Are there any other kind?
Infinitely dense points.
The point of it all.
She nodded as she said it, and dealt me pocket Queens.
I felt a surge of euphoria. And it wasn’t just the cards. Here was a crowd I could relate to. I could let my mind and mouth run free.
I bet twenty bucks. I was in early position, but I had a good feeling. Besides, I wanted to project the right table image. Aggressive but selective. If somebody called me down, saw my Queens, even if I lost the hand I’d still have made a point. I make a big bet, I’ve probably got a hand. I could use that later, bluff a few pots.
As it was, Riverstreet raised me from the button. It was a pretty automatic call. The only question was whether I should re-raise. Feel him out. Anything other than a pair of Aces or Kings and I would be the favorite. If he came over the top on me, I could be fairly sure he had them, get out before I got in too deep.
I re-raised.
He just called.
The flop came all rags. I bet out again. Riverstreet took his time. Looked me in the eye. If he had a hand, he was doing a good imitation of someone who didn’t. He raised.
I went with my gut. I figured him for Ace King, Ace Queen, maybe a middling big pair like Tens. He was figuring me for the same, hoping to push me off the pot.
I re-raised.
He mucked his cards.
I’d made my point.
I’d tripled my stake in one hand. But then I lost a few. These guys weren’t amateurs. They weren’t averse to slow-playing a monster hand. Check-raising an over-optimistic middle pair. Varying their strategy to keep you off balance. Players. No doubt about it.
I came close to tapping out. Got lucky with a full house on the river to survive. Boat on the river. Maybe that’s how it got to be called a boat. Or how the river got its name. Which came first? It was hard to say. A boat to float you on the river.
The question seemed way too interesting. I was caught in a blur of beer and joints and laughter.
The beer was warm. I drank it anyway. Red plastic cups. Like you get at the ball game. I breathed the smoke. I had no choice. The room was thick with it. As the night went on my head got fuzzier. I folded a Seven Three off-suit in the big blind. Nobody had raised. I could have played for free.
Uh, you shouldn’t have done that, said the Dane.
The Dane was tall and blond and young and well-meaning. I could have, should have said, ‘Oh, sorry, didn’t realize I was in the big blind.’
But I didn’t. The guy irritated me.
Hey, I said, though I said it with a smile, hold’em is my game. I know what I’m doing.
If you knew what you were doing, he said patiently, you wouldn’t have folded. You could have seen the flop for free.
Yeah, well, fuck you, I said.
I meant it as a joke. Tough-guy talk. But it didn’t come across that way. He looked surprised, taken aback. I sank into my chair.
The flop was Jack Jack Six.
Oh my God, I said sarcastically, unable to stop myself. Why did I toss my pair of Sixes?
Sorry, said the Dane, contrite. I was just trying to help. I didn’t know if you knew the rules.
I’m sincerely grateful, I said. Really, I am. I appreciate it. But fuck you anyway.
I was on a roll.
After that I lost another pot or two. I played too loose. I didn’t want to seem a churlish guest. Maybe if they took my cash they’d invite me back next time, despite my bad behavior.
The cards started coming bad again. I couldn’t catch a draw to save my life.
Cold cards, they say. You just can’t hit a thing. When you do get dealt a pair, or a couple of nice connectors, Ten Nine suited, and you chase them to the river – correctly: there’s been some betting; you’ve got the odds – you know the deck will deal the other guy his card, not you.
That’s where the Zen comes in. The master of the game just flows with it. Okay. I’m here. The weather stinks. The beach is closed. My girlfriend left with Moe. Let’s see what I can salvage. Here’s a good book. A quiet bar. Chat up the waitress. Wait for my luck to change. Wait it out. It will end, like everything else. As sure as chickens come from eggs your luck will change. Just minimize your losses til it does. Take what the cold cards give you. Steal a pot or two. Don’t ask for more.
My stack dwindled. I tightened up. I didn’t play a hand for an hour. I started watching, taking notes.
It was Mike’s game, it seemed. He lorded it over the table. When someone breached etiquette he’d fine them. Five bucks for betting out of turn. Ten for gloating. The misdemeanor jar grew stuffed with bills.
The idea was to play one hand at the end of the night for all the misdemeanor cash. It was a lure, to those who otherwise might leave, to stick around until the dawn came through the window. If there had been a window. The saddest loser would hang around, for a shot at that last pot.
It was 2 or 3 a.m., I’d lost track, when the final hand came round. One hand of hold’em for a pile of crumpled beer-drenched cash stuffed in a peanut butter jar.
It wasn’t really poker, playing one hand for all that dough. Just really rolling dice. So much money had accumulated from the fines that it dwarfed most any bet that you could make. It didn’t matter what cards you had. I looked at mine. Jack Ten again, unsuited. Could be worse.
Two bets up front, the Dane re-raising. Normally I’d fold, but with that jar in view I wouldn’t dream of it.
I’d sunk a couple hundred in the game so far. I was weary and annoyed, upset that I’d let myself lose control. The Dane hadn’t spoken to me for hours.
The flop came Nine Queen Queen. Andrea went all in. Three Queens, for sure. She knew enough to know that bluffing wouldn’t work. What the hell. I pushed the rest of my money in. An open-end straight draw. I’d take the chance. No matter what the odds, and they weren’t that bad. With that much money in the pot it would be foolish not to try.
The rest all called as well.
Drunk Jake, who’d long before collapsed from excess booze and substances, lay sideways like a fetus on the floor.
I call, he slurred, although, seeing as he hadn’t been awake for at least an hour, he’d not been dealt a hand.
Everyone was in. We turned over our cards. Andrea’s three Queens. The Dane had a flush draw, clubs. The turn was a Two of diamonds-no help to anyone. The river came, and lo, the Eight fell. The Eight of hearts, not clubs. There it was. I’d made my straight. The Dane had busted out. The jar was mine. I leapt up. I crowed. I laughed. I felt a fool.
But there’s nothing like winning.
I stuffed the stash into my jacket pockets. I picked Drunk Jake up by the armpits, dragged him out. I flagged a cab. I managed to elicit just enough inebriated mumbling to figure out Jake’s address. Three blocks from my place. Convenient.
The cabbie smelled of cabbage and chipotle. He’d never heard of Jane Street, and didn’t speak a word of English. I directed him with gestures.
By the time we got there Jake had revived enough to say, Hey, let’s have a drink.
I’m not sure that’s a great idea, I said.
Oh, come on, he said. I had a good nap. Let’s party.
I looked at my watch. Almost four. I shrugged. What the hell. I was already fucked for tomorrow.
Come on up, he said.
Okay, I said. Just for one.
