None of us were quite sure how it began. A game here, a table there, and we were in. I remember thinking, why am I playing five-eight offsuit. Who am I, Doyle Brunson? But when I saw a five eight eight flop and Steve Demarco’s eyes give that flicker, that unintentional flicker, I knew I had him. Bastard had pocket aces, I knew it, and he knew I knew it. Big reraise preflop, half my stack, told me he was serious, but I knew there were other forces at work. People ask me why I speed, why I jaywalk, why I ignore the most extraneous of laws. I softly reply that there’s something bigger than the United States government. There’s that natural element that trumps all, and as I sat in the smoke filled, dimly lit room, Frankie’s pool house, I could feel it flowing through me.

I looked in Steve’s eyes. He still thought he had the best hand, who wouldn’t. Two pair, aces and eights, but I flopped the nut. Cooley, I raise his bet, quarter of my chips left from the beginning of this game, and my heart sank on the turn – Ace.

“How much you have there, four hundred? I’ll see you all in,” Steve whispers, the corners of his mouth giving the slightest hint of a hidden grin. I tried not to squirm. There he sat, three feet away from me, eyes piercing into the depths of my soul, begging, praying that I would bite. What little light there was in the room reflected off the top of his bald, olive skinned head. Underneath his mustache, I imagined the grin to grow wider. His face beneath the face. The one that was screaming at me, calling me every horrible name and slur ever spoken.

“You got your cowboy hat on don’t you?” he added. We might as well just turn over our hands now.

“Nothing to those rockets under your hand,” I reply smoothly. The under-grin widened, a giant toothy smile like some canoli-eating jack-o-lantern. The room sat silent. John-O, Kyler, Back-pack, they were all watching us, last two in the game. Steve’s hand raised a half ashen cigarette to his lips as he drew deep, taking the smoke into every last inch of himself.

I wanted to slap that cancer stick out of his hand, belt him across the face and take my money home, but I had to have the game. I’d come home from a horrible day at work, loading stuff I couldn’t afford at a home improvement store, and sit and think about the upcoming weekend game, or last weekend’s hands, or any game that I could remember. It was more than a game now, it was the reason I breathed, the reason I worked, the reason I lived. And here was the do-wop guinea trying to take it all away.

“Fuck you Steve, I call,” I said after an eternity. He flipped first, itching to from the minute he knew he was aces full of eights. There they were, the heart and the club, with the diamond sitting on the table, sure enough. I revealed my own meager showing.

“I knew it. I knew you couldn’t resist pretending you were one of the big boys. How’s it feel to be sent home like a chump. No paycheck for this week. Looks like Celeste is gonna see a nice dinner this week,” he said laughing.

“Just show the damn river and get it over with, we’ve been here too long,” I said.

Frankie burned one just like we always saw on WSOP. All of us were Espn late night addicts. Slowly he began to take the next card off the deck. I couldn’t see it from where I was sitting, but it reflected off Steve’s face like moonlight on a river.

None of us had seen quads in any of our house games, and the entire room erupted, all except Steve, who sat there dumbstruck. I raked in the chips, almost double Steve now, and Frankie pulled in the cards to reshuffle.

Steve reset his face as Frankie dealt. Pocket twos. Steve was stone, and I raised, a third of my stack. He called, stoic to the end. Four Eight Ten. I could see it now, he didn’t have a thing. Probably seven three offsuit. I raised again and again he called. Ace. I sat and deliberated. What if he was bluffing me? I’m seen Steve pull off a good one before. Suckered Back-pack into going all in against his ace high flush last week. I checked, he followed suit. And the river, that sweet river home. Five.

“You don’t have shit do you?” he asked. ‘I’m all in.” I instant called him.

The shock on his face shattered the silence of the room. He threw his cards at me and stormed out of the room. Seven Five. Frankie handed me the night’s wad of cash, gangster rolled like we had all seen in Rounders, and I walked out into the night, breathing in new life from a set of deuces.