It’s early on a Friday night. The Big Boys Game starts five-handed with Moe Blue, Mihail, The Cardiologist, Mr. Sushi, and me. There’s a noticeable absence of hoodies, headphones, and devices. You don’t hear geekspeak like “range” or “three-bet.” It’s a good game, in other words.
The Sheriff sits down on my direct left, in the 8-seat. He’s in his late thirties, wiry and world-weary, dressed in his usual grinder’s uniform: backpack, fraying gray hoodie, Bose headphones. He has an air of permanence about him, the slightly bored authority of a professor who’s taught the same course for a decade. He rarely initiates conversation. We exchange nods and retreat into a polite, neutral silence.
Billy Mac takes the 6-seat. Temperamentally, he’s The Sheriff’s opposite: extroverted and jocular, the sort of white-haired good ol’ boy who always looks like he’s come from the nineteenth hole. Right away he’s coffeehousing with Moe and Mihail and the other well-heeled businessmen who’ve been doing this little song and dance for decades. They’re too busy chatting and eating and iPhone-surfing to pay attention to Dealer Nga repeat, in a bored defeated voice, “Blinds, please. Blinds, please. Post your big blind please. Blinds, please.”
“It’s like herding cats,” Billy Mac says to her with a wink.
Around seven o’clock, Mr. Kahuna arrives. He’s a dark-haired bruiser whose body still bears traces of youthful athleticism—football, probably—softened now by decades of boozy intemperance. As he lumbers through the cardroom in a bright-orange sweater, barely concealed glimmers of delight appear in the eyes of the bumhunters and gossipy regs. Their eyes say, Yum Yum. It’s been said that Mr. Kahuna has singlehandedly revived the local poker economy, a few times. It’s been said that he’s very, very good for the game.
Tonight, he doesn’t deign to sit with the red chip peasants. He gruffly perches on a stool at The Poker Bar and sips Corona. Over the PA system, he hears his name announced for the white chip game. “They’re calling you,” Dealer Brandon says to him, and they smile knowingly. Same first name, different gambler. Mr. Kahuna wouldn’t be caught dead in the white chip slums.
He doesn’t have to wait long to join the Big Boys. There’s a kerfuffle involving Mr. Sushi and casino security (something about markers or outstanding debt—none of us knows for sure) and he’s forced to rack up. Losing him would usually be a disappointment, but when Mr. Kahuna replaces him in the 9-seat, we’re blessed with an upgrade. Suddenly, The Sheriff’s headphones are off and he slips back into his former persona as a smooth-talking corporate lawyer. Then and now, he recognizes the importance of customer service.
After a few minutes, a seat opens and the PA system clicks on. Mike G, do you want $5/$10? Mike G?
Billy Mac and Moe and The Sheriff grimace and theatrically wave off the floor.
“No, he don’t want it!”
“No! No!”
“Who’s Mike G?” Mr. Kahuna asks.
“You know Mike,” The Sheriff says. “Nice guy. Just super, super tight. He adds nothing to the game.”
“Tightest player on the planet,” Billy Mac says. “Liberal democrat, too.”
“No,” The Sheriff says, chuckling and shaking his head. “Mike’s definitely not a liberal democrat.”
“Oh, yes he is. He’s into women’s rights! Gimme a break.” He scans the table, eagerly looking for a sparring partner, but no one takes the bait. Finally he stares down Dealer Nga, playfully cornering her with his eyes. She glances coolly back. “Oh, excuse me!” he says, doing his best impression of a doe-eyed bumpkin. “Let me define women’s rights.”
Nga quietly pitches the cards and stewards the action. Billy Mac spots a young carouser sipping a cocktail at The Poker Bar and says, to Nga, “Do you know that woman? She’s, like, totallyfine.” She shrugs. “What’s the matter?” he asks. “You don’t know all the Asian women in here?”
“You know every white guy in here?” she replies instantly. That gets a hearty chuckle from the table, especially from Billy Mac. “I know every Irish guy in here,” he says, smirking. “Every one of them.” He pauses and adds, “All right. I don’t.”
While they’re talking, I get into a hand with Mr. Kahuna. I'd raised A
Q
to $50 from the big blind, got three calls, and checked a T
T9 flop. On the turn, the Queen
, I bet $125, and Mr. Kahuna minraised me. I called. Now, on the river, in between Billy Mac discussing Irishmen and women’s rights, I’m deciding whether I want to call a river bet that’s roughly the size of my monthly rent.
It’s not much of a decision, really. Mr. Kahuna isn’t the sort of passive donator who will cheerily dump a few grand and call it a night. He can always have anything. He’s a wordless book, impossible to read—that’s the problem. That’s also the solution. Against a maniacal buttonclicker, folding top pair is out of the question. I mentally smooch my rent money goodbye and give him one last glance. He sits with his head propped up by a beefy right arm, fingers forming an L-shaped prop on his cheek, in a pose that seems both contemplative and somnolent. He looks like a drowsy cow.
I toss in two purples and ask Mr. Kahuna if he’s got anything. He frowns, so I courtesy-show. “You’ve got me, motherf**ker,” he says pleasantly, seeing my AQ “Exactly what I figured you for.”
Around 11 o’clock, I get a text from Realtor Bob, who’s in a red chip game. Good evening, Ben. Is your 5/10 table good action?
Yes, I reply. Come join! (Seat not open yet)
By midnight, the game’s $5/$10/$20, and Mr. Kahuna’s bumping the action to $60 or $75 or $200 or however much he feels like flinging into the pot. Every hand is a roller coaster. Raise to $200, call, call, call, reraise to $700, everyone calls, the flop comes whatever and Mr. Kahuna’s all-in for six grand. He takes it down. We’re sitting in the cardroom’s most conspicuous spot, beside the Lucky Dogs Stand and a heavily-trafficked pedestrian walkway. From behind a plexiglass partition, tourists pause to gawk at us, finger-pointing and ooh-ing like zoogoers ogling caged gorillas. A Philly fan takes the 5-seat—he must be in town for Sunday’s Eagles-Saints game—and heroically clenches his jaw like a rumble-ready Rocky Balboa. He’s trying to steamroll the table with brute aggression, and I’m almost sure that beneath his Eagles jersey is a t-shirt that reads BLUFFING: Because A Pair of Balls Beats Everything! He raises to $300 and blasts the flop, the turn, and the river—$500, $800, all-in. Mr. Kahuna nonchalantly calls with a pair of fours—his hand is good; ship the $6K pot—and Rocky wobbles away, gone so fast that you almost believe he’s unreal. But then you watch the drunk-looking orange-sweatered bruiser stacking piles of multicolored victory discs in order to remember where you are.
You’re in Macho Man Wonderland.
Mako, a buff nattily dressed Hawaiian, takes Rocky’s seat. He’s wearing a snug pink polo and alligator loafers. At first glance he looks thirty, but he’s closer to fifty. He whips out an enormous wad of cash, summons a masseuse, and after some deliberation hands the chip runner a bunch of bills. “Seven thousand behind,” he says haltingly. He scans everyone’s chips again until his eyes settle on Mr. Kahuna’s stack—messy towers of purples and blacks and greens and a few reds. Mako fishes back out his wad of hundos.
“Make it eight thousand.”
