The Poker Report

9/18/02

"Avoiding War Since 2001"

We avoided a war yesterday. Eric and Erik and Tina and Padma and Geoff and Abby and Ben and Donahue and myself, seated happily around the poker table in my studio apartment. The window was open. Wendy wasn't there, which was too bad, but Saddam had agreed to allow unconditional weapons inspections, so things were looking up. We play a low stakes, it's hard to lose more than ten dollars in a night. Though Erik Jensen did. Still, nothing close to as serious as a nuclear bomb falling on Tel Aviv. What a bad poker night that would be.

I had made pasta, shells in cheese sauce with peas and cauliflower. There was just enough beer. Plus I had a Tecate hidden far back in the fridge for later. And Tina was there, wearing plaid pants and a tank top. So I was feeling lucky.

The hands went my way early. Donahue made a strange face, something between a cinder block and a Chinese bulldog. I said to Tina, "He's bluffing. That's his bluffing face."

"What face?" Donahue asked, his cheeks red and puffy, his mouth pointed up and down at the same time. Eric took that hand. Donahue didn't have it.

"Steve talks to much," Ben said. But I was winning. We were in Omaha, the tumbleweeds rumbling across the blank landscape. I was always high or low, I was manic. I was never in between.

"When you're a winner," I told Tina. "People are always looking to take you down."

"I love it when you win," she responded in a whisper, nibbling my earlobe. So I continued to win for her, throwing a couple of hands to keep the natives happy, but cleaning up for the most part.

Halfway through the night Jenson called Clue. It didn't go well for him. He had three trump and it wasn't enough. Donahue took two thirds, Martin the other. I had folded, no trump in my hands, nothing worth calling in.

"You've got to know how to lose," I told Tina. "Some people don't lose correctly."

"I love it when you lose," she responded in a whisper, nibbling my earlobe

Erik left, peeling Donahue a raw Hamilton, cashing in his last six bucks. "Don't go," we pleaded.

"Closing time," he said. "Clock's ticking."

So we continued without him. My winnings stayed steady after that, about ten dollars. Ben won something and Eric Martin won a bunch, mostly from his sister Abby, who donated her last fifty cents to the house. "For the pasta," she said. And Donahue won as well, which was strange, because before Donahue showed up I had told everybody he was a sucker and that his money was easy to take. But I guess I was wrong.

The game finally broke when Wendy showed up to collect her Ben. Her blond hair was shining, a vision of an angel. She slugged me for something, but I was half drunk by that time and I don't remember what but I'm sure I didn't deserve it. The kitchen was a war torn country of dirty dishes, a Mount Trashmore of recyclable glass. This was the first poker night in a while and we played with gusto and verve, as if we might never play poker again.

A week ago George Bush said Iraq had to agree to unconditional weapons inspections. Yesterday they did. It was an unlikely victory, like Donahue, tumbleweeds rolling across Omaha. Donahue went home with a few dollars in his pocket. Bush woke up this morning and said, Fuck it, we're going to war anyway. There can be no postponement. Peace on earth is forever elusive. You never know what hands will be dealt.

Stephen Elliott

Editor

The Poker Report

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