Starbucks and the Gambler
Moshe and Mordechai sat in Starbucks, nursing their lattes and admiring the barista. Long blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, a petite shiksa nose, and a cute little rear—she was the full package. She was the reason they crawled out of bed in the morning, the highlight of their day.
“She’s a dead ringer for Sophie Cunningham,” Moshe whispered, invoking their favorite WNBA star. From that day forward, she was simply Sophie. And Sophie was the reason two old lechers were willing to shell out five bucks for a cup of Joe.
Over the hum of milk steamers and conversation, Kenny Rogers’ 1978 classic drifted from the loudspeaker: The Gambler.
Moshe and Mordechai perked up. When the chorus came, they couldn’t help themselves.
You got to know when to hold ’em, know when to fold ’em…
Their voices rose, off-key but joyous. Sophie rolled her eyes and gave the universal nod reserved for old guys doing dumb things.
…You never count your money when you’re sittin’ at the table…
When the song ended, Moshe leaned over. “You think Bibi knows the lyrics to The Gambler?”
Mordechai chuckled. “Of course he does. Song of his generation. And he’s been gambling his whole political life. I bet he knows every word.”
Moshe stirred his coffee. “Well, I’m starting to think he’s holding his cards way too long. Doesn’t seem to understand the cost of not folding.”
“True,” Mordechai said. “After two years, no real tactical risk-benefit analysis. Time to take his winnings, cut a final deal, and leave the table.”
“Do you think he’s breaking Kenny’s rule? Counting his money while he’s still playing?”
“He’s sitting on a mountain of chips,” Mordechai said. “If he’s smart, he cashes out now. Goes home. Counts his blessings before his luck turns.”
The two men nodded in agreement, drained the last of their lattes, and rose to leave. They took one last look at Sophie and silently prayed that Bibi, like any good gambler, knew when to walk away.
