Tuesday Night Poker

On the occasional Tuesday night, with my mother at work and my sisters and I in our pajamas, my father would invite over his brothers and his friends from the lumberyard to drink beer and play five card stud. I was allowed to greet each player and watch the opening hand. Each man would arrive with something: a sixer of canned Budweiser, a bag of potato chips, a metal band-aid box filled with nickels and dimes. Benny, the stout and jolly lumberyard foreman with his thick skinned paws and a Popeye tattoo on his forearm, would bring chocolate bars- the king-sized ones from the candy aisle at the supermarket- for my sisters and me. He was like a blue collar Santa. Uncle Guy brought his good luck charm- a Canadian nickel. Not knowing that it was not uncommon, I was intrigued by the beaver. My uncle would place the nickel on the table next to his vodka on the rocks and fresh deck of cigarettes just before the first hand was dealt. Uncle Buddy, with his Magnum mustache and light blue eyes, would bring his laugh- a hearty hoot of a laugh that would be heard, although somewhat muffled, through my bedroom walls long after I brushed my teeth and was sent to bed. I’d hear the snap and fizz of beer cans being opened and the jingling and jangling of growing pots as I lay in my bed, wide awake with the caffeine from Benny’s chocolate bars.