Remember Table Three? The Cards That Didn’t Exist
Remember Table Three? The Cards That Didn’t Exist
Table Three was always my favorite.
Not because it was clever.
Because it was bold.
I asked for something radical and deeply threatening to bureaucracy everywhere:
rules, manuals, guidance, training materials, checklists , anything explaining how decisions are actually made.
The dealer didn’t shuffle.
Didn’t stall.
Didn’t ask for an extension.
They looked me straight in the eye and said:
“Those don’t exist.”
Not exempt.
Not confidential.
Not redacted.
Nonexistent.
No manuals.
No policies.
No guidance.
No training.
Just raw law, descending directly from the heavens, perfectly interpreted and executed by humans who apparently require no instruction whatsoever.
A self-driving regulatory system.
Inspired.
Then came the bonus move the kind that really sells the illusion:
“If you have questions, feel free to email the deputy director.”
Which raises a small, inconvenient question.
If there are no cards…
why is there a dealer?
If everything is divinely self-executing,
why does anyone need a deputy director, let alone an inbox?
At that point, Table Three stopped being three-card monte and became something more ambitious:
pretending the sidewalk doesn’t exist.
So I did something unreasonable.
I asked a boring follow-up.
Not a challenge.
Not an argument.
Just clarification:
“To confirm, did your search include training materials, onboarding documents, internal checklists, review tools, or guidance used by staff?”
And that’s when the miracle happened.
Suddenly, the cards existed.
Not one or two.
An entire deck.
Training binders.
Application guides.
Intake checklists.
Review templates.
Presentations explaining how to review applications.
Cards everywhere.
Apparently, they were there the whole time.
They were just… shy.
So let’s update Table Three for accuracy:
Round One:
“There are no cards.”
Round Two:
“Oh. Those cards.”
Round Three:
Let’s all pretend Round One never happened.
No accusations required.
No dramatic conclusions.
No raised voices.
Just a simple lesson in how paperwork behaves when you stop taking the first answer seriously.
The cards didn’t appear because anyone confessed.
They appeared because someone asked where the table was searched.
That’s not activism.
That’s inventory control.
And once again, the paperwork did what it always does when left alone long enough:
It contradicted the dealer.
And that’s when Table Three stopped being a trick and started being a blueprint.
Because once the cards hit the floor, you realize something important:
Table Three isn’t its own game. It’s part of the house.
A house of cards, to be specific.
No fire.
No wrecking ball.
No dramatic takedown.
Just a bright breeze of truth.
One or two open-records requests.
A polite clarification.
And suddenly you can see which parts are actually structural…
and which ones were just leaning on silence.
The paperwork didn’t just answer the question I asked.
It answered questions I hadn’t gotten to yet.
Not because it wanted to.
Because paper remembers weight.
That’s the thing about houses built on procedure instead of honesty:
you don’t have to push very hard.
You just have to open a window.
Should we open a window?
