The Poker Report

11/20/02

"Brought To You By Nike Since 2001"

The Homeland Security Bill passed 90-9 yesterday and Republicans are resplendent, pink feathered arms slathered in pork, cubes of gore dripping at their tonsils. "We’ve done something about terrorism," the hawk cries, talons gripping the tip of the Chrysler building. There are no heroes in the administration, only cowards, men who want to go to war but who were unwilling to fight themselves when the hour was upon them.

Because the country is becoming a police state I dyed my hair orange. I wasn’t afraid to sit at my own table that way, my hair the color of a warning sign. There’s things we should be warned about. And people were ready to tell me, my hair a punk rock concert, that I was a sellout for accepting Nike sponsorship, and wearing Nike clothes, engineered by eight year olds, in the wet fields of Malaysia.

Gideon was the first to arrive. He’d been downstairs in his girlfriend’s car waiting for the game to start. He’s young and eager, a representation of American promise, a student of mine now graduated and making his way in the world. He said he plays hold’em with some hardliners in Palo Alto and I told him this was a different game all together.

Donahue came by next, called me a freak, then left to get beer then returned again. There’s been a lot of talk from Donahue recently, that he’s a better player than he gets credit for. Donahue has won at so many things in his life that it’s hard for him to accept losing. But if Donahue was a good card player the world would not be a fair place. He has everything else, a wonderful girlfriend, a nice family, a good job, and the ability to suck the wings off a bug from a distance of thirty yards. He comes to poker night for some humility, a break in what would otherwise be a perfect life.

Tina showed up, looking to split a chair, already waiting for the game to end. She didn’t want to play but insists on making me look good when company comes around. And then Ben and Wendy and Andy Miller and Eric Jenson and finally Geoff, late at night, his girlfriend lost prowling the used bookstores in an area of town known as crack alley, famous for the things people give away.

I won big in the early rounds, bought a couple of cheap pots, ten cent ante, blue chips uber alles. Wendy crushed Gideon when he chased her in baseball. "She’s innocent looking and you shouldn’t fall for it," I told him as she scooped her chips with both arms. "It was the dime that threw me," he said. "I’m wily," she let him know, "look out for me."

I took Omaha with a wheel. Ben and Andy squared off like cowboys at the horizon and Andy lost again at which point Ben and Wendy left to watch Real World Las Vegas.

Geoff showed late and Gideon lost everything he had. Donahue was cleaned out till he had nothing left but his bank account and a rumor. People wondered what had happened to Abby and then forgot about her but remembered her again later. Because Geoff is a poet he spoke only in rhyme, saying things like, "I’m missing my honey, I came to win money." And also, "My cards look like shit, I’m too drunk to quit."

It was an exciting night of cards, full houses bowed to four aces, three hands held scrotum cards over a fire worth two-dollars and eighty-cents. I won a tremendous game in the blue mesas of Mexican Texas where my solitary king spoke above four hearts at the turn.

The game wrapped at about eleven when Andrew started arguing with me over my choice of Nike sponsorship. He was talking about the exploitation of foreign workers and I was responding with complaints of isolationism within the ranks of American labor. "Globalism is like air," I said, stretching my arms in my new Jordan jacket, boxes of shoes in the hallway, leather coats in the closet. "They’re not paying living wage," he said, to which Geoff responded, "You talk without knowledge, Did you listen in college?"

The final count had me ahead by a whopping eighteen dollars and Tina drunk on whiskey with ginger ale. Andy and Geoff did OK, in spite of everything. I was the big winner for the night, money in every pocket, pondering a new iBook, or Artic cruise. But I’d trade it all for the life of Donahue were it my option. Tuesday is the one night a week I get to be better than him, and we hadn’t played for a while. Prior to yesterday Donahue had been better than me for a month and half.

We slept then, the Homeland Security Department sifting through the recycling out front. We’d wake in the morning to read Senator Byrd’s comments in the New York Times and quotes from Hebron where the fanatics are being murdered by the roadside, and we would be reminded that there’s people in this world who gamble with more than chips. They gamble with other people’s money, and other things that don’t belong to them.

Stephen Elliott

Editor In Chief

The Poker Report

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