The Gamble

He tries to recall how he had come to be here. What on earth had he been thinking of? Had he completely lost it? He is not at all sure. The details seem sketchy now and somewhat blurred in his alcohol induced haze.

Jumbled images of a heated exchange take shape in his mind. A fiery, bitter explosion of words appear through the fog; followed by the angry slamming of a door, urging him forward to seek sanctuary.

The sheen of solid oak, soon concealed beneath an array of empty glasses - their soothing contents consumed in gluttonous haste. A kindred spirit nodding in agreement, puts an understanding, yet somehow persuasive arm around his shoulders and the fog clears a little more.

As if in a dream, he takes in the scene: seedy back room of a pub; four figures arched over a beer-stained, cigarette scorched table - its ash-speckled surface littered with notes. Copper and silver coins reflect in empty bottles. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air - a cloud of poisonous gas shrouding everything beneath. How could he possibly be part of this scenario? He isn't sure what to do next. In one hand he is holding yet another liquor filled vessel, in the other, he holds his destiny.

He studies the cards in his hand, confident of their worth. Yet anxious. As he places another bill onto the ceaseless expanse in the centre of the table, the realisation of his own depletion of funds painfully obvious. How has he let it get this far? Why has he let it get this far? He has no answers to these questions. The only certainty right now is he is definitely not in the same league as these underworld hustlers.

More notes are surrendered. Firmly, he fixes his gaze on the overflowing ashtray - like volcanic remains - its contents spill over. Resolutely, he continues to stare. He knows he has to keep calm. But does he look calm? He has no way of knowing. He can feel his head pounding. He imagines the blood, coursing through his veins. Can they see those veins throbbing in his temples? Beads of sweat begin to form between the grooves of his furrowed brow - as if in unison with the droplets beginning to emerge between the taut blades of his shoulders.

He knows he is holding three very good cards, yet he also realises he doesn't have the resources to continue. How much longer can they hold out?

As he digs his keys into his moist, clammy palm, they serve as a sharp reminder of all he has left - his house and car. Taking the keys from his pocket, he scrutinizes the faces around him for clues. Dare he do it? Such a question is futile, as he already knows there can only be one answer. The keys reclaim their place in the worn folds of his pocket.

"Sorry lads, you've cleaned me out", he confesses.

Steadying himself, he rises to his feet, steering himself to the door. Leaving the robbers to count their ill-gotten gains, he retreats - a little poorer financially, yet infinitely richer in wisdom.