The Card Sharks

The kitchen is smoky and hazy, even though the ceiling fan turns at a decent pace. It’s cold outside but the small house is kept warm by the old furnace in the basement and by the 15 or so people that are packed in to it’s small floor plan. It’s Friday night, and as always, the extended family flocks to my grandparents’ house for some cards and company.

I am six years old and the scene is nothing special to me. It is exciting, however, because it is a chance for me to play with all of my cousins and mingle with the older relatives. My grandfather calls on me again and again to perform in some way while everyone plays cards. Every time I do perform, he throws his head back and laughs from his seat at the end of the table. My grandmother smiles quietly when everyone else laughs because she knows this is not who I really am. I do this only to appease my grandfather, the patriarch. Besides, she never speaks much when playing Canasta, but she wins a lot.

My cousin Earl and I end up rough housing on the floor at my grandfather’s feet. Earl is older than me and heavier, but I can beat him if I try my hardest. My grandfather looks down and gives a quick “QUIT IT.”

We sheepishly comply and end up playing some simple game on our butts in front of his chair. He calmly works the cards around in his new hand of cards until he has them arranged and then looks down at us, smelling of Afta Shave. “Do you like to sweat?” he asks me. “What?” I don’t know what sweat means. He turns to my older cousin. “Earl, do you like to sweat?” My cousin quickly chimes in, “Yeah, I like to sweat Unca Earl!” I’m still confused. My grandfather repeats the question, but I just stare at him with my mouth hanging open. What is sweat? He tells me it’s what happens when you work hard, and that I should like it. I quickly stammer that I like it, but he’s already playing this hand of cards.