“So my kid tells me the other day, she wants to be a sommelier.” Pete lays down his cards. Three jacks. I don’t know how he does it, but he’s been drawing jacks all night, at least a pair and usually three or four every hand. Every. Hand. That shouldn’t even be possible, should it? And it’s not like he’s hiding them up his sleeves—he hasn’t worn anything longer than a cut-off since ninth grade.

“What the hell’s a some old egg?” David—never Dave or Davey, mind—asks as he throws his cards on the table in disgust. Three fours. Yeah, I don’t blame him. We’re all a bit disgusted with Pete tonight. Thing is, he almost never has a streak like this, so I can almost forgive him for it. Almost.

“No, he said smelly-ier,” Steve corrects. He’d already folded—as usual—so no dramatic reveal for him. And knowing the way he plays, he might’ve had a full house or a straight flush when he did. He doesn’t care—for him, it’s never about the winning or the money. Just about hanging out.

God, I’ve missed this!

“That’s, what, one of those people who uses their nose to sniff out stuff, right?” Steve continues. “They work in perfume and all that?”

Pete shakes his head, raking in the chips scattered in the middle of the table. “You’re all idiots,” he declares, which is pretty funny coming from him—the highest degree he ever got was the fifth, that time he got pulled over for driving under the influence. He tried telling the cops he’d just found religion and was under God’s influence. They didn’t fall for it.

But now he’s all Mr. Educated when he says slowly, like he’s talking to a preschool class, “A sommelier is a professional wine steward.”

“A what?” I already tossed my cards down as well, but they didn’t make the same impression as everybody else’s. Probably because I’m not really there—the whole “stuck here at the Matrix” thing. And much as I tried, I couldn’t convince Tall that bringing my buddies out for Poker Night was a good plan, security-clearance-wise.

Thank God Ned came to my rescue!

This holographic rig might not be exactly the same as sitting there, breathing in Pete’s second-hand smoke and alcohol fumes and chowing down on pizza with them, but it’s as close as I’m gonna get for now.

Ned even set it up so there’s a little scanner in place at my seat. Whoever deals just has to make sure my cards wind up on the little glassy plate there, and the scanner sees them and creates holographic representations at my end, which I can fan and fold and even toss down like the real deal.

Like I said, as close as I’m gonna get for now.

We used to play at least once a month, before I left (and if you have no idea what I’m talking about, go read my first book, No Small Bills. It’ll fill you in). We’ve been playing for years—I knew Steve from college, and Pete from back when I was growing up, then Steve met David at work and invited him to join us. We’ve got two other members, Dan and Russ, and every once in a while we invite somebody new to sit in for a night, but the four of us were the regulars. This is the first chance we’ve had to play since, and it almost brought tears to my eyes how fast the three of them jumped at the chance when I called and explained how I’d only be there as a hologram.

“As long as his money’s real,” David declared. Yeah, warm fuzzies all around.

Anyway, Pete’s explaining, “a wine steward. Somebody who knows all about wine and helps you choose the right one for your meal.”

I scratch my bill. “So this . . . Somalian goes to dinner with you and tells you which wine to get?” That actually doesn’t sound as crazy as I thought. I never have any clue about that kind of stuff. Usually I just get a beer, or JD, or something like that. But wine? There’s red, white, and blush, I know that much. Beyond that, I’m lost.

“Sorta,” Pete agrees. “Though Lila tells me most of ’em work for fancy restaurants. That way when somebody comes in and doesn’t know enough about wine themselves, the sommelier can help them pick one that’ll go with their meal.”

And one that’ll cost more than some cars, I’m guessing, but I don’t say that out loud. I think all this training in tact is starting to pay off!

“So, how’d Lila come up with this?” I ask instead. I’ve met Pete’s daughter a bunch of times, which isn’t surprising since we were still in high school when he had her. But she’s a good kid, really—smart, sassy, confident, and willing to work to get what she wants.

In other words, nothing like her old man.

“They had a job fair,” he tells me. He’s shuffling the cards while he talks, and passes them to David to cut. David does, taking only the top card and sliding it to the bottom—a classic dick move—before handing them back. A chorus of “Dick!” follows, and he just gives us that smug little smile.

It’s funny, with his pressed long-sleeved shirt and tie even on weekends—hell, even in summer!—and his neatly combed hair and those little glasses, you’d think he was the biggest Poindexter on the planet. Then he opens his mouth and the foulest things you’ve ever heard come gushing forth, like his piehole is a direct line to the deepest, darkest, filthiest sewer you’ve ever imagined.

The first time Steve brought him to a game, we all stared like he’d gone nuts. This guy? Really? Then David let loose. We all just stood there, stunned, for at least five minutes. After that, there was no question that he was one of us. Hell, most of the time it’s a question of whether any of us can keep up with him!

But back to the topic at hand. “A job fair?” I ask. “At school?” Lila’s a senior in high school. Gets top grades, too, as Peter is always happy to tell us. Like I said, a good kid. “And one of the options is to become a wine steward?” I snort. “Where was this when I was in school? I’d have gone into alcohol if I knew it was a profession!” Not counting running a still like my cousin Remy. That’s a career, sure, but you can’t exactly report it to the IRS. On his taxes he puts down that he’s an out-of-work chemist.

“I know, right?” Pete agrees. “I remember we had the cops, the fire department, the construction company, the grocery store, the bank, a landscaper, a teacher, and some guy who wouldn’t tell us what he did and just asked weird questions.” Yeah, now that he says it I remember all of those, too. Especially that last one. He wore a black suit and sunglasses, even though the job fair was in the school auditorium, and he asked things like “do you enjoy travel?” and “do you consider yourself difficult to surprise? Are you easily thrown off track?”

I’ll have to ask Tall about that, next time I see him. I hadn’t realized it then, of course, but looking back now I’m pretty sure that guy was a MiB looking for agents.

Which is pretty funny, considering how disgusted he got with my answers. Sure, I like travel, especially if somebody else’s paying for it. No, I’m not easy to surprise—hey, what’s that over there? And yeah, I’ve been thrown off Track three times now. Coach keeps letting me come back because I’m the best sprinter he’s got, but then I get drunk before a meet or get caught in the girls’ locker room—hey, they invited me!—or run backwards just ’cause I think it’s funny, and off I go again.

Come to think of it, most MiBs still look at me like that. So I guess not much has changed.

“So if you’re into wine you should become a sommelier?” Steve asks as Pete deals. We all scoop up our cards. “What’s the game?”

“O Canada,” Pete answers. “DuckBob’s bet.” We always do dealer’s choice—as long as it’s a five card, seven card, or Texas Hold’em variant, you can call it. Even if you have to explain it. And the later it gets, and the more we’ve had to drink, the wackier the games. O Canada’s pretty simple, though, standard seven-card stud with sevens and eight—hockey sticks and snowmen—wild.

And I’m staring at a seven and an eight as my hole cards, with a ten showing. Not too shabby.

“How’re kids gonna know they’re into wine at that age?” I ask. “Check.” Doesn’t pay to let on what I’ve got by betting so early. Besides, David’ll bet. He always does.

Sure enough, he tosses in a dime. Yeah, we play low-stakes. That way we don’t feel too bad about taking each other’s money.

Everybody’s actually considering my question, though. Which is rare. “I didn’t even try wine until college,” Steve admits. “And then it was just Mad Dog and Thunderbird.” He doesn’t have to tell me! That’s how we met, each of us stumbling drunkenly across campus and literally bumping into each other, then having to lean against each other to keep from toppling over. We decided it was safer to walk back together—we were in the same dorm, as it happened—and that was it, instant buddies.

“Yeah, Lila’s got me trying wines now,” Pete admits, “with names I’ve never even heard of before. What the hell’s a Rioja or a Brunello or a Grenache? And how’s she know all this at her age?”

“She must be sneaking out to sample glasses at some fancy restaurant,” I tell him. “Oh, or she’s hitting the wine bars when she tells you she’s at a kegger. Sneaky little minx.” There’s actually a ton of wine bars out on Long Island, because there’s a surprising number of wineries out there. And in upstate New York, too.

“Right, what’s wrong with beer and vodka and whiskey?” Steve wants to know. “They not good enough for her now?”

“You can’t be a sommelier with that attitude,” I tell him. “They’d have pegged you right off at that job fair. Beer and whiskey, you’re only fit for fireman or bartender.”

“Not a stockbroker?” he practically whines. Steve always wanted to be a stockbroker. He tried day trading once. Once. I asked him what happened, afterward, and I swear his whole face fell before he answered, “I got broker, all right.”

“I think that’s more scotch and soda,” David replies. He’s in finance, but on the planning and raising side—he works for a big not-for-profit, helping them plan fundraisers and secure donations. He does beer and scotch a lot himself, come to think of it.

Which gets me thinking. “What if they could look at your drinking habits and tell what you should be?” I suggest, studying the two new cards I’ve been dealt now. Another ten, giving me four in all, and a five. “Like, okay, they say Lila likes wine so she should be a sommelier, and Steve likes whiskey so he should tend bar, and Russ favors those well drinks with the little umbrellas in them so he’s perfect where he is”—Russ is in advertising—“and so on? Never mind taking aptitude tests, tell us what you drink and we’ll tell you the perfect job for you!”

“How would that even work, though?” Steve asks. He’s got a pair of sixes showing, and four to a flush. “First off, what school would ever allow that?”

“They would if it was a licensed program,” I argue. “If the school board certified it and there was a teacher or something involved. Maybe a mixology professor.” That’s fancy talk for “bartending instructor.” I took that course once, in college, along with half my frat. Mainly so we could impress girls by being able to mix silly and highly suggestive drinks for them. Sex on the beach? Yes, ma’am!

“Utter crap,” David declares. He’s showing an eight and a queen, but he’s got the matching ten and ace so he could be shooting for a royal flush. If he’s sitting on either the jack or the king. “Even if the school said yes, it’s ridiculous. What you drink doesn’t relate to your job.” We get the next round of cards, and I’ve got a pair of fives showing. So I’ve got four tens or four fives, either of which is a good hand but not brilliant, especially not in a two-wild-card game. At least Pete draws a three, though. No help there for his fancy jacks.

I’m surprised when Pete defends my idea, though maybe I shouldn’t be—defending my crazy schemes has practically been his life’s work. “Why not? You drink like an uptight prick, and that’s who you are, and that’s the kind of job you have. Steve drinks like a wuss who’s just trying to fit in, and that’s him to a T.” He’s showing a jack—of course—and an eight. Dangerous, given his luck so far tonight.

“And what about you?” Steve snaps—I guess that “wuss” comment hit home. “What does it mean when you drink that cheapest crap available?”

“That I’m a cheap bastard,” Pete answers bluntly. “Which is why I’m in construction.”

I’m amazed that this is making a bizarre kind of sense. I can practically see it now, a whole new job placement scheme. Panels at every school, with a teacher or professor alongside a bartender and maybe a doctor, just to be safe, as each kid comes in, goes through a whole bunch of different drinks, says which ones he or she likes the most, and that tells them what the kid should do as a career. It’s brilliant!

“Hey, wait, though,” Steve objects as Pete deals the last round of cards, face down. I draw another five to match the two I had face up, which means I’m now sitting on five of a kind. Bazinga! “I hated carrots as a kid but I like them now.”

“Good for you,” I tell him. “Carrots are good for your eyes. So?”

For once, he won’t be distracted. “So, tastes change. I bet drink tastes do too. How’s that gonna work? You may hate scotch when you’re seventeen but love it by the time you’re thirty.”

Damn, I hate it when he makes sense. Good thing that isn’t often.

Fortunately, I already have an answer. “You have a doctor on hand, too,” I counter, revising the reason for medical aid on-site. “Somebody who understands how the body changes over time, and how the taste buds adapt. He can tell you what your seventeen-year-old response’ll mean for your thirty-year-old self. It’s like predicting the future through booze!” I’m starting to get excited, though I think it’s only half because of this and half because I’m about to hand Pete his ass in cards. “I bet a buck.”

That pauses the conversation for a second—a buck is a big deal in a low-stakes game. Steve folds, of course. Wuss. David stays in, which is fine—even if he got the royal, my five fives’ll whup his butt. Pete raises. Raises! Hey, that’s fine—more money for Poppa!

“There’s just one problem,” David points out as I call Pete on his bluff, and he does the same.

“Oh, yeah? What’s that?”

David smirks again. “Try convincing a school board that you should get an entire class full of underage kids drunk in order to point them toward their optimal career paths.” He lays down his cards. “Royal flush.”

Son of a—! Not the cards—I’ve got that beat. But he’s right. They’d never go for it. Hell, the parents’d lynch ’em just for suggesting it. “Damn.” He starts to reach for the chips, I guess thinking I’m talking about his hand, so I quickly add, “Not so fast there, hoss.” I lay mine down and watch that smirk get wiped away. “Five of a kind.”

At least I’ll have something to show for the night’s brainstorming.

But just as I’m enjoying my victory, Pete laughs. “That all you got?” he asks. Then he tosses his cards, one by one, onto the chip pile. The jack and the eight we already saw. The three and a nine, unsuited.

A seven.

And two more jacks.

Five of a kind.

Only, his five jacks are a whole helluvalot higher than my five fives.

Unfriggingbelievable.

“What about your drinks?” he says to me as he’s raking in the dough. “Rum drinks, beers nobody’s ever heard of, and frilly drinks with a thousand ingredients that you just think sound like fun? What is that, somewhere between a beachcomber and one of those guys who goes off exploring uncharted regions just because he can? And you’re a cube-monkey, so how’s that fit?”

I look around me, at my ice-crystal computer and my living, moldable couch and the rest of the Matrix building, here in the center of the galaxy. Where I wound up after saving the entire universe from alien invasion.

Only, I can’t tell them that.

“Fine,” I say instead. “I guess you’re right. Just shut up and somebody deal.”

God, I hate Poker Night.