Apr 06, 2008 20:06
#4
Four packs of cards. We are poor today
and we screamed at each other earlier
as I told the parking lot mechanic
that we wouldn't be paying him. Scams
come easily to both of us, he
sees markets and drums in my face and I
am a bitch. Asshole. Spray paint
never looks like the real thing. Home,
tonight, we try to learn the ways
in which people make money, people
who can stand trying. We take pennies,
quarters, these are five hundred, these
are ten thousand. We have never had
this kind of money. We
are in Shreveport, Vegas, my name is
Millie, maybe. Or Charlene, or
Nikita. We are counting cards. It comes
easily to me, the system, the numbers, I
have been fighting my youth for too long,
saying numbers mean nothing. Last night, I watched
some stupid hollywood drama and said I can do this.
It's too hard, you said, but I'm used to
being put down. Plus one, plus two. Down three.
Fake bets, four hand blackjack. I'm playing hard,
losing big, but it happens, slowly: this
is not difficult. Someday soon we will be ready.
Plus two, plus eight. In two hours
I make eighty thousand dollars. Soon
I will be ready. You are incidental, yes, I
will always do your dirty work, I come from a long line
of pillagers. Ask me
if I'm ready.