pro, and in Arthur’s opinion he played it beautifully, throwing a hundred dollar chip into the centre without even thinking about it. There wasn’t a moment of hesitation. The two players to the left of the pro were intimidated and folded quickly. Arthur thought briefly about spending a hundred dollars of his company’s money just for the hell of it, and then figured he’d fold and watch the masterful play of the target of his article. Two others folded, the small blind called and added eighty dollars to the pot, the big blind also called and added sixty. Nobody knew what the pro had, but with the flick of a chip, he had scared Arthur and four others out of the pot.
The game began, and a fellow wearing a crisp white pressed shirt and a bow tie slid two cards, faced down, my way. I was about ninety percent sure that I was allowed to look at these cards, but thought I better wait and see what everyone else did. And then my goddamn eyes started playing tricks again; everything seemed a bit hazy. Finally, certain that I was allowed to pick up the cards in front of me, I lifted them and struggled to see what they were – a red three and a black six, hearts and spades I was pretty sure, although my eyes couldn’t quite focus.
My next problem became obvious the moment I saw the three and the six. The few times I’ve played poker with my friends, we’ve assumed that threes, sixes and nines are wild—I think this is referred to as pregnant threes. Was this standard to all poker games? It might be, in which case my hand seemed to be quite good.
People started putting chips into the centre which I won’t pretend I understood completely, and of course I didn’t have to guts to ask, so I threw one of my red chips in, and that seemed to go well. This only means that nobody laughed. A bunch of folks threw their cards into the centre which I assumed meant they didn’t want to play. The two to my right, who had already put some chips in, threw a couple more in, and then before I had the chance to throw another in, the dealer turned over three cards right in front of himself.
The dealer dealt the next three cards, which were community cards, face up: the queen of spades, the eight of hearts and the three of diamonds—these were called the flop. The small blind stared at his cards for what seemed like an eternity, and then slowly slid one hundred dollars’ worth of chips into the centre of the table. The big blind also hesitated, if only for a moment, and then called, putting her hundred into the middle. The pro quickly threw two red chips into the centre, raising the bet by a hundred bucks. The small blind looked increasingly anxious, sweat forming on his forehead. He finally pushed another hundred into the middle, his hands shaking. The big blind started playing with her chips, passing a small stack of them from one hand to the other, but finally took a deep breath and pushed her hundred into the centre.
The three cards in front of the dealer confused me. I had thought we would all get cards, and to be perfectly honest, the ones in front of the dealer would have done me fine, as there was another three. I decided to lay low and do nothing until someone else did something. This took quite a while and then finally, the fellow sitting down from me moved some chips into the centre. The woman sitting on my right then slid a number of chips into the centre. I seemed to be the only one using the red chips, which I thought was great, as it would help keep things organized. I slid two red ones into the centre and waited. Still no laughter so I likely didn’t do anything ridiculous.
The air in the Benson room wasn’t stellar and I’m sure this was contributing to my eye problem and I think some of my fellow players were also feeling the effects. The man and woman who had been putting their chips into the centre with me began to fidget, and I could see a film of perspiration start to form on the gentleman’s head. They both moved more chips into the centre which, again, I didn’t understand. I was actually starting to grow tired of this whole thing, I mean, who wins. At what point do we have a winner and how is the winner determined? I decided at that point that as soon as the current hand was over, I’d go and find a slot machine; at least I’d understand the rules.
The dealer turned over another card: the three of hearts—this card was called “the turn” to those in the know. The small blind checked his bet, deciding to wait and see what the others were going to do. The big blind seemed to like this idea and also checked. Like a lion sensing his prey was injured, the pro quickly pushed three red chips into the centre. A smile quickly washed over his face; Arthur figured this was likely intended as a message to his opponents, something else for them to think about. The small blind shook his head and then folded, throwing his cards into the centre. The big blind wasn’t far behind; she smirked and pushed her cards toward the centre.
The dealer turned over another card: the three of, what looked to be, hearts. “Check,” said the gentleman who was sweating, as did the woman sitting next to me. I assumed they were leaving and probably wanted to settle their drink bill. It was odd though, and I was certain that the closest waitress, who was a couple of tables away, hadn’t heard either of them. Nobody seemed to be too keen to throw any chips in, so I took the plunge and moved three red ones into the centre. My neighbours, who still hadn’t gotten their drink bill, threw their hands into the centre, which made sense given that they wanted to settle the check.
If it was Arthur and he had just won seven hundred bucks, he would have grabbed those chips as quickly as he could. Not this guy; he hesitated. Arthur figured he was sending another message, letting his opponents think about what had just happened, and warning them that it would just get worse for all of them. And then in a move which Arthur figured was pure bravado, the pro got up and walked away from the table, his tray of chips in his hand, but the pot he had just won remaining. The dealer called after him, but there was no stopping him. He kept walking. Arthur smiled. The pro obviously knew that his skill level was so much above theirs, and that the gentlemanly thing to do was let the little fish swim away. He had toyed with them and let them off the hook. After a little prodding, the dealer allowed the blinds to take back their chips. When Arthur looked up, the pro was gone. He’d left the room and was probably off to a private game with some high flyers, to play for real stakes.
And so I took stock of the situation. I was engaged in a game that made no sense to me. I had two cards in front of me that I was fairly certain were mine. There were five other cards in front of the dealer; the purpose of these cards escaped me. I, and a few of the other folks had thrown some of our chips into the centre, but the majority of people sitting around the table hadn’t. I had put what I assumed was six bucks into the middle and I had no idea where the game stood. Was it over or was this going to go on all night. I decided the best thing to do was just get up and leave. I’d explain to the girl who had sold me the chips that I’d screwed up the room thing, and that poker really wasn’t for me, and hopefully just slide out without making a big production out of any of it. I’d tell my friends that I had tried it, but I’d have a much better night if I just went and looked for a nice comfortable chair in front of a twenty-five cent slot machine. Oh, and I needed to go and pick up those Wayne Newton tickets.
My Brother’s Keeper
Quin Laribey hadn’t been to confession in an awfully long time; truthfully, he hadn’t been inside a church since his youngest son, who was now twenty eight, had been baptized almost three decades earlier. But today, he was going to confess his sins. Actually, he was going to confess one sin in particular—a biggie. The curtain covering the entrance to the confessional opened, and an older woman, clutching her rosary ambled out. Quin got up from his seat and cautiously made his way into the booth.
He knelt slowly and clasped his hands together, resting them on his stomach, just above his naval. It was darker than he had anticipated, and he struggled to see through the screen in front him. He could see the vague outline of the priest on the other side of the screen, but couldn’t see his face. There were a few moments of silence; Quin knew that there was some sort of scripted opening that he was supposed to say, a formal way of beginning the proceedings, but he couldn’t quite remember it. H
e chose a less traditional opening. “Hello. Anybody there?”
“Yes, hello. Are you ready to confess your sins?”
“Uh. Yeah. I know there’s some sort of saying or something I’m supposed to say, but for the life of me I can’t remember it. It’s been a while since I’ve done this.”
“Perhaps you could start by removing your cap,” the priest whispered through the screen.
Quin quickly removed his tweed cap, and dropped it to the floor. He returned his hands to his navel.
“Perhaps you can make the sign of the cross.”
Quin crossed himself, and tried unsuccessfully to remember the last time he had done so.
“Perhaps you can tell me how long it has been since your last confession.”
“Wow, probably seventy five,” Quin said with a hint of embarrassment.
“Seventy five days?”
“Nineteen seventy five father—like thirty years ago or so.”
“Oh. Well why don’t we just start then. Why don’t you confess your sins.”
“Sure,” Quin said, looking directly at the screen in front of him, a small seed of
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