Just Poker Talk

[My flash drive with all my writing inexplicably died today. Luckily I backed up my files else where and only lost a few important pieces. When I was digging up my old files, I came across this poker story I wrote about two years ago. Here is part 1]

I sped along interstate 10, my truck rumbling over potholes as Mariachi music played on the radio. Almost all the channels were in Spanish. The others were white noise. It was not much worse than anything in English. Besides, the clash of sounds from the violins, guitars, harps, and trumpets playing at the same time were growing on me. I was starting to appreciate the speed and precision of the guitar riffs; a skill that I admire in guitar players. They came off as smooth ripples, each note running into each other like dominoes.

It made me want to start a Mariachi band. We would wear black studded charro outfits, wide brimmed hats, and red handkerchiefs wrapped around our collars with big triangular flaps sticking out. We would play at all the Mexican restaurants, traveling the world and getting free food and a few dollars as compensation. We would be called, “Los Hombres en Negro.�

I felt like I was headed nowhere.

Outside there was not much scenery, just miles and miles of crumbling asphalt sandwiched between cinnamon sands. I focused on the road ahead. A billboard was approaching. The Morongo Casino. Family Fun. Exit on Cabazon in 2mi. The picture depicted a family playing at a craps table. All of them were smiling and giving each other high fives.

And in a blur it was gone.

I wanted to turn around and head home. The dishwashing job was still open to me. I just had to call them up and ask, but I didn’t go to college for four years to do menial jobs like that. I wanted to be a writer. The irony was that I hadn’t written anything in months; I couldn’t stand the failure of rejection. One after another, after another.

I had even entered this contest for grammar school kids. You’d think I’d win. Hands down. No contest. On the form, I had faked my age and pasted a picture of me when I was younger. Someone named Sally Baker had won for her story about Fred the Frog and his quest around the world to find the princess, so he could turn into a prince again. And live happily ever after. How cliché. How stupid. Even I could have thought of that.

Today was my first day of work. My new job as a professional poker player. I felt like I was forced into this endeavor out of desperation. When I was in college, I was lucky enough to have had parents who supported me with cash as I worked on a degree. Money had been no issue then, just take out the credit card and swipe. Now with no money and no job, the affects were starting to wear on me. I didn’t want to leech off my parents anymore. I was no baby anymore or even in college. I needed to get out. My mother refused to give me any more money unless I got a job. I still got breakfast and dinner for free though. No one could be that cruel.

I took the exit on Cabazon and drove down a thin a stretch of road. From the opposite direction, cars hurtled past me. A few came close to a head on collision with my truck. Half of me wanted one of the smaller vehicles to crash into the front headlights or the grill. I could use the insurance money.

A big sign in the parking lot flashed, “Free lobster!� Then flashed, “Buy one get one free.� Then flashed, “Kids eat free.� Then flashed, “Free lobster!� I could use some free lobster. If I wore my hat so that it covered my face, and talked in a soft voice, I thought I may be able to get myself a free dinner.

After finding a parking spot under a swaying palm tree, I opened the glove compartment, where I had stashed $4000 in one hundred dollar bills. I had wrapped them in a rubber band, the color of uncooked spaghetti sticks. The money, which I was saving to pay off my loans, was from my savings account. For two weeks I had been withdrawing $400 a day. The bank wouldn’t let me take it all out at once.

To make me feel better about this, I told myself that this was like an investment. The stock market for example. That even though I was risking $4000, that I had the opportunity to make millions. If I had left it in the bank, the safe way, I would be earning interest at .008 percent. This was what people do when they want to live the rest of their lives in mediocrity. I didn’t want to be one of them. Everyone who was a somebody took risks to get where they were. This was my big risk.

I was following the American dream.

Over my sweat drenched shirt, I put on my hoodie, which was faded black. The ends of the sleeves were tearing, getting larger and larger. The money went into the front pocket; I made sure no one saw it. I wore my sweater for good luck, even though not much had come of it in the past. But I also wore it to cover my arms, which shook whenever I had a strong hand. I also put on my hat, making sure my forehead was covered, the one place even pros couldn’t hide their emotions. It was like it had a mind of its own. Even the slightest wrinkle could be a tell.

When I walked into the casino, the smell of cigarette fumes wafted into my nose. If I played here everyday, I thought I’d die of cancer of the lungs. Second hand smoke kills. Or so I had heard from some television commercial; I think the one with eggs and the frying pan. Or maybe not. Probably not. Everywhere I saw ash trays, smoke rising from black and gray ashes like a burning sidewalks in the summer.

Looking at these people, sitting slouched on orange cushioned chairs that could swirl around and around, I pitied them. How did they get enjoyment out of this? Pulling a lever and pulling and pulling a lever. This was not entertainment. Just a legitimate scheme to rob people of their money. Everyone thinks that the next pull of the lever will make them rich.

My dad was like that. He played slots, roulette, bet on dogs, cock fights, and football. He played the stock market. He had a gambling problem, and my mom nearly divorced him a few times.

I didn’t want to be like him.

Poker, to me was not gambling at all. The game involved a certain amount skill unlike the rest of the games in the casino or the ones that my dad played. Despite that, I didn’t think I was cut out for this. If I could actually make a living. The idea of sitting in a card room all day, inhaling cigarettes, didn’t appeal to me much. Yet I found myself doing this anyways, looking to strike it rich like everyone else, and avoiding real work. Being realistic. Being average. A nobody. Being Mr. and Mrs. Smith with 2.5 kids, a house in the suburbs, a dog named Spike or Spot, and a gas guzzling SUV.

The card room at the Morongo had 22 tables, most of them playing Texas Hold ‘em. The tables looked full for the most part; people stood around watching and waiting, hoping for someone to bust out so they could get a seat. For the low limit tables, the waiting list could get nine to ten names deep.

I scanned the white board hanging on the wall right in front of the entrance, and searched for 80/160 NL. On Saturdays they always had one table at this limit going. This wasn’t like Vegas or even Commerce Casino.

Behind a counter littered with papers, a man with his hair slick and tied in a pony tail, spoke through a microphone, “Alfred Smith. Mr. Alfred Smith, we have a seat open for you at table 11, table 11.�

He looked Indian, and I wondered how his life might have been different had things gone differently. Had America not conquered them. Forced them to live in harsh environments. In the desert. Casinos were probably the best source of income for Indian tribes. Money rules the world. I knew that as a fact. Money was the reason that I had come here. I needed it. More than I ever thought.

“Can I sign up for 80/160NL?� I said.

He gave me this look, probably wondering if I was serious. Wouldn’t 1/2 NL be better for you? Not when I’m trying to make a living. Trying to take a risk. Trying to be a somebody. No, 1/2NL wouldn’t be better.

“Take a seat then. There’s an open seat for you I’m sure.� He then spoke through the microphone, telling the dealer at 80/160NL to hold a seat for me. As if anyone in their right mind would.

The table was in the deep corner of the room. I made my way over there squeezing between chairs and tables. My hands holding onto the money.

poker, fiction