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So here we are at the World Series of Poker. I can’t believe it’s been a year already. Everything seems so familiar. We are in our old apartment at Park Towers, every morning we wake up late around 11:40 and drive to the RIO, we make the Good Fellas entrance through the kitchen (to avoid the crowds), and plunk down at our tables full of hope.
Approximately three hours later we get up, bereft of chips, and stumble out of the room, where we are promptly attacked by fans. They want us to sign things (usually a T-shirt, because T-shirts are impossible to write on… the fabric scrunches up under the force of the pen) or pose for pictures (usually with a camera phone, the invention of the devil.)
They always hand it to someone who has never seen that model before, and doesn’t know what to push, or how hard or how long. Eventually after a three minute “click” the phone is examined, and of course the picture is no good, and the entire procedure has to be repeated.)
Phil and I usually go out within half an hour of each other. I don’t know why it is, but this always seems to be the case. We drive to the Bellagio so we can lose our money faster. We bitterly curse poker. We have come to the realization that we are just spinning our wheels. “Nobody ever wins at poker,” pronounces Phil. I think I should be like Ben Affleck and just go cold turkey, give it up 100% and return to acting. Phil decides to go into real estate.
But then at the Bellagio we are happy again. Phil picks up 25 dimes when some donkey stacks off with a flush draw versus Phil’s full house. I discover there is a sale at Chanel. We run into some old backgammon buddies of Phil’s and the entire gang ends up at Noodles. We don’t lose the high card for the bill.
When we arrive back at Park Towers, the valet guy says to Phil, “When are you going to give me some poker lessons?” It turns out he is a poker player but he doesn’t have a bankroll. “Wouldn’t it be awful not to have a bankroll?” I say in the elevator, whispering in case the security people are listening.
In the kitchen we go online. I want to read about how I died and relive the pain. I download pictures to see if I looked good while I was losing and Phil discovers he lost some more money. He made a 12.5 to 5 bet that nobody would win his eleventh bracelet this year and Hellmuth has just defied the odds and done the impossible.
There is a desperate email from Bluff imploring us to write our articles, but we ignore that and log off.
Phil decides to go back to the Bellagio and get “unstuck.” I wash my face and go to bed early. Because tomorrow is another tournament, and I can’t wait to start the whole process all over again.
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