I yelled back. “Well, you’re wrong, and you’re going to destroy your own company!”
He managed to tell me I was fired before I got off a “You can’t fire me, I quit!”
I had lasted four years at Signal, a record for me at any company. Amazingly, Mac and I stayed friends after we both had a chance to cool down. He didn’t actually fire me, and I didn’t actually quit, but my days at Signal were numbered, and I began to pursue other interests, gradually winding down my sales role. The company, despite my dire predictions, continued to do well. Mac stayed true to his word and bought out my unwritten share of the company at a price I thought was reasonable.
Despite our numerous run-ins and disagreements, Mac was the best boss I’ve ever had, measured in learning and compassion (and even compensation). A great deal of how I manage my own staff now is based on lessons I learned at Signal, and I frequently quote Mac when trying to convey my own wisdom to those I work with.
After collecting my commission bonus for the year and selling my virtual stake, I walked away with not quite “F U” money, but certainly more than I’d ever had in a bank account before, and for the first time, I could say I’d come out ahead in a venture. As a bonus, in the spring of 2004, I was discharged from my bankruptcy and free to pursue the capitalist dream once again. But for the first time in my life, I wasn’t sure what I was going to do next.
SOME PEOPLE ARE JUST JERKS
What does a guy with a bit of money in the bank, a decent education, and few constraints do with his life?
My father suggested, “Since you’re good at sales but seem to have a problem getting along with bosses, why don’t you start a sales consulting business?” I liked the idea. The next day I bought a book on how to start a consulting business, got my first couple of clients, and started dispensing pithy advice like, “Salespeople like to make commissions, not work for a salary,” and, “You’re not selling a drill, you’re selling a hole.” But my heart wasn’t in it. Entrepreneurship—not consulting—was big business to me.
I tried showing up at a screen test for a minor acting job and was told, “The role is for a middle-aged South Asian father—you fit the basic requirements. Do you have any acting experience?” I replied honestly that I didn’t and then proceeded to prove how important experience is.
“Stand over there, pretend to load a dishwasher, and say the line, ‘I don’t know where your mother is; just get the rest of the dishes and bring them over here.’”
I opened an imaginary dishwasher door and said, “Your mother is out, just help me load the dishwasher.”
After a hasty “Cut!” the director repeated the original line to me.
“That’s what I said.”
She explained that I had to say the line verbatim and not just convey the general message. I argued with her, asking why, and she sighed and explained, “It makes it easier when there are multiple partial takes and we can edit portions into a complete version.”
“Ohhhhh, okay, I get it. I’ll do it right, then.”
I then proceeded to flub the line several more times. Then I was told I wasn’t believable as a dishwasher loader and that I had to stop looking at the camera while I was flubbing my lines. I didn’t get the part.
I thought that maybe I could help produce the movie instead, and the director said she’d take me on, but after a couple of creative differences, I realized that my corporate control issues played even worse in the world of arts than in the world of business.
I worked with a couple of friends on a concept for a new South Asian fashion magazine but bowed out because the potential publisher and I disagreed on the strategy for the business (it eventually became quite successful). I did, however, start writing a small column on managing your money for the magazine. That wasn’t going to pay the bills, but it was fun and helped me start to build a reputation as a guy who knew what he was doing. But what exactly was I doing?
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A few years before, on a visit to Las Vegas, I had run low on money and started watching a poker game at the Monte Carlo casino. The game was Limit Hold ’Em with fifty-cent and one-dollar blinds. Another spectator explained the basics. “You get two cards, and if they’re any good, you put in a dollar and you play the hand. At the end, whoever has the best five cards wins.” I thought any game where you didn’t have to pay until you saw your cards sounded pretty good. I could play for hours and only spend a few dollars.
Fifteen minutes and a hundred dollars later, I realized Casino Hold ’Em was more complicated than the kitchen-table games I’d played growing up. But I was having more fun than I’d ever had in a casino. When I got home, I bought a beginners guide to poker by Mike Caro, and only two pages into the book, I was mumbling to myself, “Son of a…” as I started to realize just how much I didn’t know. I continued to read poker books and play for small stakes regularly, but when I started accumulating some savings while working for Scientific Atlanta post-bankruptcy, I felt I could play for real money.
By May 1999, I was sitting at a tournament table in Atlantic City, holding a pair of fours, against an opponent with a large stack of chips. There was an ace on the table between us and I had just made a big bet, knowing from the look on his face that he had a higher pair than me but was worried that I had an ace. He stared at the ace on the table, then at me, then back at the ace. He was well dressed, especially for a poker player. Starched shirt, tie, cufflinks… I was betting that he didn’t want to make an obvious mistake, that he was more concerned with his image than with making a risky call. I was right. He slowly turned over a pair of kings and said, “I fold.” Then he looked at me inquiringly. I threw my cards away facedown and said, “ace-jack.” He smiled and nodded, pleased he’d made the right decision. I later won the hundred-dollar buy-in tournament and received $3,000 for my troubles.
I had become good enough at poker that I could hold my own against a typical mid-stakes casino player. As I was casting about for something to do with my life after Signal, I got an invitation in the mail for a special room rate for poker players at the Bellagio Las Vegas. I thought to myself, “Hey, maybe I could be a professional poker player.”
I made plans for a three-week trip to Los Angeles and Las Vegas. LA has several large poker rooms with good pots and bad players, and I thought that would be a good test of my ability before going for the really high stakes in Vegas. I took out $5,000 in US hundred-dollar bills and set off to make it big.
I did well the first few nights in LA and won $6,000. I was exploring and moving around the four main casinos in the city, and on the fourth night, I checked into a room at the casino in Commerce, California, connected to the Commerce Casino. Since I was doing well, I paid for an upgrade and had a beautiful room. It was only 4:00 p.m., so I took a quick nap and then freshened up and headed down to the poker room.
I sat down at a mid-stakes game, but I wasn’t having any fun. The table was full of old timers focused on the game, and I liked to have a drink and be chatty at the table. I moved to another table where the young, bearded guy to my right, Alex, immediately shook my hand and said, “Welcome to the table!” There was a pretty blonde sitting across from me, who smiled when I grinned at her. It was a good omen, and I signaled to the waitress for a beer as I got right into the game. By 11:00 p.m. I was still enjoying myself, and I was up $2,000 for a total of $8,000 on the trip to date. I was confident now that I’d be a professional soon and looking forward to heading to Vegas for the higher-stakes games that I’d played and beaten before, but never with such a healthy bankroll. Alex and I had been having fun telling jokes and getting to know each other; over the course of the evening he was more or less even, but seemed to be having a good time, regardless. I ordered by third Coors Light and returned my attention to the game.
On the next hand I was dealt a king-four, and since there were a lot of people in the hand, I put in twenty dollars along with everyone else. It was a great table with lots of hands where everyone joined in, almost regar
dless of what they held. There was lots of raising and re-raising on the flop, a two-three-four, all diamonds. Then on the turn, a king of diamonds showed up, giving me two pair, and on the river another king, giving me a KKK-44 full house, the best possible hand, and I couldn’t lose. I leaned over and whispered to Alex, “Just fold. I’ve got this hand. Don’t waste your money.” It was typical in any casino when players became friendly not to suck each other in for extra bets.
Alex didn’t respond immediately, just calling every bet. I did the same, and as the betting came around to us again, he raised, and I said, “What are you doing? I’ve got you beat. Save your money, man.”
He grinned, patted me on the shoulder, and said, “Hey, consider it a donation. I’m just getting everyone else to put in more money for you.” I smiled back, we clinked beer bottles, and everyone called. There was $3,000 in the pot, the largest I’d ever seen for a mid-stakes game. I was grinning like an idiot, thinking about my trip to Vegas.
As the last bet went in, I turned over my full house and leaned toward the pot to pull it in. Alex then turned over a five and six of diamonds. It was a straight flush, and the guaranteed winning hand from beginning to end. It was such a rare occurrence in a poker game that I hadn’t even considered it a possibility. Alex had known all along that his hand couldn’t be beat, and he’d suckered me into continuing to bet even though I was trying to be nice to him. I felt sick to my stomach and stood up, staring at the cards. Alex laughed and said, “Hey, man, it’s just poker!”
I looked up at the clock. It was midnight. I felt tired. I thought, “I should just go upstairs to my beautiful room, get some sleep, and head to Vegas tomorrow. I’m still way ahead for the night.” Then I thought, “No! I’m going to get that son of a bitch back if it takes me all night.” I sat back down and went into what poker players call “tilt” mode, calling and raising every hand Alex played, even switching seats so I didn’t have to sit beside him. I was playing horribly, and I quickly went back to even for the night, then $2,000 down. By 4:00 a.m. I could barely keep my eyes open, but I continued to play aggressively until I’d used up all my chips and had to go up to my room to get the $6,000 I’d left there, not thinking I’d need it.
When I got back downstairs to the poker room, Alex was gone, and I had no opponent. I was deflated, the sick feeling returning to my stomach, and I went back upstairs to finally go to sleep. The next afternoon I began playing again, hoping to see Alex, but he didn’t return.
It was good timing to move on from LA, so one week into my pro-tour debut, I moved to Las Vegas and to my special room deal at the Bellagio. I got right into the action after I checked in, playing my regular tables aggressively, but I continued my losing streak from LA. I even had an old timer whom I’d played with before take me aside and say, “Hey, you’re playing a lot of hands. Slow down.”
Instead of slowing down, I decided to move to the big game. At the Bellagio, there is a slightly raised floor toward the back where the big-stakes players play. I asked the dealer at my table, “Hey, I wonder if I should go play the big game? Are those guys real sharks?”
“Well, it’s like country clubs,” he replied. “Just because you belong to a nicer country club doesn’t mean you can golf.” It was just the encouragement I needed.
I jumped up the four steps to the big-boys’ level. There was only one game going, and I walked to an empty chair beside Daniel Negraneau, a well-known player from Canada. Recognizing him, I started having second thoughts, but when he gestured toward the chair, I sat down, taking out my last $2,000 in chips from the rack, my hands shaking slightly as I stacked them. The game was $100/$200, with a typical pot of $3,000, far above any level I’d ever played.
I knocked over one of my chip stacks as I turned to nod and smile at the woman sitting on the other side of me. I later learned she was Jennifer Harmon, one of the top female players in the world. I didn’t recognize anyone else, but most of them wore sunglasses, so I could have been playing with George Bush and Tom Cruise, for all I knew. As luck would have it, on my very first hand I looked down at my cards and saw two queens, a premium hand. I had to play it—no time to get comfortable. My heartbeat went into overdrive as I put my cards facedown and put my hands under the table, to hide their shaking.
I played out the hand, a straightforward one once no king or ace showed up on the flop. I scraped in a small, $2,000 pot, doubling my bankroll, with butterflies in my stomach. I didn’t smile, knowing instinctively that that would be bad form.
A few hands later, I looked down to see a jack and an eight of clubs. Not normally a hand worth playing, but I was still high from the earlier win, and I thought what the hell, throwing in one hundred dollars. Maybe my luck was changing. As the last card came down, I had a flush—a great hand—but instead of everyone else folding, a few other players kept betting. A few minutes later, my flush lost to a higher flush (an ace in Daniel Negraneau’s hand), and I’d quickly lost what I’d won earlier. I felt like throwing up, so I got up from the table and went to the bathroom. As I walked down the steps, I heard Negraneu say, “Poor guy, he…” and the rest faded out.
Coming out of the bathroom, I found myself walking past an ATM in the Bellagio lobby, so I thought I’d withdraw $1,000 since it looked like I might be needing it soon. As I hit “Enter,” the machine buzzed at me, telling me I didn’t have sufficient funds for the withdrawal. I took out my card, put it back in, and asked again for $1,000. The account had nearly $10,000 in it. After another bzz-bzz raspberry from the snotty twenty-year-old who’d programmed the machine, I began reducing my amount until the machine gave me $500, which I later discovered was my daily limit on withdrawals.
The next day I hit the $2,000 weekly limit on my ATM card and took out a cash advance on my credit card for $5,000.
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A few days later, I got a rude shock. There was a letter under my hotel room door advising me that the card my room was being charged to had been declined. I went downstairs, paid my bill with some of the cash from my cash advance, and checked out of the hotel. I decided to conserve cash and moved into a Motel 6 near the airport. Not only was it inexpensive, but I would get good exercise running back and forth from the casino.
The next day, I skipped the Bellagio and played in a small tournament at an off-strip hotel. It was a couple of rungs down from the Bellagio’s prestige, but it was a popular local tournament with small enough stakes that professionals wouldn’t bother, and I could play for a whole day risking only my hundred-dollar buy-in. Eight hours later, there were only two players left, and I was staring across the table at Kwan Nguyen, a mean-looking Vietnamese man whose regular gig was as a dealer at that hotel. And from the look of him, he was a gang member in his spare time. The tournament was important to him for the money.
Kwan and I were the only ones left in the tournament, and I was ahead, but I was also tired, not having fun, and afraid that Kwan’s triad would be after me if I took down their boy, so I offered to split the prize if he would agree to give me the first-place trophy. I wanted the trophy as evidence of my successful poker tour, since by now it looked like I wouldn’t be able to claim profit as the evidence. He agreed to the deal, and I walked out with another $2,000 and a first-place No Limit Hold ’Em trophy. I walked through the Bellagio on the way back to Motel 6, and a player at my regular table said to me, “Hey, looks like your luck’s finally turning around!”
I believed him, and the next morning I had my bank wire me $10,000.
It only took me three more days to lose it. Back at the Bellagio cashier’s cage for the final time, I realized I didn’t have any ready cash that I could get access to. I had plenty of money in a savings account, but my regular checking account had no balance. My credit card was declined. I was out of easy options. To this point, I’d only lost money I could afford to lose, and although I was still spending money foolishly, at least I’d learned from that I should only spend money I actually had. I went back to the Motel 6, checked out,
and headed back to Toronto.
After Nikean, I had come to the difficult realization that even though I had great ideas and many business skills, I didn’t have the maturity or whatever mysterious quality it took to run a company. After my poker experience, I came to the very similar conclusion that, although I had the requisite mathematical and psychological talent, I didn’t have the emotional stability required for long-term success. I had a net loss of $36,000 over the course of my mini professional tour, and it was the last time I ever played poker for anything resembling serious money.
SO THAT EXPLAINS IT
Throughout my time with Scientific Atlanta, Signal, and my poker “career,” my parents continued to worry about my ongoing depression cycles. A few weeks after my disastrous Las Vegas trip, I got an e-mail from my father. He had gotten the name of a leading mental disorders specialist in Boston and e-mailed him asking him to take on my case. The specialist replied that he couldn’t get involved in a Canadian case, but he suggested I get in touch with a colleague in Toronto, Dr. Sagar Parikh. Dad then forwarded that e-mail to Dr. Parikh and asked him to take me on, which Parikh did, on the strength of the referral from Boston, not realizing that the doctor had no idea who I was. It was a happy, nonpremeditated subterfuge.
When I got the message from my father about seeing Dr. Parikh, I called him and said, “Dad, I got your referral e-mail, but I don’t see the point of another specialist. I’ve learned these past few years that psychiatrists are all quacks who couldn’t get into a real specialty.”
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