Chapter 8 — Friday Night Poker

Friday night poker games are a tradition for UMC ER nurses. Doesn’t matter that it’s sometimes Sunday morning or that attendees work at different hospitals. Nurses make friends, then change hospitals. We hold games on days and times most likely to get the most players. It was usually tournament-style with a $20–$50 buy-in. Now and then a doctor, CNA, or respiratory tech would pop in.
This Friday, the game was at Troy’s rented Summerlin house. Bringing the usual grocery bag of mixers, Bill got there around 7 p.m., game face not quite on. Troy was always good for cigars—real Cubans. Tom was usually the go-to guy for liquor. It helped to have Tom there for the rare occasions when cops showed up about noise or whatever; his retired cop badge always did the trick. Tom, Troy, Bill, and Teresa were the regular core group. Teresa usually brought the IV supplies to sober up the guys after the game, mainly because she was too serious about her poker to drink herself.
“Hey Troy, do we know who’s coming tonight?”
“Hi, Bill. I didn’t think you’d make it. Not sure who else is coming besides the usual suspects.”
Ten minutes later, Bill was arranging mixers on the kitchen counter when the doorbell rang. Tom and Teresa, at the same time.
“Hi, guys.” Tom was always laughing.
“Hey, Teresa. Fuck off, Tom,” Bill smirked.
“What was that for?”
“For hanging out with my girlfriend, Teresa.”
Tom laughed as usual. “Don’t be greedy.”
“Listen, you lushes, I could only get three bags of saline, so lay off the liquor tonight or suffer.”
“Why only three?” Troy stopped setting the table to ask.
“Because it’s all I could get in my bag. Get off my ass.”
“But it’s such an awesome ass, Teresa.” And it really was.
“Shut up, Bill. And no fucking strippers tonight. I’m sick of that shit.”
Teresa was all of 4'11", standing on her toes, and 105 pounds on a good day. With red hair and surgically enhanced features, she still turned heads at 53. Teresa married some guy no one had met, supposedly 15 years her junior. As good as she looked, though, picturing her in bed was like fantasizing about one of the guys. Besides, she cared more about her damn poker game than sex. Teresa played three to four hours every day after work at one casino or another.
For the weekly game, Teresa was the den mother, never drinking so she could focus on playing. She was the only one sober enough to put the IVs in to flush out the alcohol and tough enough to make them sit still for it. Teresa stole the IV supplies from work, and in return, she never had to pay for munchies. IV fluids not only sobered you up but, even more importantly, eliminated hangovers.
“Better save all three of those IV bags for me, T. I’m gonna drink till I’m stupid and have to work in 24 hours.”
“Drink till you’re more stupid, you mean, Bill?”
“Give me a friggin break. How often do I get drunk?”
Everyone in the room laughed as someone chimed in with “Every time you drink,” or something close.
“Assholes.”
Teresa laughed. “So you’re feeling sorry for yourself again. What was her name this week, Bill?”
“Hilarious, T. You know damn well I’ve been with Shay for three weeks now.”
“Three whole weeks, Bill? Or did you take a week off in between?”
“I was only out of town five days,” Bill mumbled.
Now in his mid-40s and widowed, Bill wasn’t even sure who he was or who he wanted to be. He’d moved to Vegas from a stagnant economy and painful memories in upstate New York and continually struggled with too many choices. Should he plan for the long haul in Vegas? Spend life on the road in a motorhome Kerouac-style? Build a house in Montana? He already had nursing licenses in 16 states. They were easy enough to come by.
The only thing he knew for sure was the pain of the empty hole left by a 20-year relationship lost to cancer. Subconsciously looking for a perfect replacement to fill the void, Bill had been going through women more often than he went grocery shopping. Literally.
“Okay, Mommy. So I date too much. At least I don’t depend on batteries. Just get your cash out so I can win it.”
Teresa scowled. Everyone else laughed as Troy reminded him he’d never walked out ahead and that Teresa didn’t need batteries because she was married.
“Yeah, whatever. To the poker table.”
“Hey T, you play that tourney at the Palms this week?” Tom asked to change the subject. “I was going to, but didn’t make it.”
“I did. Came in second for $750. Not bad for a $50 investment.”
“Hey, how come Tom gets the polite Teresa, and I get mean, angry mommy Teresa?”
“Because Tom is not a serial-dating jackass. Jackass.”
“That hurts.” Cue an eye roll from Teresa.
Drinks made, chips in a bowl, and pizzas on the way, they all sat down to play. Troy’s house didn’t have much character, all white walls, a couple of Walmart pictures. Even the furniture was rented. But at least he had a big screen TV, even if it wasn’t high definition. Everyone in Vegas had a big screen; being able to afford it had nothing to do with it. Everyone in Vegas was in over their heads.
“I’ll deal first, clockwise. Bill, how’d your interview go today?” Troy asked.
Everyone looked at Bill, trying not to look too interested.
“You guys really don’t want to know.” Bill stirred his vodka cranberry and avoided their gaze.
“You do realize we aren’t letting you out of here without the scoop, right?” Tom laughed. “We’ll beat it out of you if we have to. Well, Teresa will anyway.”
Bill knew he’d tell them but ignored them, sipping his drink, enjoying the tension.
“I’ll show you my newest tattoo if you tell us.”
“Show me your tits, and I’ll tell you.”
“I didn’t think even you would be THAT easy. I’ll show you one of them after you tell us.”
Tom and Troy stared in disbelief. Bill knew better than to push it.
“Not if it means another goddamn 16-gauge needle, T.” Last time Bill had joked about her “enhancements,” she’d started his IV with a trauma needle. He’d been too drunk to fight but not too drunk to jump out of his chair.
Teresa gave him the den-mother glare. He folded.
“Okay, okay. It’s about narcs being diverted.”
They all just stared at him. Troy had even stopped shuffling and hadn’t dealt the first hand.
Bill sighed. “Okay. They suspect someone used the diverted narcs in some cases of euthanasia. They think someone is killing patients. Regularly.” He paused. “They suspect mercy killing may have been the motive because all the victims were terminal. Apparently, all you pussies told them you watched the narcotic wastes, but I guess I didn’t get the memo about lying. So now I’m on the hot seat. Can we play now?”
He stood to refill his drink. “Deal, dude.” He didn’t look back at the poker table only ten feet from the kitchen but could still hear the bottle cap squeaking open, loud in the sudden silence.
Teresa was first. “Who? Why? How many?”
Another sigh as he stirred his drink. “Not gonna tell you who. I don’t really know why. Or how many.”
“I don’t fucking believe it. Murder? Right in our ER? That’s bullshit.”
Tom cleared his throat. “Settle down, T. We’ve all been there.”
“All been where, Tom? What the fuck does that mean? Mercy killing? Jesus Christ. Are you in on this too?”
“There’s nothing to be in on,” Bill said, defending him.
“Teresa, where did you get all this judgmentalism? You’ve never given that dose of morphine or Dilaudid you knew would push someone over the edge?” Troy asked.
“Fuck no, I haven’t. You of all people, Troy. I can’t fuckin’ believe this.”
“Does this mean I’m not seeing your tits, T?”
“Fuck you, Bill.”
“That would be more than you promised, but okay.”
Pushing her buttons was usually Bill’s way to defuse a rant. It wasn’t working. He’d never seen Teresa this upset.
“You can’t joke your way out of this, Bill. This is serious shit and makes me seriously wonder about you.”
“T, I haven’t killed anyone. But are you saying you’d let someone spend their last hours in pain? You wouldn’t medicate till the moaning stopped?”
“No, Bill. Ten respirations a minute, that’s the morphine protocol. That’s what I go by. If they’re still moaning at ten, tough shit.”
“Damn, Teresa. I get your love of protocols, but this moral high ground is depressing. You stand there and watch your cat or dog die of cancer? Or get hit by a car? Or do you take them to the vet to be put to sleep?”
Still at the counter, Bill sipped alternately from both drinks. Teresa stood behind her chair, hands on hips. Tom and Troy buried their faces in their hands.
“Of course I have them put to sleep. Are you comparing pets to people? Would you have your grandmother put to sleep, Bill?”
Bill studied the ice cubes. “Yes. If it was what she wanted and a legal option. We put pets to sleep because we love them and can’t bear to watch them suffer. I never thought about it before, but yeah, we’re afraid to show that same love to our parents and grandparents.”
Flames shot from Teresa’s eyes. “The difference, Tom, is it’s called murder when it’s people. You don’t shoot heroin just because the effect is similar to beer. You guys are sick.”
“Don’t include me,” Troy muttered. “I see both sides.”
A knock at the door. Two men bolted for the pizza, or maybe just an escape from fire-breathing Teresa.
“Never leave a man behind!” Bill yelled after them.
Finishing his second drink, Bill mixed another pair. “You need to spend some time working hospice, T.”
“Fuck you, Bill. You don’t get to play God. I don’t get to play God. Who decides who lives and who dies? Does it get easier every time? Do they have to be a certain age? Do they get your special gift if they piss you off? Come on Bill, tell us what certifications you need to be God.”
“Teresa, you play God every shift. If deciding who dies is playing God, then deciding who lives is too. The 85-year-old with cancer you feed artificially. The drunk with liver failure. The asthmatic suffocating. Fifty years ago, you might have died from a bladder infection. That’s us violating nature. We prolong people’s lives who would never have survived before with profound disabilities or terminal illnesses. We use science to extend suffering. Why not use it to end it?”
Tom, safely behind the kitchen counter with the pizza, nodded. “Helluva point, Bill. Teresa, no one’s playing God. These are people who are dying. If you can spare someone a few hours or a day of excruciating pain, would you really let them suffer for the sake of a protocol?”
“It’s not that simple, Tom. You know it. It’s about thousands of individual nurses making that call without oversight. We’ve all met idiots in this job. You want them making the call for you?”
Troy added, “There are idiot doctors too, Teresa. You don’t mind them making that decision?”
“That’s how the system is built, Troy. If you object, change it. Don’t just circumvent it.”
Bill still hadn’t left the alcohol’s vicinity. Was Tom slurring already? Hard to say. Bill gripped the counter, spoon in his drink, maybe his fifth. Or sixth.
“Teresa, no one argues we don’t have idiots. But we all stand by and watch people suffer who don’t deserve it.” Each word took effort.
“Your wife died at home, right, Bill? Did you kill her early?”
“Fuck you.”
“All right, enough. Jesus. I’ll call EMS and get you both psych admitted. We’ve been here three hours and haven’t dealt a single hand,” Troy said.
Teresa stood up in a huff, grabbing her things. “Next time. Lost my taste for it.”
The guys stood, wobbling. Gaping as she stormed out. After a long moment, they moved again.
“Damn those designer jeans look good walking away,” Bill slurred.
Tom shook his head. “You’re broken.”
“Should I deal now?” Troy asked.
Tom and Bill looked at each other.
“Or we could just get strippers?” Bill offered. Barely intelligible.
Tom nodded thoughtfully.
A few hours and many drinks later, the three of them were snoring on the rented beige sectional, Star Wars Episode I playing on the 50-inch TV.
© 2025 Brian Fleig All Rights Reserved.
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