Here’s a little story I got to tell
“So, we pushed it as far as we could, and we survived - which is worth something, I guess, but not much beyond a good story.”
Hunter S. Thompson
I put off going home for three weeks before I finally decided that there was no possible way for me to put it off any longer. I’d been living in South Carolina for the past few months running one of my friends' campaigns for a vacant county council seat, and it was time to head back home.
The political trenches are ruthless. You’re overworked and underpaid, but it was awesome. And in retrospect, if given the chance to do it all over again, I’d turn that opportunity down immediately. Next time I deal with politics, I’ll be the fucking front runner. No more of this “behind-the-scenes” bullshit, but that’s a different story.
Home is roughly 1,000 miles away, which is why I put it off for so long. It covered six states – South Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, and finally Texas.
I love to play poker, like fucking love it. I hadn’t played for months, and was starting to obsess about it like a junkie does for their next fix. The difference between a junkie and me is that I can quit anytime…time….time.
The closest poker table was in Biloxi, Mississippi, which was a good distance away from where I was, and being that I was itching to test my luck, I had to get a move on it.
Before I could leave though, I had to stock up on some of the necessities required for such a quest: a filled Adderall prescription and a fat sack of weed. Under usual circumstances, I called this the Tri-City drug run. I did it once a month. It started out in Pendleton where I lived. I drive 2 1/2 hours to Dr. Lucy Barry in Camden for my Adderall prescription, and then I drove another 30 minutes down to Columbia to meet with Jeff, my weed dealer. Jeff was super short. So I called him Jefferycon. Everyone thought it was hilarious, but him.
Anyways, today's drug run was a 5 hour detour in the wrong direction, which is something that would usually infuriate me. However, these are the necessities, and they are nonnegotiable.
There’s always someone on the other end, who’s waiting for you to get home, and wanting to know where you are, and why you are not there yet. In this situation, it was my mom with all the questions, and what not. I couldn’t tell her that I was getting a second Adderall prescription from a different doctor in a different state in addition to the one my doctor in Texas wrote me, and we can’t forget that sack of weed! I’m not sure what bullshit I told her, but I told her something nonetheless. And, for some reason she believed it.
I was supposed to leave in the morning, but due to the procurement of the aforementioned necessities, I left that evening. I believe it’s easier to speed at night, which is why I like driving at night, I thought as I jammed the gas pedal down, taking off like a bat out of hell.
While I was flying down the road, I couldn’t help but be irritated that I was still flying in the wrong direction, and I was famished. My favorite restaurant was only about 45 minutes even more out of the way. So instead of heading straight to Atlanta, I went to Greenville so I could get on I-85 south and get to Atlanta that way.
Café Risqué was on I 85. Their slogan was “dare to bare”. And oh did they. This slogan was plastered across billboards for 100 miles in every direction. It was a Gentlemans club, known for it’s totally nude revue and exquisite cuisine, in no particular order.
Cafe Risqué was set up in a family restaurant that had gone out of business. Miraculously, it was able to withstand a series of legal barrages from the furious Christian local community and became a thriving business. Cafe Risqué was a place of curiosity for travelers, an embarrassment for locals, and a bit of mystery for both. It was located in a nondescript blue and white building nestled between farmland and patches of forest.
I parked my car and walked in. Not surprisingly, there were no hostesses so I sat myself at a booth.
Cinnamon was my waitress. She looked part acrobat, part athlete, part artist, and part meth addict. She did have all her teeth though. Anyways, she stood about 5 feet tall with coffee colored skin that looked leathery from way too much time in a tanning bed or the sun to the point that she could have been 21 or 60. Her hair was curly and shoulder length dyed bleach blonde.
Her most prominent feature though, was the gold cap on her front right tooth with a martini glass cut out of it. Nothing speaks class more than a gold tooth with a martini glass cut out of it.
After placing my order for a sausage and cheese omelet with white toast and a sweet tea to drink, I asked her, “Why do you work in a place like this?”
She told me, “Oh, I’m just doing this to pay my way through medical school.”
Cinnamon tried to make some more conversation about her studies, but I was more focused on eating and getting back on the road. I paid my bill and left.
Driving is exhausting, especially when you think all you’re actually doing is sitting on your ass. It’s really exhausting when you’re rolling solo. It’s also boring as hell. There’s no one to talk to and there’s a long period of nothingness. To break up the monotony of it, I pop Adderall like candy. Of course, that leads to me being cracked out, and the only cure to being cracked out is smoking weed. It’s a vicious cycle.
It’s just me, the open road, and my iron chariot - a 1994 big bodied Cadillac sedan Deville with the Northstar V8 up in that motherfucker. In the world of unnecessarily huge sedan automobiles, Cadillac’s Sedan Deville has always been the undisputed king of hugeness.
The 1994 Cadillac Sedan Deville was the largest ever built. It was only available in four doors, and was 3.9 inches longer and 4.4 inches wider than any other model ever made. Shit, just the trunk was 20 ft.³. It went 0-60 in 7.3 seconds. All I’m saying is that you got a sense of power when you were behind the wheel of this car, and I love pushing her, and really everything, to the limit.
There’s something therapeutic about it. I guess because there’s not much to do other than drive and think. Driving doesn’t require as much thinking as it does concentration. Yet, all the time that you’re concentrating on the road, you can end up just thinking about your life.
I think about friends from the past. People I lost touch with long ago, and the people I thought were my friends but really weren’t. I think about all the times I’ve wronged someone, and those who have wronged me. Girlfriends and relationships, and all the complications and heartaches that accompany them. Why did shit go so far south so fucking fast? Long road trips give me the time I need to think about the life I live, the things I’ve done, and the things I haven’t done, all the people I’ve met, and all the people I’ve lost, about loving, losing, pleasure and pain. I think about Cinnamon, my waitress at Café risqué, and if she was really in medical school or if she just said that so I would leave her a big tip. Because I didn't. She was just a beautiful woman trying to pay for her med school and all that…doing whatever it takes just to try to get by. A girl has to survive. I enjoy filling in the voids with short but intense sessions of self loathing followed up with a cool down of beating myself up unnecessarily. Variety is the spice of life. I try to make peace with a very unforgiving bastard - that unforgiving bastard being myself.
When I get too deep and want to take a step back, there’s nothing to it. Just roll down all the windows, turn up the tunes, and fly down the road. Just me and my old lady.
By the time I got to the Biloxi exit, I’d been driving roughly 10 hours since I left Columbia. I’ve been smoking pot for 10 straight hours. Furthermore I’ve taken 120 mg of Adderall, which is enough to kill a small elephant, or keep a big one awake for several weeks straight. To me, it was just another day. and on this day, I was ready to gamble… Ready to test my luck in the glorious felt arena.
Biloxi isn’t actually on the interstate, but rather off the interstate. You take the 110 exit off of I10, drive for a little while, cross the bridge, and then magically you’re there. The highway to it actually dead ends into the Gulf of Mexico. It spits you out with a big circular loop de loop right onto the main drag running parallel to the water.
The main strip is full of the biggest casinos I’ve ever seen. The casinos here have all the glamor that all the casinos in Louisiana lack. No one seems to know about Biloxi though. There’s no name recognition here like there is with world-renowned exotic destinations like Lake Charles or Coushata.
Driving down Main Street, I felt giddy, happy and excited; filled with anticipation. All the big, flashing signs, neon lights and billboards, huge neon lights, catch my eye, I must stare. Sensory overload.
Driving past The grand Casino, the first thing I noticed was just how fucking grand it was, and the second thing I noticed was that its sign said poker room.
While I was looking for a parking spot, I called my mom and told her that I was pulling over to sleep for a few hours. I parked and headed straight to the nearest entrance.
Once inside, I walked down a long hallway that opened up to the Grand Hotel and Casino front desk. Not knowing where I was going, I stopped to get directions from the two old women sitting at the front desk.
Ms. Deb was on the left, and had a small face with a turkey neck while her coworker, Ms. Inez, had a turkey face with a small neck.
“Pardon me, ladies, but I was wondering if y’all could tell me where the poker room is?” I asked.
“It’s through the main gaming lobby, up the escalators, and straight back all the way to the back until it dead ends. When you get to the dead end, you’ll see it,” Ms. Deb replied.
Before I could step away, Ms. Inez asked “Do you have a grand Casino reward card? Because if you don’t and you sign up for one today, we will give you a $10 bill.”
“You’ll give me a $10 bill?” She nodded yes. I immediately filled out the paperwork, got my $10, and went back to my car to call it a day as a big winner. Just kidding. I grab my new card, my crisp $10 bill, and took off to meet my destiny.
I walked into the main gaming room. High dollar slots, crap tables, blackjack tables, and roulette wheels were everywhere. So were old people.
Lights, bells, and whistles were going off all around me. It sounds like fortunes being made, but really, it’s fortunes being lost. Slot machines make the same noise when you pump your change into them as they do when you win money. It gives off the feeling that everyone is winning everywhere around you, but they’re not.
I took a second look to get a hold of myself in this ocean of chaos as I made my way up to the second floor.
The second floor was full of dilapidated nickel slots, and any other slots that didn’t meet the casinos latest and greatest standards that would’ve earned a spot on the first floor. The second floor was second rate, and I’m not just talking about the games. Whereas people on the first floor gamble for fun, the people on the second floor gambled because they had a problem, and from the looks of it, gambling wasn’t their only problem.
Noting this theme, it was no surprise that the poker room was at the back wall of the second floor, amongst the worst of the worst of downright gambling degenerates – people like me. I ran into the dead end otherwise known as the sacred poker room.
Praise be the Poker gods…for they giveth and taketh I thought as I walked in. It was a tad bit overwhelming. There were 16 tables, and had several tables going of various limits. I went to the cashier and bought $300 in chips proudly displaying my crisp Mr. Hamilton from Ms. Inez. There was no wait at the 5-5 table, so I got to sit down immediately. It’s game time baby. Get some!
The table was full – me and eight other players. Most of the players are in their late 20s or early 30s. Most of them were drinking. Some looked, talked, and stank of the cheap booze they had already drank too much of.
I never drink when I play cards. It’s bad business. I’m there to win other people's money, not have a good time. Although I do have a good time when I’m winning other peoples money. But playing drunk isn’t something I do. Drunk players can be deadly. It’s all fun and games when you’re taking their money. I mean they’re drunk, Basically giving it away. But drunk players get good hands every once in a while just the same as sober players do. It’s hands like these when a drunk can turn your great night into the night you went broke. Nights like these suck. Fortunately, it wasn’t like any night yet because I haven’t even played yet.
I was ready, but calm. I pulled out a cigarette, but before I could light it, the dealer told me there was no smoking in this poker room. I was devastated. I love to smoke. And I love casinos because you can smoke everywhere in them. Everywhere except in the poker room at the grand casino in Biloxi Mississippi. What a bunch of bullshit, if you ask me.
The blinds were 5/5, which essentially means that I had to pay $10 for every 9 hands. Most people would buy into a 5/5 game with $500-$1000. I bought in for $300 so I was relatively short stacked compared to everyone else. In situations like these, it’s best to play tight and wait for the right cards in the right position.
Patience is critical to success. So, I sat there folding hand after hand for about 30 minutes before an opportunity presented itself.
I was on the button with Queen-Jack suited. Everyone limped in for $5. When it came around to me, I said, “raise $25,” and threw in 5 red $5 chips. “You got to pay to play,” I announced to no one and everyone. “Got to punish those limpers.” Surprisingly, everyone at the table called the $25 making it a family pot with $225 in it going into the flop.
The flop came out 8-10-9, which gave me the ABSOLUTE MOTHER FUCKING NUTS. The nuts is the best hand you can have given the current board that’s out there, and I had just flopped the nut straight. And I had position as the last to act. This was amazing.
The small and big blinds both checked. Farmer Ted was in seat 3. I called him Farmer Ted because he was wearing overalls like a farmer and his name was Ted. Anyways, Farmer Ted raised it $50. Seats 4, 5, 6, and 7 folded their hands.
In my head, I was referring to the man in seat 8 as Beef Jerky because he had obviously spent too much time in the sun and his skin looked like beef jerky. Anyways, the action was on Jerky. “Raise to $100,” Jerky said.
It was my turn to act and I had some decisions to make. I could go all in or I could make a smooth call. They both had me covered, in terms of chips, so this was a prime opportunity to possibly triple up, if I played it right.
If I were to go all in then I could scare Farmer Ted and Beef Jerky out of the pot. If I were to call, the chances of Farmer Ted pushing all in were much higher than him calling me if I went all in. The logic being that he would be putting me in for all of my chips instead of the other way around. “Call the $100,” I said.
Farmer Ted took the bait, and did exactly what I thought he’d do. “All in,” Farmer Ted said as he pushed his stack towards the center of the felt.
Beef Jerky was feeling it too because he immediately called the bet.
Eagerly, I pushed all my chips towards the middle and said, “call.”
In a multi-way all in hand it takes the dealer a few minutes to get all the pots correct usually. This hand was no different. As the dealer was doing, I looked at the two players I was in the hand with, and as I flipped over my cards, asked, “do we all have the straight?”
All three of us had straights. Farmer Ted had Jack-7 so he had a jack high straight. Beef Jerky had 7-6 so he had the 10 high straight.And I had the queen high straight.
I was in the lead. My only worry was a split pot if a queen came out. Fortunately, no queen came out. An ace came out on fourth street and 3 came out on the River. I won the monster hand!
The dealer pushed the chips towards me. In front of me was a little more than $1100 in chips! Fuck yea! I folded two hands as I stacked my chips, thinking about how awesome I was. Then, I grabbed three chip racks, loaded up my chips, and cashed the fuck out!
This can be considered bad etiquette at the poker table. Most of the time, when you win a lot of money, and you haven’t been there very long, you typically stay there a little while to give people their chance to win their money back. I didn’t know these people. So I don’t give a fuck. and even if I did know these people, I still wouldn’t give a fuck. That’s just how I am as a person.
I lit a cigarette as soon as I stepped out of the poker room. I picked my phone out of my pocket and called my sister Zuzu.
“Zuzu, you’re never gonna believe this,” I screamed with excitement. “I just won $1100 on one hand of poker. Well actually it was $800.”
“No fucking way!” She said.
“Yeah dude. I had Queen Jack suited, and the flop came out eight, nine, ten. I flopped the nut straight dude. And the other two players who called me, they had straights too. One had six, seven and the other had a jack and a seven. It was fucking crazy. Anyways, I’m getting back on the road. I just want to tell you that and that I love you. We’ll talk to you later.” We hung up.
I grabbed a big Mac value meal on my way out of town. I finished it by the time I got back to the interstate. I took 40 mg of adderall and called my mom.
“Mom, hey, I’m back on the road.”
“Are you alright to drive?” She asked.
“Oh, yea. I’m totally fine. I didn’t pull over to sleep. I pulled over in Biloxi to play poker. And I won $1100.”
“Well, you know, it’s just luck, Christian.”
“No, it’s not Mom. It’s skill, but anyway, I’m back on the road again. So, I’ll call you next time I stop. Love you.” We hung up.
High off of my win, and looking for another big score, I was officially on the warpath. The next closest casino was in Lake Charles, and that was about four hours and some change away. I set the cruise control at 85, and went barreling down the road.
I’m a creature of habit. One of those habits is that I always smoke a lot of pot. Usually, I just smoke pot because there’s nothing to do and I’m bored. This time I was smoking to celebrate my victory.
I must have celebrated too hard because I totally lost track of time and reality. What brought me back was the reflection of the sun rising in my rear view mirror. It was fucking blinding.
I had been in the zone. Thinking about everything and nothing all at once. Both brilliant and idiotic. It was around 7 AM, and I was on the northside of the outskirts of Baton Rouge. Morning traffic was turning from bad to worse.
A black big bodied impala with shiny rims and limo tinted windows flew by me. I smashed the gas down and followed his lead. Whizzing in and out of lanes we avoided traffic at all costs.
I passed the exit I used to take when I would visit this chick I used to know named Kimsey. We used to date…kind of. I wouldn’t call it dating, but we did have something between us.
I liked her and she liked me, but she lived in Baton Rouge and I lived in Virginia. I guess that’s why we never got serious. I would always stop and stay with her a night or two whenever I was going to school or headed home. Our relationship would pick up where it left off. We lost touch somewhere along the way and haven’t spoken in years.
I was thinking too much and not watching the road enough when I realized I need to focus more on the road. I checked my rearview mirror. It was clear nothing behind me. Then, I took my side view mirror. To my horror, there was a state trooper a lane over and a little behind me. I hit my brakes, he hit his sirens.
Bad boys, bad boys what you gonna do what you gonna do when they come for you bad boys, bad boys. The theme song from the TV show Cops came to mind.
Blue and red lights were flashing, and sirens blaring. Flashbacks of my previous trips to jail filled my mind. I pulled over on the shoulder and stopped. Not going to lie, I was more than a little nervous. Panic was quickly overtaking me. Stop acting like a little bitch I thought. Man the fuck up.
The state trooper stepped out of his vehicle. He was black with a shaved head, and must’ve been 6’4” and weighed 250 pounds. I lit up a cigarette. As he approached my car, I knew I was fucked. This dude didn’t look like he was going to give me shit for leeway. In this situation, he holds all the power. I know it. He knows it. We all know it. The question is, how am I going to play this?
He walked directly up to my window and started with, “I’m Officer Jones. Do you know why I pulled you over?”
“No sir.”
“You were going 86 in a 70.” He eyeballed me up and down and asked, “Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle?”
I hopped out, following him to the back of my car. “Put your cigarette out,” Officer Jones ordered.
I put it out on the ground and put the butt in my pocket so he couldn’t give me shit about littering.
“Where are you going?” He asked.
“I’m headed home to Houston to visit my family.” I said.
“Where are you coming from?”
“Camden, South Carolina.”
“Why were you there?”
“Because one of my friends that I graduated from college with decided to run for public office there. He asked me to run his campaign, so I moved up there and ran it.” Call it sleep deprivation or maybe it was all the Adderall I took, but either way, I continued to babble. “It was awesome. We were all 23 and no one took us seriously. We beat a 58-year-old man that was born and raised in the county we were running in for the Republican nomination. We raised over $30,000. But, in the end, we got our asses kicked in the general election by a Democrat.”
I was about to go into my honey pot/independent voters diatribe, when Officer Jones interrupted me by asking, “Who owns this car?”
“My grandmother.”
“Why are you driving it?”
“Because she lets me.”
“Why does it have Florida plates?”
“Because that’s where she’s from. And because in Florida they don’t have emissions testing so I don’t have to worry about passing them.”
“Does she still live in Florida?”
“No. She lives in Houston.”
“Why does she live in Houston and not Florida?”
“Because my dad takes care of her and he lives in Houston.”
“Can I see your license, insurance, and proof of registration?”
“Yes sir.” He followed me back to my car, watching me as I got my license from my wallet and the other shit from my glove box. I handed it to him.
“Wait in your car. I’ll be back.” He said.
In my car, I lit another cigarette, trying to remain calm, cool and collected. I was watching Officer Jones in my rearview mirror, when a second state trooper rolled up. I was totally fucked now.
The troopers conversed with each other for about five minutes. Then, Officer Jones approached my driver side window and told me, “please exit your vehicle.” I did what he said. I got out and followed him. He handed me back all my paperwork and I put it in my pocket.
The second state trooper introduced himself as Officer Diaz. I introduced myself. Then, Officer Diaz started grilling me with the exact same series of questions. “Where are you going? Why are you going there? Where are you coming from? Why were you there? Who owns this car? Why are you driving it? Why does it have Florida plates? Where does your grandmother live? Why does she live there? Why not in Florida?”
My answers were, word for word, the exact same as the answers I’d given to Officer Jones. So far, so good, I thought.
However, Officer Diaz crushed any and all of hope when he asked me, “Do you have anything illegal in your car?”
“No sir.”
“Can we search it then?” Asked Officer Jones.
“No, sir. Y’all can’t. I’ve been driving all night to get home. And now, I’m this close, I’d like to just get back on my way to get there. I’m sure y’all understand.”
“That’s fine,” Officer Jones said. “We understand.”
This was followed by an awkward silence, which I broke by asking, “Well, what’s gonna happen now?”
Officer Diaz looked at me with a big old grin, and said, “we’re going to call in a K-9 unit.”
That’s it. It’s over. I’m done. I’m going to fucking jail again unless something changes, unless I do something different. I had to think fast as the situation was quickly escalating out of control. Time was running out. I decided the only wild card I had was to be honest and hope for the best.
I looked at them and said, “Let me save y’all the time and trouble. I have some marijuana in my car.”
“How much?” Officer Diaz wanted to know.
I raised my hand in the air, and made the ok sign with my index finger and thumb, and said, “this much.”
“Get it out of your car and bring it to us,” said Officer Jones.
I walked back to my car, grabbed the sack of weed out of the center console, walked back to them and handed it to Jones. He examined the bag, opened it, and took a quick smell of it. Then, unexpectedly, he handed me back my sack of weed and told me to put it in my pocket, which I did.
“Is there anything else illegal in your car?” Diaz asked.
“Yes sir.”
“What is it?”
“I have a loaded nine millimeter pistol underneath the driver's seat. Also, there’s $1100 in cash in the consol between the front seats.”
“Is the gun yours?”
“Yes sir.”
“Why do you have it?”
“Because I just traveled 1000 miles cross country by myself, and there’s a lot of spooks out there on the road. Don’t tell me that if you were in my shoes and just drove 1000 miles by yourself that you wouldn’t carry a loaded pistol too.”
“Why do you have $1100 in cash?” Diaz asked.
“I stopped off in Biloxi and won it playing poker,” I answered.
They flashed a quick grin at each other. I knew they found me entertaining, but I wasn’t sure if it was in a good way or bad way.
Jones said, “Stay here with Diaz. I’m going to run the numbers on your gun and search your car.”
Officer Diaz stood right beside me at the trunk of my car watching my every move. Noticing my shoe was untied, I asked, “Is it alright if I tie my shoe?”
Without losing a beat, he asked, “Why? Are you going to try to run?”
I looked him in the eyes and said, “Sir, if I tried to run, I can assure you that you would catch me.” He smiled.
We continued with the small talk for a little bit. I’m trying my best to make him smile and be funny and nice and anything to get out of the possible trouble I was in. Out of nowhere, Officer Diaz says, “Walk over to the woods, and dump your sack of weed out on the ground.” I followed his orders. I walked to the woods and dumped the sack out. He smiled and said, “Don’t throw the plastic bag out on the ground or I will have to charge you with littering.” So, I put the empty bag back in my pocket and walked back to him.
By this time, Jones finished searching my car and was standing next to Diaz.
“Were you following anyone?” Jones asked.
“No. Why?”
“Because there was that impala in front of you…”
“I was following the Impala because he was driving much faster, and I figured y’all would pull him over instead of me. Why did y’all pull me over instead of him? Especially because he was driving much faster than me?”
They looked at each other with no response, so I continued. “ Let me take a guess. Did y’all pull me over because I’m driving a Cadillac with tinted ass windows and Florida plates on I-10, which is the most heavily trafficked interstate in America?” I could see them fighting the urge to grin. “Look, my grandmother gave me this car, and it’s the nicest thing I’ve ever owned. But, I made the dumbest mistake. The first day I had the car. I got the windows tinted as dark as I could, like limo tint. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten pulled over because of it.” Then, I looked both of them in the eyes, and said, “But, y’all have to admit, it looks pretty fucking cool.”
We laughed and joked for a few minutes. Then, Jones asked me, “Do you know what the laws are in Texas about carrying a loaded handgun in your car?”
“No sir, I don’t.”
“It’s a felony in Texas. You can have a gun in your car, and can have a magazine filled with bullets. You just can’t have the magazine with bullets in the gun. The punishment is up to three years in prison.” He continued ranting, but all I kept hearing was three years in prison.
Finally, I ask, “Are the laws the same in Louisiana as they are in Texas?”
“No, it’s perfectly legal here in the state of Louisiana.”
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Shit was looking brighter and brighter for the old Zbanger.
We talked for about five minutes more, when out of the blue, Officer Jones told me, “Mr. Zaleski, you are free to go.”
I was dumbfounded and speechless. Did I just hear what I thought I heard? “What was that?” I asked.
“You’re free to go. Just pull over at one of the next exits and get some sleep.”
“Thank y’all very much,” I said as I stuck my hand out to shake their hands.
Jones looked at my peace offering and said, “I don’t shake hands.”
“Well, sir, then can I at least get a hug?” Both troopers laughed their asses off. At that moment, I walked right to my car, got in, and took off.
The first exit I saw I took, and drove straight into a waffle house parking lot. I needed a moment to calm my shaky nerves and figure out what just happened. My legs were trembling from adrenaline and fear, but my stomach was growling from hunger. I walked in and ordered scattered, smothered, covered, and topped hash browns. While I was waiting, I called my mom.
“Mom, what’s up? I stopped outside of Baton Rouge. I’m going to eat and then sleep for a few hours.” It was 10:40 AM. That run in with the cops had taken fucking forever. “Would you please call me in like 5 hours to wake me up?”
“That’s fine. I’ll talk to you in 6 hours. Love you.”
“Love you too mom.”
I hung up the phone, inhaled my hash browns, and took off for Lake Charles, which was about two hours away.
God was on my side. He had to be. There’s no other explanation for the streak of luck that I have had so far. I had won $800, and just got out of a situation that I thought would put me in jail for the sixth time, for sure. No one is lucky like that. I drove much more cautiously, setting my cruise control at 80 mph, while I blared Forty Ounces to Freedom by Sublime all the way to Lake Charles.
When I got there, I headed straight for Harrah's riverboat. I had been there before, so I was familiar with the layout. I parked my car and went straight to the poker room. Unfortunately, there was a wait before I actually got to sit down. During that time, I walked around the poker room, catching glimpses of the types of hands each player was playing, and what size bets they put on each of their hands. I studied their moves, they’re playing styles, and their betting styles. I did this for about an hour before I got my seat at a poker table.
When I finally did get a seat, I bought in for $300 again and sat at a 5/5 table. Everyone at the table was much older than me. They all knew each other’s names and talked about hands they had one and lost to each other over the years. I played tight, folding almost every hand, while I got a feel for the table and players. It’s one thing to watch how a player plays; it’s another thing to play against that player. I didn’t want to jump right in and lose my money, thus breaking my streak.
The one thing I liked about Harrah’s poker room was that I got to smoke in it. And smoke I did, cigarette after cigarette, chain-smoking. No one else at the table smoked, and I knew the more I smoked the more it must have irritated them.
Finally, an old man sitting next to me, asked me, “Pardon me, but would you please stop smoking?” My game is to get under people’s skin at the poker table to get them off of their game. So, I lit another cigarette up. “Could you at least blow the smoke away from the table?”
“Sir, I hate to be disrespectful,” I said, “but smoking is allowed in this poker room. So, all I’m doing is exercising my rights. If you don’t like smoking at the poker table then go play in fucking Biloxi.” I looked at the table and asked, “does he always bitch this much?” Everyone laughed and I found the confidence I needed for this final push.
These guys played loose, like raising $40-$50 pre-flop every hand loose. This wasn’t just one player, but all of them played like this. Even the tight players were loose. Everyone was loose but me.
I started playing hands like suited connected cards, ace whatever suited, and pocket pairs, and I won a couple pots. Nothing huge. Then I won a few more, and it started to add up. After a few hours, I had $575 in front of me. I had almost doubled up.
During this time, my mom called me to wake me up. I played along and didn’t let her know that I hadn’t slept and was currently playing poker.
So far, it had been the most uneventful winning poker session I had ever played. I was up $275, and it felt like I had won nothing at all. It’s probably because I had won $800 earlier. I wasn’t satisfied, but I didn’t want to get greedy because when you get greedy you lose. As the saying goes, “they feed pigs and slaughter hogs.”
I could cash out right now and leave being up $1075 or I could play longer and try to win more.
Push it to the limit…limit! Past the point of no return…I thought.
I was fucking exhausted by now. It was around 6 pm and I hadn’t slept since I woke up the day before. So it was probably coming on 36 hours that I had not slept.
I looked down at my cards. I had Queen-jack suited, which was my winning hand earlier in the night in Biloxi. I had originally limped in but Some dude with a marine corps tattoo on his forearm raised it $50. Three people called by the time it was my turn to act again. So, I called the $50. There were five of us going into the flop. So there was roughly $250 in the pot.
The flop came out Jack-6-3. I checked since I was in early position. The marine tat dude raised $50 again. Two players folded. The old man who was complaining about me smoking called. I had top pair with a queen as a kicker so I called too. There was $400 in the pot now.
Fourth street was a 10. I checked again. Marine dude raised it $100. The old man called. Honestly, I thought the marine was trying to scare us out of the pot, but was doing a terribly unconvincing job at it. I called too. The pot had swollen to $700.
Fifth street was a 2. I checked. The marine raised $100. The old man reraised to $200. My first instinct was to go all in, but I started second-guessing myself. I start thinking about what if I lost? Then again, what if grandma had balls? Well, in that case, she’d be grandpa. I was thinking about all this when one of the players who wasn’t in the hand asked me, “What are you doing?”
“I’m getting a read on this old man over here.” Everyone laughed.
“No one ever gets a read on him.”
That made up my mind for me. Everyone feared this geriatric for some reason. They thought he always had it. Not me though. I was on a mission from god, and I was there to gamble. I had $375 in front of me. It was $200 to call. I said, “All in,” and pushed my chips to the center of the table.
Both the marine and the old man insta called me, and we flipped over our cards.
I don’t know what they had. All I know is that the dealer said I won with a pair of Jacks, and that was enough for me. I had $1725 in chips in front of me. Of which $1425 was straight profit. I wanted to shit my pants, but played it cool. I folded the next couple of hands as I put my chips into four racks. Once I finished, I looked at everyone at the table, and said, “Ladies, it’s been a pleasure but I gots to be going.” I walked to the cage, cashed out my $1725 in chips, and headed out to my car.
I got in it and got back on I-10 West. There were no celebration smoke sessions during that last stretch home because I had no more weed. That last two and a half hours was a sober time.
When I was on the outskirts of Houston, I called my mom to let her know I was back. I told her about how I was pulled over by Louisiana State Troopers, how I had weed and a loaded gun, how I got out of it, and finally how I had won $2275 playing poker.
“Christian,” she said, “that wasn’t luck or skill…That was intelligence.”
