The Poker Project (playing and writing about poker in the U.S.)

thanks for the heads up! I'm severely underread when it comes to King, but I did get around to reading two of his Bachman books, The Running Man and The Long Walk, and TLW is my favorite of all his stuff I've read (apart from On Writing, which I don't think is a fair comparison). Eager to see how it's adapted to the screen. I agree it's a big challenge to capture interiority the way that a novel can, which is partly why I feel like Small Things Like These didn't work as a film, but King's books do have a lot of action so maybe it'll translate well.

Money Saving Coupons

The guy in front of me in the security line is dripping in bling. Glittering silver teardrops on his whitewashed blue jeans, glittering silver watch, glittering silver bracelet, glittering silver pinky ring, glittering ice in his ears. He heads to the craps table, I head to the cardroom.

Floorman Troy asks me what’s happening. I tell him that what’s happening is that I’m hopping in today’s donkament.

“You gonna take it down?”

“Unlikely,” I say, “but that’s the goal.”

I hand Chip Runner Lajuana two blacks and my player’s card, she validates my parking and hands me my seat assignment—Table 18, Seat 9.

Nine minutes to shuffle up and deal. I hustle to the bathroom for a quick piss, fill up my water bottle. As I’m lingering on the cardroom’s fringes, scoping out the lone $1/$3 game that’s filled with the usual day regs, a guy whose name I can’t remember come over and greets me warmly with a handshake, says it’s great to see me, asks how I’ve been, tells me about the bar games at Cleary’s on Tuesdays and Moonshine on Wednesdays, I’m nodding along but for the life of me can't recall his name. How many fiftyish white guys in John Deere trucker caps are there, anyway? Too many for me to keep track of, it seems. We shoot the **** for another minute or two, and then Mr. Forgotten and I take our seats—almost right beside each other, it turns out. He loads up an EPT stream on his phone and adopts a pose of stony seriousness. That’s the vibe on this late Saturday morning: three tables of middle-aged men in various poses of somber concentration. I count my chips: ten blacks, two purples, eight orange, one silver. 15k total. Can’t remember the last time I’ve played a donkament. Early this year, maybe.

At 11:15 sharp Floorman Mel, a big tall friendly industry veteran, announces shuffle-up-and-deal.

At the end of the third hand, Dealer Nga accidentally knocks my stack over as she pushes the 8 seat the pot. She apologizes, I tell her no worries, now I get to restack them.

“It’s almost like you won a pot,” she says.

“Almost,” I say.

The 8 Seat, a fiftyish hoodied-up Dodgers fan with a Desert Pines Las Vegas chip that he uses to cap his cards, is playing every hand. “Gotta put your gray chip out front,” Nga explains. He moves it out from under his stack of oranges so that it’s in full view.

Waiter Terry swoops in at 11:21, expertly taking orders, coffee, beverages, cocktails. Seven-Nine of diamonds from middle-position: fold. Typing up these notes ****s me up. I’m playing tighter and paying less attention to certain things—stack sizes, betting patterns, timing tells, any strategic info that I might use in order to extract chips and pulverize souls. Even so, I don’t put my phone away.

Two limps, Ace-Queen of hearts in the big, I bump it to 600, the only caller is Seat 3, a fiftyish white guy in a purple t-shirt with a hangdog face that suggests his life is one long bad beat. I win a small one.

“Next hand,” Dealer Shenia tells Nga at 11:30.

Mr. Forgotten bets flop and turn and jams river, gets called by Seat 3. “I need an Ace or a Nine,” the purple-shirted hangdog says as he stands up. No Ace or Nine. He grabs his Coke and heads out, checking his phone as he leaves.

Shenia sits down, adjusts her chair. “One and one?” she asks, and the table nods.

A new player takes the 3. She’s got a fern tattoo on her right bicep and a pink teeshirt of a smirking kitten sporting a gold crown. She’s the only woman in the 34-person field.

“Oh no,” I say, as Bread Truck 2.0’s little brother takes the 2. “Why’d you seat him here?” I ask Mel.

“Sup Junior,” Mr. Forgotten says.

“Bad table draw,” Junior says, nodding at me and Mr. Forgotten with a grin.

Blinds up to one and two, the Dodgers fan puts in two 1K oranges, tries to take them back but it’s too late, Junior calls on the button. Flop Ten-Three-Six, check, Junior bets 1,500, call. Turn King of hearts, check, Junior bets 4,500, call. River's another King, check, Junior instaships. “How much?” the Dodgers fan asks, looking suspiciously across the table. Junior’s in his late twenties with curly blond hair, wearing a cream-colored hoodie with a skull on the breast. One of those damn internet kids, shrewd and sarcastic. I’ve always liked him.

“7,000,” Shenia says, counting out Junior’s shove. The Dodgers fan folds and Junior shows pocket Sixes, easy game.

I get Aces and raise, everyone folds.

Jack-Three off: fold.

Towards the end of Level 2, we’re at five tables. Wild Bill rolls in, wearing thick-rimmed black glasses and a flat-brimmed black hat and a black windbreaker. Darlene’s on his right in her bad-girl shades and her flipped-backwards Eagles hat. She’s lawyer-smart and, depending on how she’s running, sweet or salty. Her twin is one table away.

“Blinds are up next hand, one-two-two,” Mel says.

Seat 6, a white guy in a blue collared shirt and a missing upper tooth, gets in Aces against Miss Kitty’s Ace-King and holds. “He’s got me covered, right? ****, it’s gonna be close,” she says. Our young floppy-haired dealer compares the stacks. She says, shaking her head, “So close! I’ll be back.” Sure enough, a few minutes later she’s at another table with a fresh stack and fresh hope.

“HELLO, WELCOME,” I tell Supervisor Tim at noon. His face falls—it’s an easy win for me: I haven’t been around much, so his guard’s down—and then he smiles, we fist-bump and talk about his upcoming summer working the WSOP in Vegas, he’s a little worried about all the rule changes. I ask him how many miles he thinks he walks every day, he says three miles over a ten-hour shift. Comfortable shoes are key.

Junior and Mr. Forgotten are chatting about a potential angle-shooter at the EPT Main. Junior gets into a pot and shoves river, gets a fold, drags a nice pot, shows another full house. “This game’s easy,” he says. They keep talking about the maybe-angler.

“Anglings part of the game,” our floppy-haired dealer says.

Tim announces the next blind increase: 200/400/400, a big jump, suddenly my stack’s only 35 bigs. He reminds everyone that if we unfortunately bust, we can still register until the end of the first break.

King-Queen off UTG, I make it 1K, the button calls, Seat 8 calls in the big. Flop Jack-Ten-Eight with two hearts, action checks through. Turn Nine, Seat 8 bets 600, I raise to 3K, fold, call. River Ah, check, I bet 8k, leaving crumbs behind. Seat 8 tank shoves for less, I snap, he shows Seven-Eight off. “You weren’t scared of the flush?” Junior asks after Seat 8 leaves. “I would be terrified.”

Now I have 30Kish, I raise from the cutoff, Junior calls from the small, an oldster calls from the big. Flop Ace-Jack-Eight two clubs, check check, I bet small, Junior raises. “Respect,” I say, showing the 6h as I fold.

"I don't deserve respect," Junior replies.

Junior’s vacuuming up chips. He binks two pear on the river and cracks Seat 6’s Aces. Then on the very next hand, right before break, he gets Queens in against Six’s Eights and Seven’s Jacks and wins a huge one. He’s got around 100K—one of the biggest stacks I’ve ever seen at the end of registration.

On break, I ask Bill who Mr. Forgotten is. “Hotrod,” he tells me, and I instantly remember a hand we played years earlier, at the final table of this very donkament, when I check-jammed the turn with a combo draw and he heroed me with Ace-high and I binked and went on to win.

Blinds 300/600/600. Tim announces the payouts: 59 runners, 39 left, paying out six, $3,500 up top. “That’s a nice little prize pool on a Saturday,” Hotrod says.

Five tables condense to four, we’re back to nine-handed as two regs join us. Dave’s in the 4 with his slick thinning hair and a beachy GCP T-shirt. John, one of my old beeball teammates, is in the three with his black durag and green Nike hoodie and huge gold wristwatch, bouncing to some beat on his lavender Bose headphones. Darlene’s in the 6, suddenly I know everyone at the table, sitting here feels like coming home from college on Thanksgiving weekend and seeing old high school classmates at a house party, there’s the same jokes, the same subtle alliances and rivalries. Darlene tips Terry a redbird and pours a Mountain Valley Spring water into a big plastic cup with five limes; in her other hand she sips red wine from a plastic glass. “You ain’t bout this life,” she tells Junior.

John limps from EP, Hotrod limps on the button, I check the big with Jack-Deuce of clubs. Flop Ace-Seven-Deuce one club, checks to John who bets 1K, call, I call. Turn 8 no club, John bets again, Hotrod calls again, I fold. The river’s another 8, John checks, Hotrod bets 4,500 into 10kish and John instaships for some absurd amount—30K or so. Hotrod tank calls with Ace-Five off, John taps the table and he’s gone. “Turn that hand over,” Darlene says, pointing at John's mucked cards. The floppy-haired dealer flips over King-Seven of diamonds.

“I was hoping you’d call,” Junior tells Hotrod, “because he was shaking like a ****ing lobster.”

Time passes. Folding. Feeling the low-level anxiety of the ticking clock, the rising blinds (600/1,200/1,200), I’m down to 15K.

At 1:30 Dealer Vu arrives. He’s a short guy, with cropped black hair.

A new player, an Asian guy in a red jacket, shoves from the 5, Darlene calls for less, after everyone else folds I tell her that I folded her favorite hand, pocket Eights. It’s Queen-Jack vs Ace-King, the board runs out Queen-high. “Good job, Vu,” Darlene says as she leaves. Six-handed.

At 1:37, a fourth $1/$3 game opens in the main room. For a moment I consider digitally joining the waitlist but am certain I’d jinx myself and instabust.

A huge roar from the table behind us. Bill’s laughing and dragging chips.

Hotrod makes it 2,500 from the button, the small blind calls, I jam King-Jack and they fold. Next hand the Asian guy makes it 2,800, Hotrod calls, I ship Ace-Queen and get called by Ace-Jack, the board runs out clean. Blinds up to 800/1,600/1,600, I get the money in with Kings on a ten-hi flop against Ace-Ten and hold. Just like that, I’m up to 80K.

“Three for three,” Vu says to me quietly, with a smile.

At two, Dealer Thanh relieves Dealer Vu. He’s a big guy, with floppy black hair.

Second break. 21 players left, three tables, blinds 1K/2K/2K. Mel comes over with a crate full of racks, tells us he’s breaking our table, don’t put chips in your pockets.

Table 19, Seat 2, on Lucky Louie’s left. Bill’s in the 8, Hotrod’s in the 9.

Louie doubles through Bill. “He just beat the unbeatable man,” the one seat, a jolly oldster in a Huntington Beach sweatshirt, tells me. He points to Bill, says he was down to 300 chips. “I once did the actual chip-and-a-chair thing.” The oldster has a lovely infectious cackle. “Came back with one 100-chip and won the tournament. I had five straight hands where I had a King. I pushed all-in and hit a King every time.”

“Sometime that’s what it takes,” I say, and we share a cackle.

Louie busts after limp-calling Six-Nine sooted against the big blind’s pocket fives.

Blinds up to 1.5K/3K, I make it 7,500, Bill sticks in most of his 40K stack. I instafold, he shows two Kings, I tell him that I had a King.

2K/4K/4K, fourteen left, I’ve bled down to 32K. I get one through with Ace-Deuce off on the button.

“HELLO, WELCOME,” Tim says as he relieves Jackie in the dealer's box. I hang my head and accept defeat.

Hotrod limps UTG, I jam Ace-Nine sooted, everyone folds. “Just ‘cause Tim’s the dealer,” I say.

After he folds the jolly oldster says of his trashy cards, “I like to think of them as money saving coupons.”

Another hand. I look down at Seven-Three on the button as the small blind’s scampering to the bathroom, jam all-in, and the big blind tank-folds. “I almost called you. Weak Ace,” he says.

“Flip,” I say.

I jam all-in UTG, Bill calls for less on the button. “Does this scare you?” I ask, showing a four.

“I’m scared of the other one,” he says, showing two Sevens.

I show my other Four and lose. Down to crumbs in the big blind. Hotrod jams on the button, I call with King-Eight of spades and beat his Deuces.

The jolly oldster on my right minraises, I jam, he folds. “Bluff. No pair!” I announce, showing Ace-King of hearts.

On the final table bubble, Bill busts. No epic spin-up from crumbs. As I heading to the final table with 94K I’m thinking, LOL donkaments.

I take the 6 Seat. Junior’s two to my right, with heaps. We’re ten-handed. The big blind’s all in with crumbs, Hotrod’s all in UTG, Darlene’s sister’s all in from the small blind: Jack-Nine vs Ace-Jack versus Ace-King.

Darlene’s standing behind her sister sweating the board, which runs out Jack high. “They both got Jacks, and you put a Jack out,” Darlene says to Dealer Gary. “Make it make sense.”

Eight left. Junior raises from the button, I reship King-Ten sooted. “Doesn’t play any tournaments, and he knows to shove Ace-Four off,” Junior says. He folds, I tell him that I remember now: the last one I played was in December.

Action folds to me in the small, I jam Ace-Jack, the big blind folds, I table my hand and announce another bluff.

Seven left, stone bubble, blinds 4K/8K/8K, a bald oldster ships in his nub from early position, I reship with two Jacks and win a flip against Ace-Queen.

With five left and the blinds at 6K/12K/12K, there’s talk of a deal, but Junior wants to keep playing. He needs practice before Vegas. Action folds to him in the small, he limps, I check Queen-Three from the big, flop Ace-Eight-Deuce all clubs. He bets, I call with the Queen of clubs. Turn brick, he checks, I bet, mentally preparing to blast off on brick rivers, but he folds.

Four left: me, Hot Rod, Junior, and a quiet dark-haired rec in his thirties. Hot Rod doubles through Junior, evening the stacks, and suddenly there’s more deal-talk. We chop it for 2Kish apiece, and I wonder why I don't play more donkaments.

Bob's May Mini-Challenge
[8/50]

Nice writeup Ben and with 2 golden lines : "a fiftyish white guy in a purple t-shirt with a hangdog face that suggests his life is one long bad beat." and "I wonder why I don't play more donkaments.". Great stuff friend

If you haven't read The Stand you should definitely remedy that soon.

phrasing?

Thanks Dubn!

I haven't read any of his major novels yet. It'll happen.

My style is impetuous, my defense is impregnable, and my intentionality is discombobulating.

Spoiler

Show

Accidents

There's four ruined cars in the middle of I-10, but despite the trafficalicious carnage I make it downtown a little after five. After a short wait—enough time to carefully piss urine into a urinal and then fill my water bottle with water from the water fountain—I join a fresh $1/$3 in the middle of the room. I take the 3 Seat, Mr. Charles is in the 1 with his frumpy red flannel and coke bottle glasses. A portly out-of-towner takes the 8 but then, seeing us, he ambles over and sits between us. Chuck’s a known entity in the Gulf Coast poker scene: fifties white guy with a graying goattee, a Cleveland Indians hat, mesh gym shorts and a purple Southern Poker teeshirt. A cardplayer's cardplayer, in other words. We shake hands, he says he’s here for a doctor’s visit. “Steroid shot for my shoulder. Two years ago, I was in Tunica. There’s a pathway goin’ from the Horseshoe to the Gold Strike. The sidewalk’s painted on a downslope, and it was raining. My feet went higher than my head. Landed on my hip. Three torn tendons in my left shoulder, torn disc, massive bruising. I needed four surgeries.”

“You talked to Morris Bart yet?” Mr. Charlie asks.

Spoiler

Show

“I got Darlene,” Chuck says. I briefly scan the room—four $1/$3, lots of the usual faces. Our resident lawyer isn’t here yet, but she probably will be. The Wednesday donkament starts in an hour.

“Did yall have jackpot hands?” Chuck asks after the blinds chop the first hand. “That’s the only reason I’m here.” Turns out he’s hit three jackpots in this room, including a big one a decade or so ago. “I got forty grand off one, thirteen off the other one, and then the one that was my first hand on a Saturday night. I sat down in the 5 or 6 seat and was talking to a friend of mine, the cocktail waitress. I didn’t hear the dealer asking me if I wanted a hand, and the guy sitting next to me raps me in the ribs. ‘You want cards or not?’ ‘Yeah, give me a hand.’ Nine-Three offsuit, I remember it exactly: red Three, black Nine, I throw it away, turn around, and keep talking to my friend. A few minutes goes by and the whole table ****in’ erupts. So the whole reason that jackass got the losing hand was because he hit me in the ribs and I was dealt in. He got a quarter million dollars. And he only tipped the dealer $700.”

“Ida bought her a ****in’ car!” the buff Missippian dude on my left says.

“He walks out the front door, holding a pile of cash,” Chuck says, gesturing with his two burly arms.

“They didn’t give him chips?” I ask.

“He cashed out at the cage. I’m watching him on a front drive, a cop car pulls up, the window rolls down, and he tosses it into the car. I give him a look and he says, ‘it’s OK. My dad’s a cop, and I’m a cop.’ And I say, ‘Now it makes sense why you’re such an *******!’”

The stories keep coming. Chuck’s a witty chatterbox, personable and articulate, and I’m happy to hear them, but I’m also looking forward to quietly watching beeball in peace.

“‘Preciate your service,” the Missipian tells Mr. Charles, whose vet-hat reads All Gave Some, 68479 Gave All. They start talking about Nam.“I ain’t been ugly all my life,” Mr. Charles says, pulling up a photo of his young handsome self smiling somewhere in the jungle.

Dealer Mike, a pleasant southerner in his fifties, arrives at six and asks me if I’ve been behaving. “Trying to,” I say. “What about you?” As we’re greeting each other the 6 Seat, a reg who I once shared a meal with in the food court, looks at me and taps the table. We warmly greet each other after playing together for thirty minutes, I don’t know why it took us so long.

Miss Nikki takes the 1 Seat. As usual, she’s dressed immaculately in a floral beige dress with a brown shawl draped across her thin shoulders. She immediately oversets the Missippian, pocket Tens against pocket Eights.

Our table’s meat-locker cold. I’m regretting my decision to wear shorts, but at least I’m not so dumb that I didn’t bring a hoodie. I put it on and zip it up. “They used to give you a jacket when you made a Royal flush,” Mr. Charles says. Pulled atop his flannel is a Harrah’s Poker Room windbreaker. “They don’t do that anymore.”

Confirmed, I think to myself, although I lost mine long ago.

Dealer Niyah’s here at six-thirty. She’s young with frizzy brown hair and two nose rings, three rainbow bracelets on each wrist. “No offense, Charles, but she smells a lot better than you,” Dealer Mike says as leaves. As he gets up Mike pats Charles on the back, and they share a laugh.

“Yeah, he was right. You smell good, baby,” Chuck somehow non-sleazily declares.

“I’m trying to wake up," Niyah replies as she pitches us cards. “Need that energy drink.”

“Yall locals?” the Missipian asks us. “I am,” I say.

“I’m not, everybody just knows me,” Chuck says. We’re laughing some more. “I’m just wasting time trying to get a buyin for over there.”

The Missippian looks behind Chuck to the corner, where three tables are filling up with would-be donkament binkers. “What’s over there?”

“Tournament. Bounty tournament,” Chuck says. “I usually buy in late, but I bought in early to get those early punters.” He racks up and grimaces when he gets out of his seat. Rubbing his shoulder, he says, “this is why you don’t see me at poker tables any more.” We wish each other luck, and then he’s gone.

Bob's May Mini-Challenge
[11/50]

legit loled.

Love is Quiet

Today I avoid the highway and take St. Charles to Louisiana to Tchop. Slower but no accidents, I’m in by 5:10. Three $1/$3s and one table of $15/$30 Omaha in the corner. You can always tell Omaha’s running because of the tall towers of reds in front of the same cast of regs: John the Bookie and Roach Coach and Lady Di, gathering religiously every Tuesday and Thursday. I’ve never played with them.

I’m sent to Table 9, Seat 7 next to a good buddy who’s on his sixty-eighth-hour of a seventy-two-hour fast. We're catching up, folding hands, I order a green tea with lemon. One limp, I bump it up with King-Jack and get three calls, flop King-Six-Deuce two spades and the small blind, a chill-looking guy in his sixties with a glass of red wine and a Hawaiian shirt, bets some reds, I call. Turn Jack and he bets again, I call. On the Three of hearts river he checks just as Waitress Molly's brings me my tea. No whites to tip. I quickly reach into my wallet—no singles—pull out a five, ask for two back. I glance back at the board. Instead of reading my opponent's soul in order to calculate an optimal river sizing, I'm regretting that I panic-requested two bucks back instead of three. I slide out some greens, he snapcalls.

Miss Nikki’s in the 3 Seat, with turquise earrings and a turqoise necklace and a lovely emerald shawl draped over a turquoise shirt. On the river she pays off a hefty bet and gets shown two pear, she winces and mucks. “Was sure she had a high diamond,” the 8 Seat says as he drags the pot.

The guy on my left looks like a tan John Malkovich. Late fifties or so, mostly bald with gray stubble, cashmere sweater and orange shorts, wedding ring, pretentiously attractive in an endearing sort of way. On my way back from tossing out my green tea bag, I see him texting, I Love you so much, You don’t even know. Between hands he’s swiping and scrunching up his face in what appears to be amused confusion. I steal another glance at his phone and see he’s on an app called Tryst. I decide that I’m done glancing at his screen.

Malkovich and I talk shitty strat, show each other cards. He's a losing player who seems fine with losing. “I hate my hand,” he says, showing me Ace-Jack after he calls a pre-flop raise. He whiffs the flop and instafolds to a bet.

Dealer Frank arrives at six. There's a superreg in the 9 Seat, three empty racks are crowding his space, he places them atop the rakebox. Frank gently pushes the racks so they topple onto the superreg's cards, it's an A+ needle that only Frank can find.

A white-haired white guy in the 6 raises over some limps, I reray with Ace-Queen, only he calls. The flop comes Ace-low-low, I bet the flop and the turn and blast off on the river and fade the snap. As he’s tanking I take a sip of tea and mentally prepare to lose to Ace-King or two pear or whatever hand he might be nitrolling me with. Instead he calls with Ace-Jack, taps the table, and he’s gone. “Thought you were bluffing,” my buddy says. “You looked nervous.”

“I was nervous,” I say.

Bad beat: around seven I walk to the bathroom to piss urine into the urinal and fill my water bottle with water from the water fountain. Although urination proceeds successfully, a cleaning dude’s unhurriedly wiping down the water fountain while he swipes his phone. Fortunately my water bottle’s still half-full with water, so I head back.

Across the table Miss Nikki’s leaning back in her seat, staring into space as she reaches into her turquoise purse and pops something into her mouth—nuts, I think. Her nibble-staring goes on for ten minutes or so, just as the Nugs-Thunder game’s entering the second quarter. Tonight she’s been getting crushed, but she finally dubbles up with Jacks full against trip Sevens. “I had Queen-Ten,” Malkovich tells me as she drags the pot. “Open ended.” Well before Nikki's finished stacking, he's swiping again and scrunching up his pretentiously attractive face.

The truth is that I’ve failed to fully avert my gaze from Malkovich’s phone. I’m not actively snooping, but I also can’t unsee what I happen to see. At one point he was looking at a map, maybe AirBnB listings, and then he was playing a game, maybe Sudoku, and then he was texting someone, maybe his wife, maybe a Tryster, Love is Quiet.

Bob's May Mini-Challenge
[15/50]

Superstitions

Another leisurely drive down St. Charles to Louisiana to Tchop to Convention Center Boulevard, I hang a left into the Harrahdise garage, push the button for a ticket, wind up-left in my Honda CRV, I’m gifted a premium spot—on the third level, by the elevators—but I keep driving. It’s a superstition: I only park on a specific row on the fourth level or, failing that, on the fifth or sixth or seventh or eighth. I remember having a conversation with one of the old endbosses, an engineer-turned-grinder whose currency was logic, who told me that, if he had a good night he’d go slightly out of his way to park in the same place. What harm could it do?

I keep winding until I reach a near-empty Level 6, park in the corner a good walk from the elevators, take the stairs down (another superstition?), cross Poydras and enter through the St. Peter’s entrance. Some pop song is being piped in through the ceiling. It occurs to me that there’s never not music playing here.

I reach the cardroom a few minutes before five, I'm second on the list, four $1/$3s are going and one $1/$2 PLO in the back corner. Minraise, a salty-smart supperreg who sometimes meets me at City Bark to walk our beloved fluffballs, asks from his seat if I’ve been out of town or busy with end-of-semester grading. No and no, mostly I’ve been trying to enjoy the city before I head out of town for the summer. “April and May are good months to be here,” I say.

“Not really,” he replies. “April, maybe. May not so much.”

“Yeah, we’ve turned the corner,” I concede. Outside it’s eighty-eight degrees. “At least it’s a good time to be in the cardroom.”

“No it’s not.” He checks his cards and flicks in two reds. “There’s nothing worse than playing $1/$3 and being down fifty bucks.”

“Nothing?”

“I wish I was down $500. I need the pain so I can feel alive. That’s what Nine Inch Nails said, right?”

He bets another ten and ships a paltry pot. Darlene comes up to me in camo yoga pants and an Eagles bucket hat, cucumber-cool as usual, asks if I’ll take Zelle for cash. I tell her I only have Venmo, she frowns, asks if I’m on the list, I nod. She says, “I’ve been playing barracarat. I’m hooked on baccarat.”

“Uh oh.”

She congratulates me on chopping last Saturday’s donkament, I congratulate her on chopping Monday’s. She tells me the Beau bumped its Saturday buyin to two-fiddy, first place last week was seven gees, she might drive out tomorrow. She wanders away, back on the hunt.

Ten minutes and I’m in a fresh $1/$3 right by the sportsbook, I take the 3 Seat, the lineup's nothing special. In Seat 1, a tight-jawed Black oldster wearing a Negro Leagues ballcap. An empty 2 Seat. In the 3's a white-bearded Gandalf in street clothes. In the 4’s an Asian youngster, in the 5’s a beshaded baller with a plastic-wrapped stogie in his mouth, in the 6 is a Teewolves fan, in the 8’s Jackpot Gwen, in the 9’s a margarita-sipping redhead.

Gwen and I reminisce about the old days playing LOLimit, I ask her when half-and-half’s running these days (Tuesdays, Thursday, Saturdays, Sundays), we swap summer updates about our time up north visiting family. A rolly-polly security guard strolls through the room with a walkie talkie perched gaudily on his shoulder. “Why’s he here?” Gwen asks with a laugh. “Whenever we don’t need them, they’re here. Whenever we need them, they aren't here."

Ten minutes after Dealer Mary gets the action underway, Miss Nikki takes the 2 Seat. She’s snazzily dressed in a Greek fishing cap and black suit jacket, but what really slaps are her striped candy-cane-colored trousers. She comes in hot, winning her first hand against the youngster with Ace-King. Then she beats him again, after an orbit he’s down to crumbs.

“Next hand,” Dealer Dara says at 5:29.

The redhead tells me, after not saying a word for thirty minutes, that he’s up four bucks. I don’t know what to say so I say, “Nice.”

He asks if I’ve seen a waitress. “That’s one of the perks of sitting here. Free drinks,” he says. We agree to keep an eye out for her.

Gandalf busts the Asian youngster, he’s gone.

Nikki rivers a flush against the stogie-holder's set.

The youngster’s back, rebuying with five twenties.

Use the minraise, I text Minraise before I go to fill my water bottle with water at the casino's only water fountain. At the water fountain I take a long satisfying watery sip. As I’m returning to my seat Mike G greets me warmly, we shake hands. “You’re a deep thinker,” he says, getting up. “Let me tell you about something that happened to me.”

Mike's seventy-five and fit, wearing a snug blue button-down with the top three buttons unbuttoned. A glittering gold cross dangles from his hairy barrel-chest. He starts by telling me that he’s spiritual but not religious, religion was created by humans, lots of bad things have happened because of religion, think of all the religious wars, take the Catholics and pedophilia. “I don’t pray anymore, is what I’m saying.” As Mike talks he gently touches my arm, my wrist, my shoulder, to accentuate an especially important point he’s making. “I volunteer with hospice. I’ve been seeing one of the patients for six years. His name's Jimmy. He can’t move. He can hardly communicate because he’s got cancer in the mouth. What’s today, Friday? So on Wednesday I go see him, as I do every Wednesday, and I find myself praying. I’m not praying like a Catholic. I say, ‘Please let him go. If you let him go, you’ll validate yourself to me.’” Mike squeezes my arm. “I get over there—first time it’s ever happened—Jimmy's alert, he’s aware, he’s on oxygen. I ask the nurse when they put him on oxygen. About an hour ago—when I was praying. So today I go back to see him and I say, ‘God, if you want to validate yourself even more, when I walk in, I want to see him completely at peace. I want to see him gone.'" He squeezes my wrist. "So then I walk in, and he’s gone!”

I smile. “So what does that mean? Are you gonna have a different relationship with God now, or what?”

Mike stares off into the distance, furrows his brow, says, “I’m not agnostic. I believe in God. I often have an argument with a good friend of mine who thinks she's an atheist. I’ll tell her, ‘I'm sitting outside in my yard right now, looking at nature and the universe. All this didn’t just happen.' And she'll say, 'Yeah, it did. Big Bang Theory.' And I'll say, 'Big Bang Theory? Who created the Big Bang?' And she'll say, 'Before that, everything was empty space.' And I'll say, 'Who created empty space?'”

Billy Mac comes over, looking paunchier and frailer than the last time I saw him, and asks Mike if he's gonna play $2/$5. "Yeah, I am," he says.

I give Mike's shoulder a squeeze, thank him for the story, wish him luck, retake my seat. While I was gone, disaster struck: the redhead's sipping a fresh margarita. "That's how it always happens. The waitress comes when you're gone," I tell him and Gwen. They shrug sympathetically.

Queen-Deuce off: fold. I check my phone and see Minraise's reply: How can I at the same table as ‘minraise mike’???

I reply with a laughing emoji. Over the decades Mike’s earned a reputation as a legendary nit. Heard yall talking about religious wars and I peaced out, Minraise adds.

The $2/$5’s starting behind us, the usual suspects stroll over, Mike and Minraise and Sedu and Young and Billy Mac and the Cardiologist.

At 6:20 Waitress Jenny's back, I order a green tea with lemon. One table away, Chiprunner Monica’s affectionately stroking a superreg’s gray-cornrowed head.

Gwen leaves, Gandalf takes her seat, Nikki wins another nice one. “She’s having a good day,” he says.

“She’s winning ‘em all,” I say, eyeing her stack. She's up to a gee.

At 6:30 a second PLO game starts in the back, Minraise moves again. At seven Chance rolls in wearing a gray sweatsuit and a glittering black-and-silver backpack with a shark’s snarling maw. He gives Nikki a big hug and a peck on the cheek, comes over to me for a bro-bump, straps his sharkpack to a chair one table away and settles into the grind. “Next hand," Dealer Brandon says.

“I didn’t see that purple chip,” the redhead says to me. I explain how at first you can only buy in for three bills but then, once the game gets going, you can match the table's biggest stack. “So you could add up that,” I say, pointing at a guy in a brown Costa hat in Seat 1 with four stacks of green and another gee in reds and blacks.

“I’ve always wondered about the psychology of that,” the redhead says. “Five stacks of reds versus one stack of greens.”

“He can answer all your questions, ” I say, nodding at Brandon. No response. Usually he’s up for some banter, but tonight he’s curt and probably, I think, in a bad mood.

“She does it again,” Gandalf says as Nikki cracks a set of Queens with Broadway. He turns to me. “You know why I just called in that hand a few minutes ago?” I think back to it: I raised with pocket Threes utg, he minreraised and got some calls, the board ran out with three Sixes, a Deuce, and a King, he just check-called the river with Aces full and beat Costa’s King-Five. I have no idea why anyone plays the way that the play, but I’m sure I’m about to get Gandalf's answer. “Because I was scared of him having four Sixes. I been losing left and right. You wouldn’t believe it.”

Nikki racks up at 7:30. It’s a delight to see her leaving with a nice haul.

Scratch that, she’s coloring up. She places a purple chip atop her stack of reds and a few blacks. I’m proud of her and worried for her at the same time.

Against all odds the redhead leaves a winner, up one fiddy after downing five margaritas.

Dealer Marlene’s here at 8. The Knicks are steamrolling the Celtics. I raise and everyone folds, I slide over a white chip atop my facedown cards. “Wait till you win, Bob,” she says, tossing it back to me.

“Take the money,” I say with another toss, and she does.

Bob's May Mini-Challenge
[18/50]

Post-Bustout Clarity

Only ten minutes to shuffle-up-and-deal, and I’m taking the elevator down with two oldsters, a woman pushing a walker accompanied by her daughter, and a man with pipe-cleaner legs and a hearing aid. Arriving on time is meaningless, but I still have dark thoughts of flinging them out of the way, George Costanza-like, in order to beat them through the security line. Now I’m chuckling to myself.

The door opens, the old man politely zooms out, I wait for the mother-daughter to exit, they pause to check the phone and I leave them in the dust. After clearing security the old man waits for a second elevator up into the main casino, I bound up the stairs two at a time and reach the playing floor and buy in with four minute to spare, easy game. Behind me Bread Truck 2.0’s fishing his player’s card out of his wallet, we fist bump, I hustle to the bathroom for a quick piss, fill up my water bottle. The old man's at the registration podium when I get back.

“At least they did better with the grays and blacks,” Dealer Shenia’s saying when I take my seat in the 1. It’s true, the new Harrahdise chips are more easily distinguishable, and the higher-denominations are oversized.

Spoiler

Show

Three tables in Donkament Corner are gradually filling up. “Damn, they’re bringing all the heavy hitters to this table,” someone says one table away.

“I don’t know if I remember how to play poker, much less spell it,” Salesman Charlie replies. He appears to have weathered the pandemic years just fine, the same full head of slick black hair, the same purple button-down tucked into a pair of blue jeans, the same green Jansport backpack strapped to his seat. Bread Truck 2.0 turns around, shakes Charlie’s hand. “You slumming with us before you head to Vegas?” Charlie asks him.

My table’s quiet, not much chatter, some faces I recognize but no one I know well, apart from the dealers and Floorman Darrell. “Let’s make it a good one, guys,” he says. “I’m hoping for fifty players today. Watcha think?”

“Bob,” Supervisor Danielle calls out, giving me a look. “It’s a little early for you.” I tell her that it’s a special day, I’m trying my luck over here, I might come next week, too, then I’m back in hiding.

“Coffee water cocktails beverages, any drinks?” Waiter Terry croons.

Shenia pitches us our first hand. Four-Six off in the small, fold.

Grim sports content in the morning. Cornhole, golf, tennis.

“These chips sound like quiet chips,” the 5 Seat tells Dealer Charles when he arrives at 11:30.

“They’re not broken in,” Charles says agreeably. “Give ‘em a little time, they’ll be more lively.”

Three full tables by quarter to twelve. Looks like a small field today.

Raise Queen-Jack of diamonds, only the small blind calls, I bet an Ace high flop, turn a flush draw and barrel, he folds.

At 12:30 Dealer Larry arrives, we’re talking about how cold it is. I learned my lesson and wore pants today. This morning, when I was selecting a teeshirt, it occurred to me that I'd chopped last week's donkament wearing my Scrim shirt. Maybe it was writing about superstition that got me thinking about how I’ve never given much thought to lucky shirts. That said, what’s the harm? I'm wearing it now, beneath a sweater and my trusty hoodie.

First break, I need to warm up. On the outdoor smoking patio customers are tapping slots and puffing away, of course Charlie’s here. He offers me a joint, no thanks, takes out a pack of Malboros from his breast pocket and alternates between the joint and the cig, I can barely see his face through the smoke as he tells me about his new business and hopefully becoming a Minion this summer at the WSOP. “I’ll be rooting for you,” I say.

“Root for two deuces,” he says, as he eyes his video poker machine.

15K coming back from break, blinds 300/600/600. Junior’s here now, flopping sets again and stacking people.

Limp, raise, two calls, I ship King-Queen from the small and everyone folds. Raise Queen-Nine, win one against the big blind, up to 23K.

Table 18 breaks, in comes an Argentinian soccer coach with heaps, we’ve played together before but it’s been a while. A shortie shoves all-in for 5K, I beat his King-Queen with Ace-Nine. It feels good to stack and count chips, I’m up to 27K.

Junior mins utg, the big blind shoves. “This is not solver-approved,” he says, sliding in his stack. “I feel like gambling.” His Jack-Nine of hearts is up against a pear of Ace-Queen, flop Queen-Eight-Deuce. “Tenball.”

“Bink,” Hugo, a superreg with a mischievous gleam in his eyes, says.

Turn Five, river Seven. No bink. Junior taps the table, heads off to a crawfish boil.

Raise Queen-Jack of diamonds, only the soccer coach calls from the big, flop Nine-Seven-Six with two diamonds and a club, check check. Turn King of clubs, check, I bet, he bumps it up, I tank-jam and get snapped by Ten-Eight of clubs.

“Damn, you gotta a lotta outs,” Hugo says.

There’s justice on the river: I don’t get there. I tap the table and take the walk of shame to the main cardroom and wonder why I play donkaments. I stare at the list, weighing options. Three $1/$3s are going and a fourth is primed to start. “Oh no!” Danielle says from the podium. I smile sadly and shrug.

“My money was on you, champ,” Darrell says as he scurries back to his post.

I sit at an empty table, typing up these notes. The belated recognition that I punted off my stack starts to sink in. Suddenly my empty table starts filling up, I’ve unwittingly sat in the soon-to-start 1$/$3 game, Gandalf’s here and so are three or four other white guys whose names I don’t know but whose faces I’d recognize anywhere. It seems like the universe is nudging me, softly saying, Play a little longer.

This is when I rediscover something about how I’m wired these days: there’s no desire to get unstuck or to redeem myself or to log hours for the sake of logging hours. The only desire (is it an undesire?) is to Not Play, to be anywhere other than here, **** superstition.

A gift: it’s not even two in the afternoon, and my favorite downtown coffee shop doesn’t close till four.

Bob's May Mini-Challenge
[21/50]

+1

GcluelesspissbottlenoobG

A situation arose a couple of weeks ago when I was traveling for several hours on a bus that, alas, did not offer the convenience of a piss room, thus potentially having to transform the water bottle into a piss bottle under the suggestion of my gf... I did resist the temptation though and, alas, the water bottle had to maintain its function of being (an empty) water bottle 🙄

You're a better man than Antonio

https://deadspin.com/poker-player-disqua...

Attack on Titan

“You coming from the office?”

Colin, the barista at my favorite downtown coffee shop, also happens to be a Harrahdise reg, we chatted last Saturday after I busted the morning donkament. No, I tell him, I haven’t been back, but I’m planning to clock in later this afternoon. I order an iced green tea, spend an hour writing and reading Billy Collins, walk three blocks down Gravier, slide into the cardroom a little after three, in Donkament Corner they're down to one table, I don't regret playing. I slide into a $1/$3 and instantly misplay two hands, or at least play them overpassively. Don’t iso pre, don’t checkraise flop, don’t bluff river, I’m turning into an Old Man Greentea.

Miss Nikki arrives at 3:45 in Seat 1 with a stack of reds and a stack of greens, reaches into her gold-colored Coach purse and takes out her Diamond card and phone and brown reading glasses. For all the hours we’ve played together, I don’t have a strong sense of her game, all I know for sure is she’s hemorrhaging money. She almost never raises pre, limps with 75ish percent of hands, sometimes bluffs but mostly tries to passively make the best hand, which we all know is a recipe for a slow bleed.

I bump it up with Aces over a bunch of limpers, everyone folds. Ace-Six off, I bump it up again, everyone folds.

A minute or two after Dealer Charles arrives at four, the lightskinned mustachioed superreg in the 1 Seat takes out his phone and pulls up an almost-Jackpot pic of his four Aces losing to a straight flush. “Lost with four Aces, and I didn’t get a penny,” he tell us.

“Why not?” I ask.

"Kicker didn't play," Charles says. Like all the dealers, he's wearing the standard Harrahdise uniform, solid black buttondown with a banded collar, name tag pinned beneath the WSOP logo stitched onto his breast pocket.

“He dealt it. He was the culprit,” the superreg says, looking at Charles.

For a few hands I force myself to pay attention to the spring-loaded rakebox, three or four or fives whites deposited into the casino’s coffers, relentless efficient extraction. Fiveish bucks per hand, twenty-fiveish hands per hour, five or ten or fifteen games running at a time—I'm not the best at back-of-the-envelope math, but that’s a lot of whites.

Dealer Hugh’s here at 4:30, tells me to watch Attack on Titan. “Perfect show. Really makes you think,” he says.

Battle of the biggest egos over here, Hungry texts me from the Big Boy’s Game.

Who’s competing with Bradley? I reply, swiveling in my seat. Our resident endboss is in the 1 Seat with heaps, chip-shuffling with a look of stoic misery on his tight-jawed face.

Turns out it's the 3 Seat, a young Indian sunrunner I vaguely know—probably a gambler, maybe a semipro. Bradley has pointedly rebought for at least another 10K to show the table which boi has the biggest roll. I find his masculinity so tedious

I mean at least at the table. I've heard he's nice away from the table

It’s brutal. Almost a parody at this point, I reply, along with a squinting-grinning face emoji. Yeah he seems fine away from the table

Nikki’s also a perennial seat- and table-hopper. Today she moves from the 9 to the 4 to the 8, as she’s getting situated on my left I spot her glittering gold-colored pushup heels and note that they match her Coach bag. I'm learning something new every day.

Bob's May Mini-Challenge
[24/50]

Day Off

I’m on Cherry Coffee’s patio early Sunday morning before the heat really kicks in, the birds are chirping, I'm scribbling in my Deljournal, Del’s sprawled out at my feet, taking up as much space as possible as usual, looking tuckered but content. She tweaked her paw yesterday and can’t go too hard in the paint, but she just had a nice romp on the baseball field across the street, lots of bellyrolling and sassybarking with the other fluffballs and pettable humans. “Gangster move,” one woman said after Del jealously swooped in and nuzzled another dog’s owner, claiming her for her own.

Before I started scribbling, I read a news story about the young man who bombed a fertility clinic. He was an anti-natalist and a pro-mortalist—not the same things, apparently—influenced by the philosopher David Benatar and his book Better Never to Have Been. I have no interest in hopping aboard the train of nonbeing, to be clear, but lately (over the last five years?) I can feel the pull of a certain disappointment towards humanity, all the violence and division, the incalculable suffering indifferently heaped upon animals, the environmental devastation, it really makes you wonder if the universe would be better without us.

A spotted black-and-white dog trots over with his owner, lots of eager circling and sniffing between the two pups, the owner goes inside for some coffee and returns with two treats, one for each pup, my almost-faith in humanity is restored.

Bob's May Mini-Challenge
[24/50]

Last session out, a guy about my age that I've played with for years sits down. The last time we played, he was explaining his belief (hope?) that eventually the only currency in the world will be love.

Anyhoo, after playing for about half an hour, he realizes his phone is missing. He frantically searches everywhere but can't find it, and swears he last had it sitting beside him on the drink table. He eventually gets someone to phone his phone, someone answers, and after a somewhat confused discussion, it turns out the two super old gentlemen who were playing earlier beside him at the table have accidentally walked off with his phone.

The two super old gentlemen return to the casino 20 minutes later, greet the man and return his phone, all smiles and handshakes and back slaps and laughs along with the sincerest of apologies.

It was nowhere near enough for me to help restore any sliver of almost-faith in humanity, but for him it was further proof that we are one step closer to a new currency.

GcluelessfaithlessnoobG

On a similar tangent - but definitely digressive af :p - I have just finished an episode of the Making Sense Podcast, hosted by Sam Harris and with the guest being his wife, Annaka Harris, on What if Consciousness is Fundamental? :

https://www.samharris.org/podcasts/making-sense-episodes/404-what-if-consciousness-is-fundamental

Sam Harris

Sam Harris | #404 - What If Consciousness Is Fundamental?

While it does not exactly make love as the currency of the world, it does dispatch Time and Space as our fundamental (visual) understanding of the physical world and makes Consciousness the most common denominator... Anyhow :p 😉 🙄

Spoiler

Show

by Dubnjoy000 m

On a similar tangent - but definitely digressive af :p - I have just finished an episode of the Making Sense Podcast, hosted by Sam Harris and with the guest being his wife, Annaka Harris, on What if Consciousness is Fundamental? :

https://www.samharris.org/podcasts/making-sense-episodes/404-what-if-consciousness-is-fundamental

Sam Harris

Sam Harris | #404 - What If Consciousness Is Fundamental?

While it does not exactly make love as the currency... See full post

Thanks for sharing, Dubn. I'd say I listen to one out of every four or so of Sam's podcasts, haven't listened to that one. I'll plan to check it out

In the Bullpen

In at 7:45, the latest I’ve started a session in a long time, which isn’t saying much. Bigger games tonight with the usual crews, a $5/$10 and a $2/$5 and two $1/$2 PLOs, didn’t know we have so much action in us. Five $1/$3s, I’m languishing second on the list behind a Diamond, imagining I’ll get in by eight or so.

Was a struggle to get in here, but couldn't come up with a convincing excuse to skip. Only two days left before I head for the hills.

Lamar’s playing PLO in the back, haven’t seen him in a long while, not that we’ve ever had a conversation. Vinny’s here too, as always, with his cropped gray hair, cargo shorts displaying toned tan calves. Is he one of those rare superduperregs?

A short Mexican black-gloved cleaning lady wanders the playing floor with a black broom and portable garbage. Hiding in plain sight.

Two more Diamonds, a friendly husband and wife, list-hop me. Same woman who gave me a comp at the Beau, I should really know her name, we smile and wave.

Fantasies of never coming back. Who would miss me.

I’m called at 8:05, at the podium I slide Chip Runner Monica a purple, Supervisor Stephen tells me he just listened to our podcast with

https://podcasts.apple.com/us/podcast/27-darrell-guillory/id1674014548?i=1000710591177

Apple Podcasts

#27: Darrell Guillory

“We asked him,” I say.

“He really likes bragging on himself,” Stephen says, his mouth twisting into an awkward smile.

Don’t we all, I think to myself.

Monica slides me a rack with three stacks of reds and some greens, sends me over to Table 12. “Don’t come over here,” Mike G says from his $2/$5 seat, giving me a fist bump. “You make me look short.”

I slide into Seat 8, my back to the sportsbook, with a nice view of the room. I like this table. A bunch of quiet men I don’t know.

Longhaired Asian younghead raises from UTG, the button flats, I reray from the small with Ace-Jack, they both fold. No Old Man Greentea today.

The balding white guy on my left has a peach-blue checked shirt and about $75 in front of him. On a Jack-high flop he commits his nub against another fiftyish white guy in Seat 2, turns out they’ve known each other for forty years. Jacks versus Queens, full dubble for the 9 Seat, he springs out of his seat and loudly claps his hand—a gross overreaction, in my eyes, but who knows what the money means to him, or what the feeling of beating his buddy is worth. “We BFFs again?” the 9 Seat asks, as he’s smiling and stacking chips, his buddy dejectedly shakes his head, says nothing.

“What am I supposed to do?” the 9 Seat asks no one. Then he answers, “Get that money! Just like Putt-Putt.”

Three limps, I bump it up with Eights, four calls, flop Ace-Eight-Six all hearts, how interesting. I get two flop callers, on a blank Six I bet again and they call again. River Four of hearts and the 5 Seat open ships, I fake tank for a minute and stack his King-Queen off with the King of hearts. More than a full dubble, gift wrapped.

Two hands later I raise Ace-King and get two calls, the longhaired Asian younghead and the Putt-Putt loser in Seat 2. I bet a King-high flop and bink another King on the turn and stack the Putt-Putt loser. “You done?” Seat 9 asks as his buddy dejectedly walks away.

“You’re taking all my players,” Dealer Frank tells me.

“It’s more you than me,” I reply. “Not hard to play trips and full houses.”

“I picked the wrong seat, that’s for sure,” the guy on my right says.

For a while I’m preoccupied with the pleasant task of stacking chips, separating the whites from the reds, arranging a too-large triangular chip-tower. Any more reds, and I’ll need to color up.

Things quiet down. The guy on my left, fifty or so with a black ballcap and black glasses and a black knee brace, tells me about growing up here in the nineties during the height of the crack epidemic. “The whole city was ****in’ nuts. Mind your own business and you were fine. But yeah, if you needed to do hard drugs, it was dangerous as ****. You hear too many stories, ‘well, I got in a car with somebody I just met and went down to St. Roch at three o’clock in the morning.’ Yeah, nothing good’s coming from that. Not in the nineties, and not today.”

Ashly, one of the few local endbosses who hasn’t left for greener pastures, comes over and greets me before taking the 3 Seat. He’s one of the good ones, one of the few pros who’s doing exactly what he should be doing with this one life we’re living. He’s waiting for PLO, obviously. After a quick twenty-minute layover in red chip hell, he's gone. “Good luck boys,” he says as he leaves.

Tap on my right shoulder, I turn and see no one. I look left and Dealer Brandon’s grinning at me. “I have a message to deliver for ya,” he tells me. “Hello, welcome.”

“That doesn’t count,” I say.

“It counts!”

At the podium I think I see Han, another local endboss, although I doubt my own eyes, I haven’t seen him in the room in ages, I don't even know if he lives here anymore. But yes, he's gliding over with a stack of blacks and a stacks of greens, it's most definitely him, he takes the 7 Seat. He’s wearing a white hoodie, a gold chain peeking out of a white teeshirt, and a white ballcap with the cursive lowercase letters, stfu.

“OGs,” he says, nodding at me and a sunken-eyed Russian in the 3 Seat.

“This is the bullpen for the PLO game,” I tell him. “Ashly was here for a little bit.”

All of Han’s actions are marked by understated casual efficiency—flicking in a green chip, deftly swiping his phone, chip-shuffling with his spindly brown fingers. About one orbit after he arrives, he squeezes a raiser and a caller to $60 in position, both players call. The flop comes with a Queen and two hearts, Han downbets and only an old white guy with $1,200 or so in front of him calls. Turn completes the flush, check, bet $265, call. River brick, check, Han tanks. Hand propping up chin, pursed lips, trace of a black mustache. An expression of wry world-weariness and a hint of gallows humor. After twenty seconds or so he slides in his stack of blacks.

“How much is that?” the old white guy says.

“Looks like he’s putting you all in,” Dealer Jeremy says. Without too much thought the guy folds, Han doesn’t show.

"Good luck, boys," he says a few minutes later as he racks up, just as Ashly did.

On my way out I get in line at the main cashier, there are different lines for different status tiers, naturally I'm with the other Gold peasants. A spot opens up at one of the cashiers and the woman behind me gives me a polite tap, beckons me to move things along, I give it a shot but the cashier waves forward a Diamond. "That's a shame," the woman says, after I explain how the tier system works. "We all lose money here."

Bob's May Mini-Challenge
[27/50]

On Saturday, I played in a room I had never played before in order to get a chip for my collection (up to 30 now). I've actually technically played in this particular casino before under it's two previous brands, but this was my first (and likely last) session under the new brand just to get that chip. The $1 chip only cost me $164, which I figured was quite a deal (having shipped my 6th loss in 7 sessions and now coming dangerously close to being on my first downswing since 2017).

The room is only an hour or so from the room I'm a reg in, so I wasn't too surprised to see a lot of familiar faces as well as some blasts from the pasts.

PaperFace was still playing, hadn't seen him in my room for probably well over a decade. I've never had a conversation with him. I have no idea what type of condition he has, but he has strips of paper / bandages all over his face / neck that makes him look like a partially unwrapped invisible man.

Played with an unknown who was politely semi-bargging about coming home from the WSOP the night before and was leaving to go back down there again the next day. Lol @ flying home to have one day off and then spending that day off... at the poker table? But I'll give him props. In my ~2 years of wearing a cap with a money bag logo on it to the poker room (cuz I think it's douchey funny in that environment), he is so far the only one who actually recognizes it for the music reference it is actually alluding too / not given me a completely blank stare when explained.

One of the dealers is a player in my room (you can't play in a room of the company you work for here). I was about to say "hey, so you're a dealer here!", but then kinda realized how stoopid that sounds. Still don't know his name and I couldn't make it out on his name tag.

But I was happiest to see Hoy. He was pushing 90 before the pandemic and I hadn't seen him since, so I assumed the obvious. But there he was, all 4'9" of him, hanging out in the other room and waiting to get into a game.

GcluelesspokerroomregsnoobG

A nice reminder that no one ever leaves poker. They just change rooms.

BcluelesscardroomregB

May Recap

We've reached Vermont!

Spoiler

Show