The audience murmured. Every set of eyes raced over their cards, firm hands tapping them with their mutli-colored daubers when appropriate. Some bared their teeth, slapped the end of the table, cursed under their breath. Chris leaned against the wall and took slow sips of Dr. Pepper. Oscar stood next to him, exchanging glances with the group of girls across the hall, and Jay sat at the table in front of them, licking the nacho cheese off his fingers. “Quit that shit, Jay,” Oscar said. “You’re making us look stupid in front of the girls, motherfucker.” “Man, fuck them,” Jay said, sliding another goopy chip into his mouth. “I’m hungry.” “You always hungry.” Jay just shrugged and continued to chew. “B 11,” the old man muttered into the microphone. It looked like his lips tried to wrap themselves around the letter and number, but they stumbled out anyway.
