"The All-Nighter" [Part 2]

The small game in a card club is usually pretty easy to find – just look for the lowlifes, the downtrodden, the half-asleep, the drunk. The Cent is no exception, even though the small game is $100-200 no limit. I plant myself between a fat kid wearing headphones and a middle-aged business man in a cheap suit. The three others at the table are the usual types. You have your standard down-on-his-luck, would-be professional that sighs a lot, and rubs his forehead even more as he gets bad beat hand after hand. Then you have your mandatory boisterous black man that just won’t stop talking to the other players, to the dealer, to himself, or to no one in particular. Finally, you’ve got your gritty workman, still in his coverall uniform, playing with his paycheck for the past two months. The Kid is the big stack.

I post the big blind and take a peek at my cards. Ace-King of clubs. Not bad for the first hand. The Kid mucks his hand, I make it $700 to go, and the Suit folds. The Pro calls on the button, the black guy folds small blind, and the big blind calls. Three handed.

The flop comes Jack-Seven-Six, with two clubs. The black guy lets an expletive fly. He probably folded Jack-Six or Jack-Seven, which means these other players likely don’t have hands. Workman checks, as expected. I bet $1,100 – half the pot – with my nut flush draw. The Pro quickly folds, and Workman thinks about it for a moment and calls.

“You on a draw?” I ask him unnecessarily.

He doesn’t reply, just stares intently at the board as the dealer lays out the turn. It’s the Ace of hearts. Workman checks, and I bet half the pot again. I know it’s a risky move, betting a quarter of my stack on the first hand. But now that I’m at the table, I’ve reached the point where I’m beyond fear. It’s time to play my game, and hope the cards work themselves out. It’s time to go for broke, hopefully without actually going broke.

Workman thinks about it for what seems like an eternity. He asks the dealer for time. Is is he really struggling with a decision, or is this all just an act? I can feel my heart pounding, can hear the blood pumping through my vessels like the footsteps of a giant. I force myself to breathe. I’ve got enough people that want me dead without helping them out.

Finally, Workman pushes all of his chips in – a raise of over $5,000. The black guy cackles. Now I’m the one with the decision to make. It would mean committing the majority of my buy-in. Am I ready to gamble my life and well-being on top pair and a flush draw? That’s what it really comes down to. This is it. This is the moment. If I call here and I’m beat, it’s doubtful I’ll be able to recover in time to save my neck. I know what I should do.

But I just can’t. I call, and my stomach leaps into my throat. Workman doesn’t show me his hand just yet. He’s gonna make me sweat it out. The dealer counts out the chips I owe to the pot. Jesus, the river can’t come fast enough.

When it does, I allow myself a bit of a smile. It’s the deuce of clubs. Workman shows me his two pair – Aces and Sevens – and I show him the nuts. I almost feel bad for the guy as he bangs a fist on the table, red rage painted all over his face. He starts shouting at the dealer in some European language I’m not familiar with, and I start stacking my chips. Eventually he loses some of his steam and storms out into the night.

I shake my head; I feel like I’ve already experienced the roller-coaster ride just one hand into the night. Are the next few hours all going to be this intense? I don’t know if I …

My thoughts are interrupted by a tap on my shoulder. I turn my head, frowning, and see a familiar face – the last face I expected to see tonight.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he growls. “At this hour?”

I shrug. “Nothing special, Pop – just making a living.”

More like, Just trying to stay among the living.

“Git your ass over here!” He jerks his head toward a corner and walks off. I sigh, get up from the table, and follow.

Damn it, Dad, you made me fold the big blind.


[To be continued ...]

"The All-Nighter" [Part 1]

It feels chilly tonight. It’s probably no colder tonight than it’s been all week, but with the way my luck’s running today, everything – including the cards dealers have been sliding my way – seems a bit frostier. It’s gotta end at some point, I tell myself for the billionth time in the past twenty-four hours. I wish I could say I still believed it.

On the other hand, I guess a part of me must believe it. Why else would I be out in the rain at 2 in the morning, strolling through the wrong part of town, headed towards the Cent, of all places? If word on the street is worth anything, millions of dollars change hands at the Centennial Card Club every week, so naturally the sharks haunt the place like poltergeists. I know I’m running headlong into trouble, headed toward surefire bankroll suicide. But something keeps me walking. I guess they call it desperation.

When a poker player makes a move up to a bigger game, they call it “taking a shot.” You move up a level; you move all-in; you lose your stake; you move back down; you move on. Tonight I’m moving into a bigger game, to put it mildly. You could say I’m taking a shot, but actually, it’s more like a long shot. But if I take this shot and miss, there won’t be any moving back down to a smaller game. Other people are gonna start taking shots. At me.

And I’m pretty sure they won’t miss.

My thoughts as dark as the night, I finally reach the Cent. The outside is about as run-down as I’d imagined. I knock once, as I was instructed, and after a moment the door cracks slightly open.

“You know what time it is?” comes a husky female voice.

“A quarter to jail-time,” I reply, also as instructed.

The door opens the rest of the way. I take off my hat and walk into a hall. The owner of the voice is nowhere to be seen.

“You born in a barn?” says the voice, with some edge. I sheepishly reach back and close the door, and walk down the short hall. There’s a cashier’s cage at the end, and seated there is the woman I spoke with. She looks about how she sounds. How the hell did you open the door from here? my facial expression asks her. She ignores the question. Just pulls out a few empty, plastic chip-racks and sets them on the counter in front of her. “How much?”

I reach into my coat pocket and pull out what’s left of my roll. Twelve thousand dollars is all I’m worth anymore – after draining my bank accounts and selling everything I could on such short notice. It’s all come down to this. I slide the stack of bills under the iron bars in her direction. She counts it faster than I would have thought possible, and begins filling up racks. My entire roll amounts to a measly hundred and twenty chips. One hundred and twenty chips that need to multiply several times over if I’m gonna see daybreak.

She slides the racks, one full, one nearly empty, in my direction. “Our smallest game is $100-200 Hold ‘Em. Walk right through there.” I bristle at her assumption that I’ll have to start out in the small game, but there’s not much I can say. Sometimes the truth hurts.

So quietly, rigidly, I turn and head towards the cardroom. Even though it’s 2am, the night’s just getting started.


[To be continued ...]