What Takes Place in Las Vegas

The best poker partner I've ever had is my cat Oreo. Without making a pun, hands down. Dogs actually have no idea what the hell they're doing once you put them on that rickety ladder back chair, and their paws aren't designed for keeping the cards steady. Don't let those old Coolidge paintings fool you. British Shorthairs are the way to go if you want a trustworthy method of colluding in a game of Texas Hold 'em.

Of course, the fact that Oreo can speak now also helps.

***

Last month, as I was watching TV in the living room, my boyfriend John entered. The first warning sign was that he didn't sit down. The second phrase was those notorious four words, "We need to talk," spoken in a low voice.

A roundtable discussion with speakers debating Buddhist philosophies appeared on television. I accidentally touched the mute button on the remote control, but I kept it on in the hopes that the panelists' comments would outweigh John's.

It was a failure.

He said, "It's not you, Brian, it's me," before explaining that I made everything about myself and he couldn't stand it. I refrained from responding since I didn't want to contradict him. Then he departed, carrying with him the memories of the previous 18 months into the dusty night of Las Vegas.

So I made the decision to practice what the show preached and adopt a Buddhist stance: four Budweisers and two joints.

I chose the casino because I was already losing money when it didn't work.

During one of his coughing bouts, I impulsively grabbed Oreo, who is generally quiet and reclusive, tucked him under my armpit like a fifteen-pound black-and-white football, and shambled out the door.

We stumbled past the palm trees and Vegas Strip lights as we made our way downtown. The casinos were lighted by hues as vibrant as the future. I finally settled on Flamingo, a bright hot pink.

Before I could enter, the bouncer in front of the door stopped me. He pointed at Oreo. "Cats not permitted."

I stumbled over my words and said, "He's a service cat, bro."

"No."

He didn't give in until I gave him my last two joints, which I had been saving for after the casino when I could legitimately declare bankruptcy.

The casino was filled with the smell of smoke and despair. We moved slowly toward a table that had few players in the poker room. On the seat next to mine, Oreo was seated. He wobbled on his hind legs, plopped his paws down on the green felt, and coughed on the stack of poker chips I'd divided with him after I traded my life savings for a pile of black tokens.

I deciphered it as "My friend is playing too."

The dealer, a young man with a green visor, regarded my cat suspiciously. He was obviously wondering how we managed to get past the bouncer, but what could he do? We had already entered. He looked over the top of my head as if looking for a different bouncer who was harder to convince.

He shrugged, but when it came to dealing, he tossed two cards to Oreo in jest, who pawed at them and coughed.

We all raised our stakes as the game progressed and folded when it was time. To get the defeat over with early, I shifted Oreo's chips to the middle of the table. I didn't bother to flip Oreo's hand over until the dealer was assembling our cards.

Just picture our reactions when we discovered my cat sitting on a royal flush.

Technically, the dealer was forced to proclaim Oreo the winner of the round because I had staked all of my chips on him. I grabbed our winnings while grinning.

Up until the next game, when Oreo had four of a kind, all 6, we all believed it was an accident.

The merchant then kindly requested that we depart.

I cuddled Oreo as I stood there on the sidewalk, $600 richer than I had been before thanks to my cat. Let's go again. That crap was too easy, he said for the first time, his voice sounding like a squeaky toy.

Understand: My cat speaking never seemed that unlikely since I was cross-faded and blissfully numb from drink and marijuana at the time.

With air-conditioned rooms and more permissive cat regulations, Bellagio was a short jaywalk away. As we came up with our poker tells, Oreo perched on my shoulder like a parrot belonging to a pirate.

I knew to fold when Oreo began to purr like a '92 Camaro while we were at Bellagio. I sat back and awaited his royal flush at Caesar's Palace when he knelt down and licked his crotch.

We spent the following three weeks examining the central strip after it suddenly spread out in front of us like unknown land. The Mirage, John's place of employment, was the only casino we skipped. where we first met.

We agreed upon a deal before leaving Flamingo: I would give Oreo 75% of our profits in exchange for him keeping his talking a secret. Even though once I swear I smelled something in the kitchen that wasn't Meow Mix, I have no idea what he needs with all that money.

***

It's unfortunate that it's Sunday today for two reasons. The first was that John and I had our "we days" on Sundays, during which we went dining out, shopping, or sang karaoke for inebriated onlookers.

The second was: It has been exactly one month since our breakup.

Hence, I require a diversion.

I don't remember buying the seafood pâté can that Oreo is holding while relaxing on the couch. On QVC, where a woman is promoting vacuum-sealed barramundi, the TV is tuned in.

I flop down next to him and he says, "Crazy sh*t, eh, kid?" They "consider everything,"

"Neat," I agree.

He looks at the screen with yellow eyes and says, "Where's your phone?" "I require that."

I press against the pillow. I can hear my neediness saying, "Hey, let's have a we day." "Why don't we visit the casinos?"

Hell no, we have visited each day this week.

that is accurate. Oreo and I have been approached by people in the past month who are aware of our notoriety, including rivals from nearby cities and advertisers who want to create T-shirts featuring Oreo's image.

What Happens in Vegas is a bust.

"Please," I beg.

Oreo disregards me.

I take out my phone and hold it out like a sweet. I fib and say, "Fine, you may have as much barramundi as you like."

And I'm shocked to see how effortlessly he folds after all this time.

***

The bouncer at Flamingo extends his hand. Hold it, he commands, pointing to a sign that wasn't there the previous evening. A picture of Oreo that is ten pounds overweight is on it. His mind is circling two words: "NO CATS!"

I argue, "What the hell, we were just here yesterday."

He crosses his arms over his chest and declares, "New day, new policy. No cats."

"But—"

The owner said as such. If you have a problem, bring it up with him.

Even when I offer him a joint, he doesn't move.

Oreo murmurs, "Son of a bitch," as we saunter off. I departed QVC for this,

I tell him to calm down. "There is only one casino."

However, when we visit Caesar's Palace and Bellagio, we find that they both have the same muscle-bound bouncers and anatomically erroneous anti-Oreo signs that are blocking our path to a better, more environmentally friendly future. The Bellagio guy says, "Owner said so. "The newsletter had it."

Later, Oreo says some less-than-kind things about the newsletter and tells the owner to shove it.

Time is running out. The sky has lost all of its colors. Oreo and I are bathed in subdued colors by the city's nightlights.

He abruptly slaps his tail against my back as we return home. I come to a stop and follow his gaze across the street to a small waterfall and a palm tree haven. The Mirage is the only casino we haven't defrauded.

I feel as though I might drown in the waves of memories of John that keep coming back. I can't get rid of the memory of me sitting down at his deserted blackjack table the first night we met. John's white teeth flashed as he exclaimed, "Busted," and I responded, "You mean the game, or checking you out?" after I had dropped four consecutive games.

He enjoys relating the tale. Loved.

I respond, "No, it's probably the same thing there.

Oreo holds his paw in front of my face. His claws appear at will. "Poker at me, youngster."

To go to The Mirage, we jaywalk.

There isn't a sign in the street. The bouncer gives us a quick glance, nods, and encourages us to have a good time. And with that, we are inside.

Oreo laughs. Guess they missed the newsletter at this location.

On our walk to the poker room, I can't help but check John's old blackjack table, even though I despise myself for it. A blonde croupier is dealing in his place. It's not exactly a relieving sight.

Oreo chooses our rivals in the poker room. He has a nose for poor players and claims that they smell like poop and Bud Light. So it is that we find ourselves seated at the table of a balding man with a beer gut.

I almost don't hear my name since I'm too busy assessing him.

"Brian?"

The dealer looks at me intently. John.

As I struggle to respond, my lips begin to dry up, but then his eyes start to relax.

Hello, Oreo!

Our cat, my, leaps onto the table. John displays caressing his stomach. The small actor, Oreo, purrs while curling his tail.

Why are you in this place? If only my lips would work with my brain, which already has the words.

As only John can do, he reads my thoughts and says, "We're short-staffed in here tonight." His voice is emotionless and matter-of-fact. "I assume you were curious."

My hands are trembling. I nod at his cards and reply, "I'd like to play." Ignoring his query doesn't feel as nice as I had anticipated. A man wakes up next to us and gets ready to move. John turns the money I dump out of my pockets onto the table into chips.

He gives Oreo one last rub and replies, "Sure." "You go," I say.

I respond, "No, he's playing too.

John squints. Something causes his face to cross, some emotion obscuring the light in his eyes. "Hold on. You and Oreo, are you the ones who started that dumb no-cat policy?"

The bald man tells us he'll only be a minute before leaving to take a call.

My lips dance around a thousand-word form. They ultimately decide to say: "What no-cat policy? Nobody informed us of that when we came in."

No, John responds, "because we all believed the newsletter to be false. Here, there haven't been any instances of anyone employing cats as a kind of cheating."

He is looking at me, but I am unable to meet his eyes. Oreo meows ineffectively.

John smirks. Oh Brian, if you could just assure me you didn't—

Baldy says, putting his phone in his pocket, "Sorry, that was the wife. Are you guys ready to play?

John's inquiry recurs into the emptiness while Oreo creeps up to the seat next to mine.

As usual, in order to give Baldy a false sense of security, Oreo and I forfeit the first several games. When we lose for the fourth time, John reJohns, "Busted," perhaps out of habit. However, it makes me question whether he is anticipating my response, hoping that I would speak the magic words from our love tale, or hoping that I will make things right.

I move my chip stack closer to Oreo. "I'm going to take a short break."

He starts to argue but realizes better and pretends to yawn instead.

Baldy and Oreo are given their cards. I gaze at John as they consider their alternatives, forcing him to look up and reply, "What?"

I say, "Oops," and turn my head away. "Busted."

The come-on, however, is not reversible. As he deals another card, John rolls his eyes.

I pretend to be angry and ask, "Nothing? No reaction?"

He deals a fourth and sighs. Brian, what do you want me to say?

I suddenly realize that I'm clueless. I enquire "Why did you leave?"

John deals the fifth card, saying, "I told you previously, didn't I?" "I can only patch so many holes; I can't keep a ship afloat if it's full of them."

The outrage is genuine this time, "I don't need repairing."

"I really want to believe that, Brian," he says as he turns to face me.

Something freezes me in my tracks in my peripheral vision before I can answer. I turn around to find Oreo advancing the entire stack of chips, which cost thousands of dollars. He is all in. Baldy is also.

My organs twist like balloon animals when I'm anxious. I ask him, "What are you doing?" and he gives the straight flush indication by licking his paw and stroking his face. His hand is revealed to be a 10-6 diamond hand. jumps onto the table after that creeps up behind the prizes, and shoves them forward.

Baldy interjects, dropping his cards, "Not so fast, bucko." All hearts, aces to ten.

Crown flush

Oreo focuses and blinks his mouth open and shut. I'm brought back to the time he consumed some peanut butter. He is currently solely eating crow.

After a month of poker games, Baldy calls out, "Come to papa!" and grabs our chips from Oreo.

I'm amazed by how even my voice is as I say, "Oreo." The fact that we have lost all of our money has not yet occurred to me, I believe.

He hisses, "Shit." He repeats it while sweeping his paw across the desk. His claw Johns on the felt appear ghostly.

John halts his card collection. He loses control of the ace of hearts. He then looks at our cat. "Did he only speak?"

But Oreo has already gotten up from his chair and is leaving like this casino is an illusion. I'm right behind him as well. I have to fight every urge to look back for one last glimpse of John.

***

When we arrive home, the TV is still on. Oreo hasn't spoken since we left The Mirage, so it's the only sound in the house. He sprinted ahead of me into the cat door when we got back and vanished.

I'm thus taken aback to see him standing on his hind legs thirty minutes later, pulling a plastic bag filled to the brim with cat food. He says, "Later, kid," and walks out the door.

I lean on the couch's arm. "What's happening?"

Oreo snaps, "What's it look like, numbnuts?" "I'm going now,"

I know I ought to be furious. He lost all of my money, and now he wants to break up? Perhaps it still hasn't sunk in since all I sense is emptiness. Again, I'm being abandoned.

I scream, "You can't go," in desperation. "We may get the money back because we have a game scheduled for tomorrow."

Oreo makes a headshake. "Don't you think it has to be your way all the time?"

I shudder. Last month, John made the same statement. Verbatim. I make an effort to remember where Oreo was when we broke up. Outside? In the space?

Oreo claims, "I didn't even want to go out tonight. You didn't even pay attention to me,

I'm sorry, you're correct, and I'll bring you that QVC meal, I swear.

It is too late.

My cat is breaking up with me, so I say, "Come on, don't be like that." I also understand that I didn't even make this much of an effort to keep John around. "We can still resolve this,"

He pauses and gives me a direct look. Look, young man. It's not you, it's—

When he starts coughing, he has to stop talking. It makes a rumbling noise like a lawnmower that won't start, which is worse than it ever has. He slouches, his back arches, and he retches, spitting out a hairball the size of my fist. The incomplete sentence is joined in the blank by John's.

I don't mind, though. I'm confident I can complete the blank.

We look at the matted, drenched mass by my feet. Oreo paws at it like a ball of yarn, entranced. Then he meows while glancing at me and blinking his uninterested yellow eyes. He crawls to the kitty door before getting down on all fours.

"Oreo?"

He doesn't answer back.

Wait, what about your stuff? But he's already left, leaving the cat door flapping in the darkness. The room is cluttered by silence.

Hey, get back here! Where the heck do you think you're going?

These are not my words.

I grab the TV remote out of the blue and wield it like a scimitar. However, when I turn around, nobody is there.

The voice then reappears, saying, "Goddamn mangy fleabag."

I then turn to look below.

Oreo's mother, his IQ, and the hairball's accusation that he was born out of wedlock are all mentioned by the hairball as he speaks, right there on the polyester carpeting. All of this was spoken by Oreo in the squeaky voice he has been using for the past month.

My actual poker buddy.

I shake my head in confusion while catching glances at the television. And then I remember something that was reJohned by one of the panelists last month, right after John left. A Buddhist woman had compared the process of rebirth to updating a cell phone on the program. "You come back as a different version of your former self, perhaps smarter and wiser," the speaker says. "It's like a new shell for something from the past."

I'm agnostic, therefore I'm not sure why I recall this. But every time I move forward, I have that in mind. How people can change and how they can return. How Oreo will be changed and silenced after he exits the kitty door.

Perhaps things wouldn't get worse.

When I grab the shrieking hairball, go outside, and throw it in the garbage, I'm still considering that. Around me, the night grows silent and motionless.

I change the TV channels while sitting on the couch and waiting for Oreo to come back to life. There is an advertisement for Allstate that promotes accident forgiveness. The Weather Channel predicts a good week this week. Finally, the weather is beginning to warm up.

I reach for my phone and scroll through the contacts list until John's name and phone number appear before I can stop myself. Additionally, extrapolating romantic counsel from a weather forecast could be a sign of desperation. But perhaps it isn't. Maybe even I have changed. Maybe this time I'll know what to say and how to play my cards smarter and better.

I call John and wait to hear back from him.