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The Children of Washington D.C.
Babies make deadly policy.
What do poker, an earthquake, and an opioid crisis have in common?
Babies are running the show, that’s what.
I just want to live in a world that makes sense. It doesn’t, and it bothers me some days more than others.
I am bothered. Last night during my poker game I understood why.
There’s this young guy who shows up at a game I attend regularly. He does a lot of young guy things.
He makes raises with marginal hands when he’s out of position. He overplays hands. He actively projects that he’s a badass, although sorely mistaken. He puts on a face of complete confidence. He’s dismissive of me because I’m an older woman.
It doesn’t matter how often I knock him out or take a big pot. He never learns that my sex and age are not a hindrance. I will always be pokera non grata to him.
But there was something about this young man I couldn’t quite put my finger on.
It’s in the timbre of his voice. Every time he opens his mouth, I ask myself what’s up, because it’s not a natural voice. There’s something fake to it, like an actor trying to use a southern accent.
