A Poker Story
From the archives, from my other life.
I was playing poker with a guy high on ecstasy and who knows what else who broke down at the table. He was crying and talking to himself. 150k of dead money was on the felt in front of him.
The table, all regulars, were torn. Should we keep playing? Or should we quit him knowing he will 100% go to the pit and dust off all of his chips?
Our rec player was a high limit blackjack player who wandered into the poker room one day with a handful of 5k chips and the desire to play a game he saw on TV. He didn’t know the rules, or how to read his hand. After he lost 40k in a half an hour, he was hooked. Eight months later, he was no better a player than he was the first time he played.
I wanted to stay in the game. I justified my choice because I knew what the result would be if the game ended. The 150k would be lost at blackjack. I told myself that if I were at a home game, in a hotel room or somewhere without a casino, I would quit. I would encourage the guy to go home and play another day.
One by one the other players began racking up. Three of us wanted to stay but we were overruled. I was the last to go.
The action player went straight to the pit and in less than an hour lost all of what he had.
The next day the other players in the game regretted their decision to leave.
I was ok with being ok playing with a crying, unstable man trying to give away his money. I didn’t even think twice about it. Ruthless? Maybe. The truth? Yes.
