The Poker Report 8-9-03 "A San Francisco Gambling Haven For Professional Writers Since 2001" Guest Writer: Todd James Pierce I arrived at Stephen Elliott's apartment slightly cocktailed, but toting a cold six-pack of diet Coke in the type of thin plastic bags doled out in ghetto liquor stores. Steve's digs were in the Mission District-a tall warehouse building that ten years from now will probably be lifestyle condos or lofts, but right now appeared to be a prime location for Cops. As we walked up to the outer steel security gate and through a group of overly-pierced teens, my buddy Adam Johnson said, "Talk to no one." Steve's place was on an upper-floor, a painted cinderblock studio that immediately reminded me of the post-masturbatory shame and thrill of being thirteen: a stained mattress slanted up against a wall, some vaguely pornographic paintings hung above a desk, a CD jukebox thumping out Junior Mafia, a group that Steve would later explain some high students told him was cool. There were six guys at the table: Eric, Eric, Andy, Ben Doug, and Steve. Steve's opening salvo: "Andy was just telling us he was going to lose again." "No," Andy said, "I was saying, it'd be kind of cool to be known in the Report again as the big loser." He tipped back his lager. "Said with irony." The last time I played with Steve I got fleeced for twenty bucks and, worse, got tagged in the Poker Report as "the fool who never folds," which was OK except I did fold a number of hands. After the Report was posted, Steve explained, "Well, you gotta make things sound good." The table had a mid-thirties feel to it: expensive beer, clay poker chips, felt tabletop. Unlike the poker games of my twenties, during which we would burn an occasional joint and chow down on Cheetos, this game was smoke-free, low-carb, but intensely competitive. After losing two pair to trip kings, Doug Dorst pulled a bag of carrots from his backpack. "The buffet is open," he announced. "Dude," Adam said, "what's with the carrots?" "Baby carrots," Doug corrected, "and they're pre-washed." I wrote this line on the back of a promotional postcard that advertised Steve's new anthology, Politically Inspired. "You aren't putting this in the Report," Doug said. "Of course I'm putting this in the Report." I made a show of reading from the card. "Baby carrots," I quoted. "And they're pre-washed." Steve: "You're writing on the back of my book cards." Me: "Yeah?" Eric: "Well, what'd you leave them out for?" Steve: "Fuckers." The game was mostly Hold 'Em with a little seven-card thrown in. I made sure to fold a lot of hands. There'd be no misunderstanding this time. I kept only pairs, suits, maybe a good high card or two-to-a-straight, at least until the flop. I played tight controlled hands because what I'd learned at Steve's last game was this: though I could clean up at a game where half the crew was a little stoned or drunk or just plain feeling bad from junk food, focused sober people could easily roll me for twenty bucks. By 10pm, I was up about ten bucks. Steve was down seven. And Andy was down twenty, ready to buy in for another ten. "Write this down," Steve told me, "Andy is buying in for another ten." I picked up another of his promotional postcards-he'd left them on the table like party favors-and wrote it down. "Bye bye, Dot Bomb money," Andy said. Slowly the rhythms of the game became clear. Ben never bluffed, neither did Doug. But Steve would stay in with insane crap-a high card or a low pair-and try to buy the pot. Once when Eric pulled a lucky inside straight, Steve said, "Traditionally with a six and an eight in the pocket, you'd lose." "Whatever," Eric said, "just keep pushing the chips my way." Like all good Writer/Poker games, our talk shifted between cards and books. Most of us had read advance review copies of Adam's stunning new novel, Parasites Like Us. Steve bitched about his love woes. His girlfriend had just sent him an email about her upcoming birthday. Ben: "So?" Steve: "'So she CC-ed it to all of her ex-boyfriends." We listened to Liz Phair's exquisite first album, Exile in Guyville. We debated the merits of her most recent album. We drank beer, we ate carrots, we sucked down diet Coke. Out of habit, Steve pitched his new anthology, though all of us already owned advance review copies. Then after glancing wistfully at his asbestos ceiling, he said, "You know, someday when famous writers come into town, they'll come here. This poker game will be like the cool thing to do." "I'm in town. I'm here," I said. "Am I famous?" Steve: "I mean, like Philip Roth." Adam: "You expect Philip Roth to take a whiz in your john?" Steve: "Yeah, he can take a whiz in my john, play some hands, and guest write the Poker Report." Adam: "Right, and Updike will be here, too." Steve: "He and Phil can whiz into my toilet at the same time." And though this comment was absurd, it got me thinking. We were all in our mid-thirties, still trying to fit into our size 34 pants, noticing the tufts of gray, almost invisible, at our temples. We were doing our best to make it as writers. Adam was the author of a collection and a new novel. Eric Martin's novel, Luck, was published a few years back by Norton. Doug had just signed a two-book contract with Nan Talese. Steve had a new anthology coming out this year followed by his fourth novel in February. As for me, my novel, The Australia Stories, came out in April. I was in San Francisco to read at a bookstore called Stacey's and play cards at Steve's. Was this what it was like for those writers-Updike, Roth, Ford, Wolff-when they played cards thirty or forty years back? I don't really know. As it turned out, I ended up down four bucks. In the last hand I'd bet the farm on a full house (sevens over fours) only to be whooped by Doug's full house (kings over tens). Andy predicted it-he was down twenty and change. Doug lost two bucks. Adam, five. Ben cleaned up, and Steve was sitting pretty, up ten. So it was true, Steve was still the better player. But I'd like to think that my play had improved and that in a certain self-delusional light, a four dollar loss might be seen as "almost even." Or as we said in grad school, laundry money. Unlike the games of my twenties that stretched to dawn and then to Del Taco, we cleared out at midnight. Adam had a one-year-old. Doug had papers to grade. I had to drive to Squaw Valley, where I had yet another reading. I left with Adam and Doug, walking down the hallway, over what in Steve's building passed for carpet. Before we made the stairs, Steve said, "What, you bastards aren't even going to take the recycling?" Steve's idea of recycling is to put bags full of empty bottles in front of the building and hope the bums take them away. Adam: "You got our cash. What more do you want?" Steve smiled. "Don't put that in the Report," he said. "Roger that," I said. Then we were down the stairs, through the double security doors and into the cool damp air of the city. *** subscribe:
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