Pinochle
The outlook is gray for Pinochle today I sit across the table from my future father-in-law attempting to read his mind. He squints back at me, trying to ascertain my intentions. To my left, my fiance squares off with her mother on my right. A couple people clear their throats, hem and haw, look around the table and back at their hands. It is the moment of truth; I raise my hands and make a bet. Audible sighs from around the table, some of agreement, others of dismay. The pinochle table cements the newbie’s place in the family. It is Black Friday, we are gathered at the kitchen table as the Red Lodge sun squeaks between the curtains, cutting a sharp line across the playing surface. The FIFA World Cup squawks from the television in the next room. I have positioned myself so that I cannot see the TV because I have to focus. This is a family tradition and I feel pressure to acquit myself well. The stories fly back and forth across the room from various family members as Thanksgiving le