Anderson and the Action

The first night I saw Anderson, he traipsed up to the roulette table where my three hundred bucks had whittled its way down to fifty over the course of a couple hours, and bet two large on black. When it came up red, he turned to me with a tired, raised brow, and said, "It was a fun weekend anyhow." I caught his name on his black Borgata card when the pit boss handed it back to him. He walked away at the same sluggish pace with which he'd approached, and I eyed him up and down – he looked perhaps seventy, his white hair perfectly combed in place from right to left, short on the sides above a clean shaven, pale face. He wore a tan blazer with subtle, sky blue checkered lines over a white collared shirt and a Rolex I imagined he'd purchased forty years prior on a trip to Haiti. I never expected to see him again.

Three weeks later I sat in an underground poker room at Angelo's place, a walk up apartment only accessible from an alleyway you didn't just happen to saunter along and find. My table was No Limit Hold 'em and Angelo didn't have any formal rules about buy in amounts, but these things usually worked themselves out okay. It was midnight and I was doing alright for me, up about a grand, when the only door to the place inched open and Anderson stepped into the room. He wore a different blazer, this one a dark green, and a white collared shirt that could've been the same one he'd worn when I saw him play one spin of roulette. He looked like he hadn't slept for a week. Angelo spoke with him briefly and directed him to the seat beside mine, where he settled in and placed twenty thousand on the table like it was a pack of cigarettes. The other five guys' eyes lit up, but I wasn't surprised – any guy who'd bet two thousand on a single spin of the roulette wheel, all of it on a color, wasn't likely to care or even notice that his starting stack was four times bigger than the next biggest where he sat down.

Three hours in, he was up to over twenty four k. He played an aggressive style, a little too aggressive for my taste, but it was clear that he had some skill and wasn't all bravado. The biggest pot of the night started out innocently enough: someone raised the ten / twenty blinds to a hundred, and Anderson and I both called.

After the flop, the pre-flop raiser bet a thousand. Anderson called. I had nothing and I imagined at least one of them had better than that, so I mucked.

After the turn card, this time the bettor put out two thousand. Anderson called without hesitation. The river card came and the bettor only had around two thousand left in his stack. He was a regular here named John something or other, and he called Angelo over to the table. "Ange, I only got two k here but you know I'm good for another three. I'd like to bet five thousand."

Angelo gave John a strong look and John held his gaze. When Angelo finally nodded his approval, John said to Anderson, "Well Whitey, you can guess the bet. Five thousand. Your move."

Anderson smiled. He seemed to be thinking things through. After a couple minutes he spoke up. "Mr. Angelo, sir, you've allowed this man to bet on a marker." Angelo nodded again. "I wonder if you'd let him go any deeper? Because I'd like to raise him another sixteen thousand."

The table froze. It wasn't just the amount of money, it was the fact he'd asked for permission to raise a bettor beyond an amount the bettor had to borrow just to make the bet.

"You that strong, chief?" John something or other asked Anderson.

Anderson stared him down with tired eyes. "Only one way to find out, son."

John looked up at Angelo. "How 'bout it, Ange? You float me another sixteen k?"

"That's a lotta do-re-mi, Johnny. Gonna need collateral."

Anderson sat in silence during the back and forth between his opponent and the room's proprietor. If not for his eyes being half open, I'd have thought he were asleep.

At last Angelo said he couldn't carry John any further on account of his only collateral being a beat up old Ford Ranger. At this point, having been denied his request to make a raise, Anderson had the choice of whether he wanted to call the five thousand.

The shock around the table was the most audible I'd ever seen it and have ever seen it since when Anderson mucked his cards. He turned to me and said, "It's just no fun for me when I can't raise the stakes." At that, he stood and pushed in his chair, cashed in his remaining chips, and left us all in wonderment as he walked out the door, back to wherever it was he went when he wasn't gambling.

Queen of Spades

Jimmy had been playing poker for fifty eight straight hours prior to boarding the 3:30 am bus back from Atlantic City to Philadelphia, aside from a few breaks to scarf down a bowl of udon noodles or a sandwich. No sleep. He plopped himself into a window seat and rested his head on its poor excuse for a cushion, and closed his eyes. Exhausted as he felt, he was wired, and found himself rethinking a hand he'd lost a few hours earlier, defeated by the Queen of Spades on the river....

"Anyone sitting here?" She had bluish black hair tied neatly in a bun, and she stood in the aisle looking down at him from above, motioning toward the seat beside his.

"No, feel free."

"Thank you."

She sat and removed a blue and white notebook from the pocket of a gown-like jacket she wore well. Jimmy thought she looked very comfortable. She opened the notebook on her lap, pulled a fancy gold pen from another pocket, and started writing. The pen caught Jimmy's eye: its cap was shaped like a gold and red petalled flower, its alternately circular and pointed design seeming vaguely familiar to him. He thought of asking her about the pen, but instead just closed his eyes in the hopes of falling asleep.

"What's your purpose?" he heard her ask. He wasn't sure how much time had passed since she'd sat down or whether he'd slept.

"Excuse me?"

"What's your purpose?"

Jimmy thought of commenting on the strangeness of her question, but found his mouth moving to answer her.

"I don't know. I like playing poker."

"Hmm, okay." She paused. "So your purpose is to play poker?"

Jimmy shrugged. "Sure, just livin' life, getting by. What about you?"

"I'm a facilitator."

"A what?"

"A facilitator."

"What's that mean?"

"It means I help people make things happen."

In spite of his curiosity, Jimmy was too tired to ask any further questions, and he let his eyes start to close anew.

"Sorry to bother you," she said, "I'll let you sleep."

Her tone of voice had a hint of wanting, as if she'd hoped to engage in meaningful conversation with a random person like Jimmy on a 3:30 am bus ride. Perhaps Jimmy would've filled this need if he weren't so tired – she was cute and had a mysteriousness about her that intrigued him. But he just didn't have the energy.

When Jimmy awoke, the bus had parked at its Philadelphia destination. The seat beside him was empty. He scratched his head and rubbed his eyes and looked around for the girl, but she was nowhere to be found.

Freeway Welcome

The red, white, and blue lights shone through Jimmy's rear windshield, flashing along the car dashboard. He knew he hadn't been speeding, so wondered what aggravation approached to his left in the form of a burly local cop. The orange Southern California sun had begun its nightly descent.

"Good evening, Officer, what can I—"

"License and registration."

"Okay, what's the—"

"License and registration."

"Okay." Jimmy reached for his wallet and then into the glove compartment, and handed over his stuff. The Officer, whose name Jimmy could see to be Jones on the bronze tag pinned to his light blue uniform, took a long look over the identification cards, then walked in a full circle around the car and returned to its driver's side.

"You're registered in Pennsylvania, but you don't have a plate up front. I've seen Pennsylvania cars before and they have plates in the front and back, why don't you?"

"Sir, I've lived in Philadelphia my entire life, and I can assure you that Pennsylvania only issues a license plate for the back of a car, not the front and back." Jimmy wondered whether Officer Jones was ignorant or what else might be at play here. The answer came when Jones accepted Jimmy's explanation without further inquiry.

"Alright. What are you doing in California?"

"I'm living here for a few months, staying with friends."

"You'll have to get Cali plates, otherwise you're looking at steep fines."

This gave Jimmy pause. "But Officer, I just told you, I'll only be here a few months, then I'm going back to Philly."

"That's what they all say. Better register your car."

"Yes sir, I won't be staying more than a few months, but if that changes, I'll do it."

Jones glanced at a shiny steel case sitting on the back seat, one that looked as if it might be handcuffed to a high roller on his way into a casino. He asked, "What's in the case?"

"Do I really have to answer that question?" Jimmy asked, agitation getting the better of his senses.

The look on Jones' face told of disapproval. "Stay right where you are," he needlessly ordered Jimmy as he turned and marched back toward his squad car.

"Wait!" shouted Jimmy. "I was just kidding! I'll tell you what's in there, it's not even a big deal!" But Jones either ignored him or didn't hear him as cars and trucks flew past them on the freeway.

Twenty minutes later a second patrol car pulled up as the sun faded out of sight. Jones returned to Jimmy's car door, another Officer – Smith – by his side.

"Officer Jones, the case is just—"

"Silence! We'll see for ourselves."

Smith opened the back door and gently, slowly, carefully removed the case from the seat. He set it down on the car's trunk and opened it.

"Jonesy, come here and have a look."

As Jones obeyed, Jimmy sat and tapped his foot up and down in place. Minutes passed and he wondered what the policemen could possibly be discussing. Finally, they approached the driver's side window together. Smith spoke first. "Say, why didn't you tell Jonesy you're a poker player?"

"Huh? Oh, I wanted to tell him it's just a set of poker chips, but—"

"But you had to be a smartass instead, didn't you?" said Jones.

This time Jimmy kept his mouth shut. Smith said, "Anyhow, listen, Jonesy and I do security for some underground poker games on the side – everything from a few hundred dollar buy in to some big money." Baffled Jimmy accepted a business card from Officer Smith. "Give a call to that number on there," Smith continued, "and someone will give you the weekly schedule of games."

Jones handed Jimmy back his license and registration. "Have a nice night," he said, "you're free to go."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Jimmy drove away. When he arrived home without his set of poker chips, he assumed the cops had stolen it. But he just hadn't heard the thud his shiny silver case made when it fell from the trunk of his car as he sped off, splashing the freeway's shoulder with plastic chips and playing cards.

One Mistake

For two fifteen hour days in the biggest poker tournament of his life, Jimmy had played perfectly.  He was already thinking about his chip count for the next morning’s start when the director announced the last hand of the night.  Folding would be just fine with Jimmy, eager to get some rest, but he looked down at pocket tens in middle position and felt compelled to raise.  The only stack bigger than his called from the button and when Jimmy made a set of tens on the flop, he never saw the other guy’s set of jacks coming.  

A salesman worked for ten years at the same company and was a leading candidate to be promoted.  After meeting a young, female intern one morning and typing what he considered a light hearted email to a male co-worker about her looks, he accidentally sent it to the entire office staff.  His boss had no choice but to fire him the next day.  

A university president spent twenty years creating programs, wooing financial donors, expanding reach and resources for her students and faculty.  She covered up one scandal for fear of the damage it would do to her school’s standing.  When the same scandal made national news five years later and reporters revealed her actions, the board of trustees forced her to resign.

Exhausted and upset with himself for playing too aggressively with middle set against a bigger stack, Jimmy did the only thing he could think to do: he went to sleep and registered for a new tournament the next day.

Whisky Cleansing

“Since we can’t hang on your birthday next week, I brought over a present.”  Garret presented Joseph with a bottle of Maker’s 46.

“Thanks dude.”

“You’re welcome.”

Joseph handed Garret a PBR and grabbed one for himself.

“Play some heads up?”

“Okay.”

Each man shuffled a deck of cards and counted out an equal number of chips.  In their regular ring game with friends they played dealer’s choice, but one-on-one they only played No Limit Hold ‘Em, tournament style for a fixed amount.

After an hour they’d each won a game and had a couple of beers.

“Why don’t we open the bottle you brought over?  Just to try it.”

“No arguments here man, I just thought you might like to save it for some other time.”

“Nah, let’s open it.”

Joseph opened the bottled and poured a glass for each of them, neat.

Another hour passed.

“This stuff is so smooth.  Just plain Maker’s is so smooth, but this stuff is . . . I don’t wanna say ‘better,’ but they’ve outdone themselves with it,” Garret said.

“Yeah man.”

An hour later, “Joe, you’re just not a good poker player.  Let’s play again, I own you.”

“How can you say that after you just bluffed away all your chips?”

Garret snickered.  “I read you right, you shoulda never called with bottom pair.”

“But you had nothing.  It was the right call, I beat you.”

“Yeah but I could’ve had something.  You’ll see next time.  Shuffle up.”

“Hang on, I’ll pour us another.”  Joseph walked to the kitchen with their glasses.  “Garret, you know there’s only about a third of this bottle left.”

“Are you serious?”

“Yep.”

“We can finish it.”

“That would be dumb.”

The game devolved into a display not much unlike two card guts, rarely seeing a flop before they were both all in.  When Joseph poured the last of the bottle, Garret tossed his deck aside, knocking over his remaining chips.

“I owe you $8.  I’ll pay you later.”

“I don’t care about the money, Garret.  The joy lies in victory.”

“Good, then I won’t pay you later.”

 Joseph raised his glass, “To the remnants of this beloved bottle, Mr. 46, you were delicious.”

“May the juice cleanse our souls.”

The doorbell rang.  As Joseph rose to see who was there, he realized for the first time that he was very drunk, his perception falling into a familiar blur.  It was Annabeth.  He’d forgotten she said she might stay over.

“You guys got wasted, what’s wrong with you?”  Annabeth laughed as she asked, but her tone disapproved.

Joseph, concentrating hard to avoid slurring his speech, offered, “Sometimes people drink a whole bottle of 46.”

“I’ll just be on my way now,” Garret said as he stood to walk home.

Annabeth fell asleep disappointed, Joseph barely making it to the bed.  The next day he felt horrible, nausea and a splitting headache barely affected by ibuprofen, wondering why.  Annabeth thought perhaps her boyfriend was an alcoholic.

Boom or Bust

Jimmy looks around and contemplates his next move. 

The guy in the brown fedora tips the hat to shield his eyes as he turns toward a scantily clad waitress.  He orders a rye on rocks.

The beatific young woman with bright green eyes, the eyes obviously not their natural color, adjusts her Phillies cap so that it holds back more of her sleek, black hair.

The big dude wearing an away Jeter jersey taps his fingers on the table and bobs his head slightly, moving to whatever rhythm flows from his iPod.  He gives Jimmy a stern, serious look.

Jimmy considers each of them. 

Fedora man seems like he’s been around the block and will likely walk away if he smells trouble.  Jimmy doubts he’ll stick around for a showdown, but doesn’t want to be wrong.

Green eyed girl’s sneaky tactics don’t scare Jimmy this time.  She’s the one who should be afraid, he thinks, of all the possibilities he may be concealing.

Big Jeter’s fidgeting and occasional staring could indicate that he just wants this one to end quickly, or perhaps he has grand aspirations to make this his big moment?  Jimmy’s not sure, but decides to go with his gut.

Conscious of keeping his face frozen, Jimmy slides his chair closer to the table, rolls up his sleeves, leans forward and, bluffing, declares himself, “all in.”