My Bad Side - A little bit I wrote for fun

     Cards are flipped face-up on a green felt table one by one.  The game is Black Jack, so counting cards is important.  As each card is dealt, I drown out the conversation for a moment and studiously add one in my head for every ten, Jack, Queen, King, or Ace and carefully subtract one for any twos, threes, fours, or fives.
     It's simple math.  Statistics.
     Gambling.
     Funny how those three go hand in hand.
     The basement is loud and crowded, and, for the most part, smells of sweat with slight hints of pizza.  The light is dim; the walls are bare brick.  Not exactly the Bellagio, but it works for risk takers like myself.
     My friend Emily is sitting next to me, sassy and beautiful as ever.  She adjusts her blond hair with one hand and smiles at me when I raise my eyebrows at her wager.
     "I like to live on the edge," she explains, letting the stack of chips fall through her fingers.
     I know the odds of her survival and just smile under my hand as she busts and grimaces as the dealer takes her chips.  She'd have better luck with dice or slots.  More chance involved.  Less thought.
     I admit; counting cards is illegal in any real casino.  After all, it allows the players to guess the next cards with near-perfect accuracy.  But here?  Forget it.  I doubt anyone even knows what counting cards is, nonetheless has the focused mind necessary to utilize the technique.  Even I feel sweat prick onto my forehead when the cards are laid down; it's easy as ABC to lose track.
     Cameron takes on another card, despite my warning, and hits 24, busting out.  Peter, salt and pepper hair and intelligent eyes, hits 19 and stays.
     Then the dealer turns to me.  I've got 16 and am struggling to keep the fierce grin from my lips.
     The odds are greatly in my advantage.  I've counted plus six on the table, which means there are six more twos, threes, fours, or fives than there are face cards in the dealer's deck.
     I lean back in my seat, hitting the soft table.
     A card falls from the dealer's hand.
     A five.
     16 and 5 = 21.
     Black Jack, baby.
     I receive double what I wagered and rise from the table, telling the others that I'm cashing it.  As I leave, I toss Emily a gray chip.
     Compliments of a successful gambler.

Write on!
Clove
P.S. No, we weren't gambling with real money.  This was Sunday night at a party.  The dealer was my very own Dad, and all the men at the table are solid Christians.
No one went away any richer or poorer.
Besides.
We all need the practice for when we actually do go to Las Vegas, yeah?  X)