At the coffee shop where I go to write is a group of women who gather every Tuesday to play cards. They remind me of my grandmothers. In their obvious love to be out and away from whatever else they could be doing and whatever else someone else might tell them they should be doing, they remind me of Nana. In my childhood I played cards with Nana in the afternoons. We started out playing “Old Maid” and a rather obscure one called, “Authors.”
“Do you have any Henry David Thoreau’s?”
“No, but I have a Longfellow.”
“I’ll take it.”
I honestly don’t recall how the game ended or how you got to win, but it was from these afternoon escapades around the dining room table that I first wandered upstairs to pull Upton Sinclair’s, “The Jungle” book, from the shelf in the guestroom. The day Nana discovered me reading it was the day she declared victory once and for all. It was also the day I remember her pulling the board game, “Know-Your-America,” off the shelf. “Let’s play this one now.” Like having mastered Charles Dickens and “A Tale of Two Cities”, I was now ready to tackle Alexander Hamilton and Topeka.
I think Nana would fit nicely around the table with these women at the coffee shop, except she probably wouldn’t dare. For one thing, they’re not near excited enough about Jane Austen. Secondly, among the pile of cards in the middle of the table is a pile of coins and one-dollar bills. There might even be a $5 thrown in there. I’m pretty sure these women could be arrested for running a game of Craps in a public place, but who’s going to do that? From the look of them, a night in the slammer would be their pride and joy, and upon discharge they’d have the police raiding every backroom in every gas station from here to California for the next 20 years. In this they remind me of my Gram, whom I think would have loved playing Bonnie and Clyde with them. Most of all it’s their demeanor around the tables that reminds me of my grandmothers. Trying to pretend like no one–not even they–know the power of the hand they’ve been dealt.
Some Tuesdays I show up and their game has already begun. I sit in a corner, in eye and earshot, and I take in just a few hands before things break up. Someone has to go pick up their pills or get home to take their pills.
Today I got there early. I was already a few paragraphs into my Sunday sermon when they pounced in. They pushed the tables around and together, removing the salt and peppershakers and the miniature plastic tent cards that read, “Please don’t rearrange the furniture.” In a corner, huddled around the trash barrels, two young waitresses looked on. You could tell they weren’t going to step away from their trash barrels.
I note that in order to play with these card sharks you have to put $3 down up front, a little something to build the pot and to show that when it comes to winning, you’re willing to risk at least a large cup of coffee. For several hours the game goes on. Every now and then they get up and switch seats. I’m not sure why they do this. They all seem to know one another fairly well. Maybe Ethel wants a chance to stare down Edie and to not have to spend all her chips on Myrtle? At no point does anyone ever pause to ask for clarification over the directions. On several occasions, however, it is necessary to provide correction.
“We’re dealing with diamonds, not hearts.”
“I threw a diamond.”
“No, you threw a heart.”
“Oh, well it looked like a diamond. These damn cards. They should make them so that they talk and tell you what they are.”
No one bothers to point out the obscenity behind such a thought. I smile to think that this is because everyone is quietly agreeing to how great and helpful talking cards would be.
After a while the game is over and everyone gets up to push the tables and chairs back to where they belong. It’s hard to tell who won. Someone does pick up the pile of coins and bills, but only to count it all up and then evenly distribute it among all the sharks.
“There, now we can all come back and play again next week.”
“Oh, I can’t make it next week,” someone says. “Bob has a doctors appointment.”
“Is that next week?” another asks. “How is he feeling?”
“He’s doing ok. Good days and bad days.”
“Do you want someone else to come along to the appointment with you and Bob?”
“No, we’ll be fine. I’ll see you again in two weeks. Besides, I wouldn’t want you to have to miss this.”
For sure, I think to myself. We’re definitely dealing in hearts.
PleaseGrace 