flight. A complete quietness began crystallizing amongst the company at the green clothed tabletop, like a tranquil sky. I was learning my hand with a slight contemptuous grin. But in my eyes, I was conveying something sinister and macabre. Scaletto grasped for a blue chip. “Well, my own are valued about that much," Scaletto murmured, flippantly tossing it into the pot. Thereupon he leaned back perfectly in his seat and restored his focus at possibility of a straight flush. The attorney seated to my left, shuffled through his chips and glared ponderingly at his hand. The quiet dilemma poisoned the room, like the smoke from a conflagration. The clocked ticked relentlessly, reaching the finals stages of 1am. Players had now disappeared, overcome by the intricacies and complexities of the game, and now it was between the four of us. The pot was raised to an exceptional amount of thirteen million! I didn’t know if I was fantasizing or if it was my Absinthe kicking in, but the mood was euphoric. I didn’t order any more drinks that night, instead choosing to focus on the final stages of my game plan. I couldn’t tell if the other players had dozed off, as their heads were as still as Michelangelo’s David. The lights dimly flared across the room. A new dealer entered the room and quoted in his voluptuous, deep voice, “With this chip exchange we enter the final stages of the game, which means no more buying. The big blind was now worth one million US. A tingle flowed through my body, as I knew my life is going to change after the final phase of this marathon. The European dealer drew the cards. It was an Ace, four, six and eight of spades followed by an Ace of hearts. The dealer tossed out my two, my heart stopped as I revealed the cards. Ace and two of hearts, and my heart kicked back to life as my inner turmoil rendered itself into happiness. With this hand, I could be living in a mansion I contemplated, not on a rough piece of concrete, which I had called home for the last thirty years. The black man went all in for six million, with a malicious grin, and the attorney raised his hand signaling he is raising five million. My anxious stay turned obnoxious as the distinctive ascent of the coffee punctured the dull atmosphere. Scaletto called in forty four point five million as my cynical grin faced him. It was between my foe and I. I revealed my Ace and two of hearts. I couldn’t tell the emotions behind those shades of his. I sipped the final amounts of coffee as Scaletto plucked of his glasses and revealed a full house. My heart stopped it wsas like a bullet in the chest as the contemptuous grin come back on his sickening face of Scalleto. I scurried out of the colossal glass doors, in despair, knowing that my life was never going to change. I strolled back to my shack of a house, only to see hoards of men younger than me enter the same casino, not knowing that they would inevitably need to lick their wounds.

"A Poker Face”