I’m an amateur poker player, and the most amateur kind. I make all of the rookie mistakes, and even though the usual circle of guys I play with are my friends, they won’t tell me whatever kind of tells I have. Needless to say, I lose a fair chunk of monkey whenever I play, but sometimes it’s just good for the camaraderie. I mean, they kept inviting me back because of my winning personality, not because I was an easy ten-buck. At least, that’s my mantra.
They would always talk about “Steve’s Poker Game”, which is a game (from what I hear) that was invite only. Downtown, in a penthouse apartment, arranged and played by a man named Steve. Steve was mysterious; that is to say, not a lot of people knew a lot about Steve. Except that his name was Steve.
Anyways, it was a game of great mystery. No one from my circle had ever gone to play at Steve’s Poker Game because the buy in was also a mite steep. $100 to sit down, and re-buys starting at $250. I mean, we were high schoolers. We didn’t have that kind of money… Except for Frank. He sold drugs on the side, but was so paranoid about his money that he would never spend it. He insisted the FBI was watching it. I dunno, maybe he was also kind of a moron.
One of my earlier tells was actually saying my cards in an attempt to scare off the other players. “Oh, look at this. King-Nine Suited!” Then the flop would be something like Six Two Nine, off suit, and someone would bet heavy and that would be the end of it. I would fold, having no faith in the cards.
I played maybe sixty games in the basement that reeked of pot before gaining any real poker skills. I began to hold my own and start to make a little money back. Enough to cover gas and the like.
Then my aunt died. We were all very sad and did the grieving thing, except for me; I did the confusion thing because I wasn’t sure that I had an aunt. She left me $500 to spend as I see fit, which was awful generous because I wasn’t even sure of her existence.
I told my poker circle about it, and they were all impressed. We had pretty much been trading back and forth $200 of each other’s money during the games, so this put me ahead by a long shot. Frank had been sitting on the sofa biting his nails to the point where they bled, and he finally looked up.
“I delivered to Steve today. You want in?”
I didn’t exactly know what Frank meant, so I questioned.
“The poker game, you fucking moron. Do you want in?”
Oh. Yeah, I guess.
“Good, I want in too. You pay for my in, I’ll get us an invite.”
Easy come, easy go, I figured. I’d pay Frank’s way, he’d lose, but I had a good shot of winning a substantial amount of money. The next few days, the guys helped me shrug off my tells. Don’t arch my brow when I have an ace in the hole, don’t sigh heavy when I don’t hit on the river, don’t bet big when you don’t have anything. That kind of deal. I was ready.
Frank drove downtown, taking back alleys where I saw more of the nightlife than I really wanted to (Did you know there’s this quasi-Asian dude who parades around as a girl looking for anal sex?) before hitting Steve’s place, almost literally. Frank has a hard time parallel parking, considering his windows are so tinted that he can’t see out the back. He didn’t almost hit the car behind us, he almost drove through the front door.
This was the point where we decided that it would be a good time to have me stand outside the car and help him park… Vocally.
We rode up in the elevator, knocked on the door. Steve answered in a bathrobe, which kind of set me aback a little. There were three tables in there, men dressed casually playing. The air was heavy with cigar smoke, except instead of cigars it kind of smelled like weed. Weed and toast.
We sat down at a table and threw down our $100. Frank was out second hand. He has a bad habit of miscounting straights. It’s not really a bluff when he goes all in, either, because he actually thinks he has the straight… But he still loses.
I cleared the first table through some miraculous plays. Going all in with nothing, pulling a straight out of my ass, getting the nut on the river, that kind of deal. Fifth street was very kind to me this night. I was by far the chip leader when I made it to the finals table, and on a single flush, I knock out three people. It’s down to me and Steve. Or Steve and I.
I’m very nervous at this point. Over $1,000 is at stake at this point, not adding in the re-buys. I have Steve covered, and the cards are dealt.
I’ve got rockets. Good ol’ Alcoholics Anonymous. I meet the blind, but play it slow. Steve raises. I call.
The flop is Ace, Ace, Three.
I’ve got four aces. Holy shit, I have four aces. Four. Aces. Aces anyone? I’ve got four of them!
Adrenaline is a funny thing. Gaurantee, if I play these right, I can clear Steve out easy. But, I forgot about one tell. When I get too excited…
I check.
Steve goes all in.
Okay, Michael, just play it smooth. Don’t worry about a thing, you’re making a fucking ton of money tonight and there’s no veritable way he could win.
My stomach feels a little off. Shouldn’t have had that Chalupa. But it’s such a sexy sounding food… How could I have turned it down?
I slide my chips in.
And then vomit. All over the table. The nice felt table. Projectile, too. It knocks my cards over, splashes the chips, and hits Steve, who doesn’t quite know how to react. He’s very angry and very confused, because he hit a set of three’s off of the flop, and he just got vomited on.
I’m not quite sure of the etiquette at this point, if I’m allowed to just collect my money and leave or if there’s some kind of formal deal. Steve isn’t really moving too much, probably because if he did the full realization would hit him. The money is sitting on the edge of the table, and I reach for it.
Steve, in one of the angriest moves I’ve ever seen, vomits on the money. Holy shit, that was an angry vomit. I guess, though, that’s the only real form of retaliation for what I did.
I made Frank carry it to the car.
I never got invited back, either.
… Asshole.
---
Mal
They would always talk about “Steve’s Poker Game”, which is a game (from what I hear) that was invite only. Downtown, in a penthouse apartment, arranged and played by a man named Steve. Steve was mysterious; that is to say, not a lot of people knew a lot about Steve. Except that his name was Steve.
Anyways, it was a game of great mystery. No one from my circle had ever gone to play at Steve’s Poker Game because the buy in was also a mite steep. $100 to sit down, and re-buys starting at $250. I mean, we were high schoolers. We didn’t have that kind of money… Except for Frank. He sold drugs on the side, but was so paranoid about his money that he would never spend it. He insisted the FBI was watching it. I dunno, maybe he was also kind of a moron.
One of my earlier tells was actually saying my cards in an attempt to scare off the other players. “Oh, look at this. King-Nine Suited!” Then the flop would be something like Six Two Nine, off suit, and someone would bet heavy and that would be the end of it. I would fold, having no faith in the cards.
I played maybe sixty games in the basement that reeked of pot before gaining any real poker skills. I began to hold my own and start to make a little money back. Enough to cover gas and the like.
Then my aunt died. We were all very sad and did the grieving thing, except for me; I did the confusion thing because I wasn’t sure that I had an aunt. She left me $500 to spend as I see fit, which was awful generous because I wasn’t even sure of her existence.
I told my poker circle about it, and they were all impressed. We had pretty much been trading back and forth $200 of each other’s money during the games, so this put me ahead by a long shot. Frank had been sitting on the sofa biting his nails to the point where they bled, and he finally looked up.
“I delivered to Steve today. You want in?”
I didn’t exactly know what Frank meant, so I questioned.
“The poker game, you fucking moron. Do you want in?”
Oh. Yeah, I guess.
“Good, I want in too. You pay for my in, I’ll get us an invite.”
Easy come, easy go, I figured. I’d pay Frank’s way, he’d lose, but I had a good shot of winning a substantial amount of money. The next few days, the guys helped me shrug off my tells. Don’t arch my brow when I have an ace in the hole, don’t sigh heavy when I don’t hit on the river, don’t bet big when you don’t have anything. That kind of deal. I was ready.
Frank drove downtown, taking back alleys where I saw more of the nightlife than I really wanted to (Did you know there’s this quasi-Asian dude who parades around as a girl looking for anal sex?) before hitting Steve’s place, almost literally. Frank has a hard time parallel parking, considering his windows are so tinted that he can’t see out the back. He didn’t almost hit the car behind us, he almost drove through the front door.
This was the point where we decided that it would be a good time to have me stand outside the car and help him park… Vocally.
We rode up in the elevator, knocked on the door. Steve answered in a bathrobe, which kind of set me aback a little. There were three tables in there, men dressed casually playing. The air was heavy with cigar smoke, except instead of cigars it kind of smelled like weed. Weed and toast.
We sat down at a table and threw down our $100. Frank was out second hand. He has a bad habit of miscounting straights. It’s not really a bluff when he goes all in, either, because he actually thinks he has the straight… But he still loses.
I cleared the first table through some miraculous plays. Going all in with nothing, pulling a straight out of my ass, getting the nut on the river, that kind of deal. Fifth street was very kind to me this night. I was by far the chip leader when I made it to the finals table, and on a single flush, I knock out three people. It’s down to me and Steve. Or Steve and I.
I’m very nervous at this point. Over $1,000 is at stake at this point, not adding in the re-buys. I have Steve covered, and the cards are dealt.
I’ve got rockets. Good ol’ Alcoholics Anonymous. I meet the blind, but play it slow. Steve raises. I call.
The flop is Ace, Ace, Three.
I’ve got four aces. Holy shit, I have four aces. Four. Aces. Aces anyone? I’ve got four of them!
Adrenaline is a funny thing. Gaurantee, if I play these right, I can clear Steve out easy. But, I forgot about one tell. When I get too excited…
I check.
Steve goes all in.
Okay, Michael, just play it smooth. Don’t worry about a thing, you’re making a fucking ton of money tonight and there’s no veritable way he could win.
My stomach feels a little off. Shouldn’t have had that Chalupa. But it’s such a sexy sounding food… How could I have turned it down?
I slide my chips in.
And then vomit. All over the table. The nice felt table. Projectile, too. It knocks my cards over, splashes the chips, and hits Steve, who doesn’t quite know how to react. He’s very angry and very confused, because he hit a set of three’s off of the flop, and he just got vomited on.
I’m not quite sure of the etiquette at this point, if I’m allowed to just collect my money and leave or if there’s some kind of formal deal. Steve isn’t really moving too much, probably because if he did the full realization would hit him. The money is sitting on the edge of the table, and I reach for it.
Steve, in one of the angriest moves I’ve ever seen, vomits on the money. Holy shit, that was an angry vomit. I guess, though, that’s the only real form of retaliation for what I did.
I made Frank carry it to the car.
I never got invited back, either.
… Asshole.
---
Mal
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