November 1 - Old Maid Poker Night

"Hey Jonas Brothers, stop playing with yourself and get me a refill."
"Sorry. Bourbon and soda, right?"
"Ginger, you twat! Ginger! Christ, an untrained monkey could do your job."
"Lois," Madge said. "You're up. That's 20 to call."
Lois looked at her cards. "Fuck it, I'm out. Never mind, Timberlake. I'll get it myself. Wouldn't want you to chip a nail or anything."
She wheeled herself over to the makeshift bar and pushed Christopher the bartender out of her way. And he didn't move just to be polite. For a 79-year-old, she still had a lot of power.
"Screw her, Christopher," said Madge. "Get me one instead."
"That was vodka cran--"
"Just make it strong, pretty boy."
Christopher kept his distance from Lois, careful not to touch her as he reached across to get the magnum of Smirnoff. Madge and the other two women still at the table, Jude and Carmella continued their game.
Jude spoke up. "Madge, that's you. You in?"
Madge looked over at Jude. "Yeah, fuck it. I'll bark."
"Carm?"
Carmella chewed on her cigar and then took a pull of bourbon. "You bitches ain't got shit." She threw in her money.
"OK, I'm in," said Jude. "Drop your pants, ladies. Show us what you got."
Madge flipped her cards. "Pair of jacks."
Carm had a straight. "Let's go, Jude. We ain't getting any younger."
Jude flipped her cards. "Full house, ladies."
"You fucking whore," said Lois as she wheeled back up to the table.
Jude swept the chips into her pile. "Nice doing business with you ladies."
"Hey! Ricky Martin! How's that drink coming along?" Having lost, Madge's tone had shifted quickly from kind to cranky.
Christopher looked flustered. "Do you have any more limes?"
"For fuck's sake, Chrissy. Just give me the Goddamned drink. For your boyfriend's sake, I hope you suck cock better than you tend bar. Christ, my husband could've served me by now. And he died six years ago."
"Here you are," he said, handing it to her.
"Thank you, sweet pea. Now, we gonna get those sandwiches tonight or should I just give up hope on that?"
"And I wouldn't say no to another whiskey sour, but I'm afraid to ask," said Jude. "I'd say you mix drinks like old people fuck, but I don't want to offend the old people at this table."
"And I'm still waiting on my gin and tonic," said Carmella. "Tell you what. If I take out my teeth and suck your cock, would you, maybe, you know, give it to me while I'm still among the Goddamned living?" She reached into her purse, got a packet of chewing tobacco, and tucked a wad in her cheek.
He went to work on Carmella's drink, astonished at how fast four old women could burn through the booze. When he'd gotten the assignment, he figured it would be a breeze. He was wrong.
Working the Old Maid Poker Night was a rite of passage for guys looking to break into the Narducci family business. Do a good job there and eventually you might be trusted to work one of the guys' games. Do a good job at one of the guys' games and you might move on to other jobs. And then from there, it was up to you.
But Old Maid was the starting point, and it was a hell of a lot harder than anyone who worked it thought it would be. You had to be able to show that you could keep your composure while getting your balls handed to you by old ladies three, four, five times your age.
You had to be able to keep the peace once the old ladies got good and lit, which they always did.
And you had to figure out how to balance maintaining your dignity while staying in the good graces of the old ladies (and by extension, their sons and husbands who used Old Maid as an audition).
A lot of guys couldn't do it. They'd snap at the old ladies. Or they'd settle into a subordinate eunuch-type role, taking everything the old ladies dished out completely freed from the burden of having a set of balls.
Christopher was quickly falling into category two. He took it all, almost apologetically. The reports on him wouldn't be good: Pussy. Pretty boy. No pride.
Tony, they liked. He'd worked the game last Saturday. He had personality. Knew how to tease the old ladies but in a respectful way. He nudged the line playfully but never crossed it.
But Christopher? He was gutless milquetoast. He would never make it in the Narducci's line of work. They might use him to park their cars someday, but anything beyond that? Nah.