You’re never the big winner. That’s Brett. He always wins. You watch as he deals the cards. He must be really good. Relatively speaking though, you’re not half bad.

Your pile of chips is modest (it always seems to be). In the end, you’re pretty used to walking away with a little more than you started with. Not always, but enough of the time you have come to expect it.

You look across to Cindy and remind yourself that she’s won some hands. Her pile of chips tonight isn’t like yours, but you’re sure she’s won big at some point. You struggle to remember when though.

Next to you, Mike folds again. He must have the worst luck. It always seems like he’s folding. You play the hand out and not surprisingly, Brett wins again: full house.

As Brett drags the cards close to deal again, Mike breaks the silence. “Can we at least play one hand by the real rules?”

“These are the official rules,” Cindy responds.

“It’s Brett’s table,” you pipe in.

Brett just smiles as he thumbs through the deck.

“But these rules aren’t fair,” Mike argues.

Brett finds three aces and places them in front of himself.

“Stop making trouble, Mike. You just don’t like losing,” you say as Brett deals two kings to you.

“Maybe you’re just not good at cards,” Cindy says as Brett deals her two tens.

“Guys, I’m just saying that it isn’t fair that you all start out with something when I don’t,” Mike says.

Brett shuffles the deck, passing out five cards to everybody. You look at your cards and toss back a 9 and a 10, keeping two pair. Cindy and Brett toss in their extras. Mike slumps behind his cards and folds.

Brett smiles. “You know, Mike; you could always find another game.”

Staring at your cards, you wish you could fast forward through this commercial to get back to the game.

“You know full well it won’t matter if I do. You’ve got every game in town playing by these rules.”

“That’s quite the accusation, Mike.” Brett sits up. “Do you have any proof.”

You steal a glance to see Mike looking at Cindy. But she’s staring at her cards, which is definitely the right move. You look down right as Mike turns his head toward you.

“You two should be ashamed of yourselves,” Mike says. “We all know this game is a sham.”

You look at Brett who returns your look; it’s time for you to speak up. “You know these games are important. How else can we prove ourselves? We can’t have stupid people voting or going to school with our children! This is how we do things. Always have.”

Now its Cindy’s turn. “You said that Brett wrote the rules but you damn well know they were playing these games before we were born. He didn’t write the rules. It’s not his fault he always gets to be the dealer.” Cindy never fails to deliver.

“But that’s my point! If he always deals and always gets to pre-deal certain cards that people like me never get, then how can any of this be fair?”

You jump “It’s not supposed to be fa—“

“I think,” Brett interrupts, “it is time to cash out.”

“Wait? What? The rules say I have 10 more minutes! I need to play one more hand,” Mike protests.

Brett smiles again. “The rules also say that given extenuating circumstances, I can call the game early. And since I just saw a threat of violence, I’m calling it now.”

You sit back down, realizing you’ve crossed the line. You know better than to ever stand up during a game. He’s already tolerated more backtalk than normal.

“Now, given the final tallies, it looks as if Mike does not have enough chips to remain in our game.”

“This is bullshit.”

“No foul language!” Cindy scolds.

“Unfortunately for Mike, this means he’ll lose his privileges and rights in this community. But no worries. I’m sure we can find someone eager to take his place.”

As Brett, then Cindy get up from the table, you realize your sanction isn’t coming. Your audible sigh releases the fear into the room. It slips out the door with Cindy and follows Brett into the main house.

“You know, you’re trapped, too.” Mike is staring at you. “You, Cindy. They get you with the argument from tradition, saying it’s always been this way. It hasn’t. They get you with the argument from logic—that it’s about merit. It isn’t.” He pauses and you realize it’s just the two of you.

“You are trapped just like I am. They keep us thinking we all need to stay in this game, that we’re all opponents and we’re all equal. But every night the Bretts always walk out with the most money.”

You start to argue, but you hold back. Why?

“They walk out with our money and every single time we think we’re paying in for the privilege of playing along. This didn’t used to be a privilege. It’s always been a right.”

“You know the difference between us, you and me?” Mike’s stare scorches you. But you realize he isn’t hurting you. He isn’t directing pain. It just burns to have him look at you.

“No, what?” You muster.

“We’re trapped in a system we can’t win. And they make it so you and I compete for the leftovers, right? How can I blame you for wanting to survive? But that isn’t the truly devilish part. It isn’t about you and me at all. There is no fair, no competition, no game. They want you at this table so you won’t be in the streets.”

“The only way they know to ensures you stay at the table is by giving you more of a chance than I have. So you’re grateful for it. You’ll never really win. You’ll never take home the big score. You always break even. Cindy and I always lose money. Think about it. When did you win last? Have you ever won more than a couple of hands? Have you ever once won the night?”

The question hits you like a brick made of shame. How have you never asked yourself that question? Ever? You’ve been playing these games for years. Before that, your parents. And their parents. Your Mom and Dad certainly had a better go of it, but you can’t remember their ever “winning big.” Grandparents, now they won.

“I don’t know,” you say. Your face is hot, butt fidgety.

“Just think about it.”

The lights go out. Brett’s not-so-subtle signal to leave.

When you get to the door, Mike shoves a card in your hand and speaks close, “Since I’m not going to be around here anymore, you might want to get in touch. If you ever want to talk.”

Mike walks ahead on to his car, as countless other Mikes before him. You watch him walk, more confident than you’d be in the situation.

Brett called this view, of watching someone leave the game like this, the walk of shame. He knew the phrase was taken, but he liked the ring of it. And the association.

The night feels cold in the moonlight. The car groans, too slow to heat up, it has to move anyway. There’s no way you could stay a second longer.

The trees disappear into a hyperspeed slideshow, indecipherable. The yellow and white lines keep you on course until the curbs and sidewalks of the city return. This street suddenly feels like a maze, your destination obvious. You need to get home to eat and get out of the cold.