Artistic Temperament

As it currently stands, I think I’m pretty bad at telling stories.  I used to be decent at it, and I hope to be decent again, but for right now, I think my eye for detail has atrophied from underuse.  I doubt this blog is going to morph into me filling everyone in on what has happened in my life since the last time I blogged.  I tend to think everyone (not almost everyone...EVERYONE) leads an interesting life, and the corollary to that thought is that I also must lead an interesting life, but damned if I know which details to capture to make my life look interesting to others. 

But I'm gonna try some storytime today. 

I walk in to Commerce this morning at my usual time (7am).

(Coming from good, rural midwestern stock, my farmer genetics have forced me awake at the crack of dawn for as long as I remember.  The latest I could ever sleep, even in college, was 8am.  This doesn't mean I'm always productive at the crack of dawn, or that I even could drag my ass out of bed in time to catch the Price is Right, but I meet the minimum requirements for the label of "conscious" earlier in the day than most people twice my age.) 

(Also, poker rooms are fun at this time of day.  80% of the players have been playing all night, and most of the other 20% have been playing for 2 or more straight days.  Peels of spontaneous laughter never bubble up from any of the tables, because almost no one is in a happy place.  One of the great little joys in my life is to plunk down in my seat, freshly showered and shaved, in a clean, crisp button-down shirt and slacks, and deliver a strong, full-bodied "GOOD MORNING" to my 8 bleary-eyed, whatever-is-the-opposite-of-bushy-tailed friends at my table.)

Before I could even get out the iPad to pass the time before I got my seat, a screaming match broke out in the 60/120 game.  While this is not rare at all for the Commerce, it is sort of out of character for the time of day.  If you're the type to scream and make a scene in public, you're typically going to struggle to hold in your rant for a full night in an environment as stressful as a poker room.  That said, your handsome reward for accomplishing this feat of energetic dexterity at Commerce is a dead-silent echo chamber in which you can express your rage to an audience too tired to even tune you out. 

Player A accomplished this feat this morning, although he was docked for degree of difficulty since he actually just finished his second full night of poker and his reasoning system (which is balky in the first place) gave out several hours prior.  The injustice that drew his rage?  Another player gets up to smoke a cigarette, and (probably jokingly) instructs the dealer to deal slowly so he doesn't miss as many hands.  The dealer deals some cards, and Player A decides that....poker...wasn't....Happening....FAST....ENOUGH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

(Background on Player A: This guy is a regular, and is routinely abusive to players and staff.  He also loses as much as anyone, so everyone puts up with him.  He comes from a family with money, and he once told me, without a hint of sarcasm, "I don't even want this $7000.  I would throw it in the trash, but I'd be afraid some porter or someone would get it.  If I knew Donald Trump's kid would get it, I would just throw this shit away and go home".  I told him he sounded like Ted DiBiase.)

Anywho, this dealing injustice evidently is not going to stand, and the dealer escalates things by arguing with the player (big no-no).  This is a tough situation for the floorman.  He knows our anti-hero is the only thing keeping this game running, but not everyone else at the table understands this, so showing favoritism toward this guy may elicit future behavioral outbursts by players with under-exercised inner children.

Player A chooses the time-tested debate technique of making the same point over and over again, ONLY LOUDER EACH TIME, until he achieves a proper level of vein-popping red-facedness.  The floorman does his best impersonation of France.  Player B, fresh off his cigarette, loudly asks the floorman if he's going to do anything about this lunacy.  The floorman, now yelling like everyone else, asks "WELL WHAT DO YOU WANT ME TO DO ABOUT IT?" because that's how an authority figure gets control of a situation.  I'm honestly not sure whether or not he is aware that he is the guy who has to make a decision here.  His question is probably a genuine one... In the real world, this guy would be out on his ass without question, but in poker rooms, special people get special exceptions, and he'd probably like to take the other players' temperatures before taking action.  I'll say this... the first player to speak up would probably seal the fate of Player A.  But it's 7am, and every player's internal debate of "do I want to put up with this prick in the name of more dollars?" takes a little while to complete. 

So Player A makes it easy for everyone and kicks his chair.  The bosses don't like furniture replacement or personal injury lawsuits, so Player A gets a mandatory timeout while the floorman calls his boss to discuss if the guy just needs to be kicked out or if he needs further disciplining.  Apparently, the timeout corner is right where I am sitting, because Player A is headed in my direction.

Now, until recently, I would watch this dude with fascination right up until the minute he looked in my direction, and then I'd avoid eye contact like a good, judgmental midwesterner.  Today, I'm looking at him from the second he leaves his game and as he makes his way toward me, I ask "Rough morning, _____?"  This is part of my new job description, as laid out in my last post.

He paces around and fills me in on what got him so upset, because I might have been two counties away and out of earshot while all this drama was going down.  I empathize. I tell him that if the dealer was dealing slowly, that would be really unprofessional.  I tell him that yes, getting hands dealt in a time game is important.  I ask him how long he's been awake.  I ask him if he thinks they'll kick him out...

He is convinced that once the supervisor hears about this grave injustice imposed upon him and his fellow players, the supervisor will completely exonerate him.  He says "What the hell else can they do?  How else am I supposed to act around this bullshit?"  I nod thoughtfully and just let those words hang there, mostly because I have no retort.  Silence is no good for him right now, so he decides it's time to make a phone call and wanders off. 

Things cool down for a few minutes and I wander by his old table, filling everyone in that they should expect A's triumphant return momentarily, because he was totally justified in his behavior.  As I'm walking back to my empty table in the timeout corner, a younger guy with an Eastern European accent gets up from his seat in the 40/80 game and pulls me aside.

Euro: You are full-time pro here, yes? 

Me: That's the goal anyways.

Euro: Let me ask you kvestion... What you do when game is like deess?

I give his game a quick once-over.  To me the game looks decidedly average, but I understand what is going on here.  This guy is new to town, or just visiting, and the games here are decidedly juicier than what's available back in Lithukhazakistaniaberg or wherever.  He's been playing this dream game all night, hoping beyond hope that the table will not turn into a pumpkin before his body gives out on him. 

Euro: How much you kill yourself to stay in game?  Do I must stay awake forever for deess game?  They have so much bad play!

Me (smiling): How long have you been playing here?

Euro: Deess my second time here

Me (giggling, putting my arm on his shoulder): My friend, this game is here every day.   It's often even better than this.  I would never stay up all night to stay in this game.  It will be here again tomorrow. 

The look on his face made me realize why people want to have children.  Everything is now going to be okay in his world, just because I told him it would be okay.  He thanks me, sits down, and racks up to leave five minutes later, about to sleep one of the best sleeps of his life.  I look back at the 60/120 game, and it has evaporated into thin air.  I never even got to say goodbye to Player A.