Atlantic City III: The Turn

Being homeless is an experience I’ll not soon forget. Of all the elements that go along with being broke and friendless in a distant city – the cold, the hunger, the lack of bathing facilities – the two things that really get you the most have nothing to do with your body. No, the things that hit you the hardest as a vagrant are the boredom, and the loneliness.

One thing you realize when you're homeless is how tough you really are. As long as I was able to go indoors every few hours to warm my hands, I could get through the cold. I used two of the three dollars in my wallet to buy a couple of the six-pack powdered donuts from a vending machine. You know the ones I’m talking about. Since I knew I had about 36 hours to kill, I ate one little gem donut every three hours, and that somehow was enough to get me through. As far as staying clean, I just tried not to sweat too much in all my layers. I was surprised to find, later on, that my clothes actually didn’t smell too bad.

Another thing you find out when you’re homeless is how resourceful you can be. Since the boredom was really starting to drive me mad after the first night, on Thursday morning I started asking around about discount or used bookstores. Sure enough, I found one in the area, and used the last dollar in my pocket to buy a used paperback Orson Scott Card novel that I hadn’t read. Since he’s one of my favorite authors, this was a huge step toward eliminating at least the boredom factor.

The loneliness issue wasn’t so simple. My girlfriend phoned me from Los Angeles when she could – during her lunch break and for an hour at night. But her folks were in town for the holidays, so even that was limited. Thus, I had to spend long stretches of the days with no one to talk to but myself. It hurts when people pass by, and give you that disgusted look. Really takes away your dignity. Out here, it didn't matter that I held a good job, or drove a BMW, or blogged about poker. No one knew me in New Jersey, and no one cared about me. Not a whit.

I met some interesting characters during my time there – several of them other homeless people – and I could see in them what I was now seeing in myself. These were good people that were down on their luck, didn’t really have regular meals or places to stay. But despite their ill fortune, the thing they sought out the most was conversation. To see once proud and upright men – not at all unlike myself – in such a state just about broke my heart. wouldHow easy it be to lose everything in one fell swoop, and have no other recourse but to wander the streets?

I could see it in their faces, they were just itching to speak to me. Unlike the other, more fortunate people on the streets, these people understood. The older men, no doubt fathers of sons long gone but never forgotten, would talk so much not to me but as talk at me, passing on street knowledge in the form of short sayings and phrases. They would offer little bits of advice here and there (whether or not I asked for it) about where different trains were going and how to score a cheap meal. The younger men were different. They wanted to talk about sports, or politics, or anything else. They wanted to know where I was from, and where I was headed. They were more escapist in their conversations – not quite as resigned to their fates as were the older men. But just teetering on the edge. I could only imagine what life was like for them. I got a taste of it, but I had the reassurance of knowing on Friday morning, a few thousand dollars would be automatically deposited into my bank account and I could leave. These men had no such comfort.

At any rate, I got through that hellish experience … and it showed me just what I was made of. The swings of poker seemed so trivial compared to what I had just experienced. A bad beat? What would that cost me – a few hundred dollars at the most? Nothing compared to not having a home, to not having friends and family. I could handle anything that came my way; poker wasn’t even a challenge anymore.

Friday morning came, and so did my paycheck. I could shake Atlantic City’s dust off my shoes and get on the road to enjoying the weekend in the Big Apple. Finally I could afford a ticket out of that God-forsaken town, and let the entire experience settle into the back of my mind as nothing more than a distant bad dream.

But we all know that wasn’t going to happen. There was no way I was going to leave this town a loser, not while I had money in my pocket. And especially not with my new resolve. It was time for me to settle the score with Atlantic City, NJ.

It was time for me to take my money back.

I went into Caesar’s and did just that. It only took me an hour. The players were what I had hoped to run into on Wednesday night. I'm not sure if it was because it was the daytime crowd, or because it was a different cardroom, or what. But the table was full of tourists, and I was murdering them. There was a single pro at the table, but he was playing on tilt which was great for me because he was playing very aggressively into my made hands. I was running over the table, and sure enough, after an hour I was up $360 and under the gun. Exactly the amount I had lost at the Taj. Unbelievable. I folded my cards and decided to take a walk around the room. I had an important decision to make.

I sent Billy a text message:

J: Im even on the weekend now, what should I do?
B: really, how?
J: made it back @ caesar’s…should I let it ride? Im playing really well
B: I dunno man it depends how well u are playing. do u want to risk it?
J: yeah okay…hmmmm

Did I want to risk it? Should I walk away while I was good, with nothing more or less than I had come in with other than a cheap paperback novel and a fantastic story to tell?

What a decision …