By Lonnie Herman

By the time I had some idea of what was going on, I was down $22.00. But I expected that, and I certainly couldn’t blame it on the dealer, who was helping me in every way allowed.

I had played poker before, with some friends, years ago, in someone’s basement, but now I thought it was time to learn how the game is played today. Texas Hold ‘Em, it’s called. No better place to learn than Silks Card Room, right? I hoped that was so.

In preparation for my assault on the poker table, I stayed up late one night to catch a televised poker tournament on T.V. The show came on at 1 a.m., so my powers of concentration might have been dulled already, but despite paying close attention, I wasn’t getting much of what went on. The contestants spent a lot of time stroking and counting the chips arrayed in front of them and the rest of the time was spent making wise crack remarks back and forth, none of which I could follow. In the corner of the screen, a box showed what each player had in his hand, even though the cards were face down on the table. This could be very helpful to me, I thought, although I doubted the tables at Silks would offer such a feature.

The elevator opened on to Silks on the 3rd floor of the Grandstand and I stepped out. I knew I was going to ask the maitre d’ or the captain or whatever they call the guy behind the podium for the beginner’s table, but just from looking I had no idea which table that might be. I knew which one I was hoping it wasn’t – the one with the guy wearing sunglasses who had a sweatshirt with the hood pulled up over his head. He was either some relation to the Unabomber or he knew way more about poker than I did. Maybe both. I was beginning to understand that intimidation was a factor.

At the podium I bought $40 in chips and was pointed to the beginner’s table, along with a few friendly words of encouragement. That made me feel somewhat braver.

The dealer at the table I was directed me to was a very friendly blonde woman. I took the seat right next to her and told her I knew practically nothing. I must have said that too loudly, however, because I saw the other eight people at the table visibly perk up. Two even nudged each other with their elbows. Seemed like a friendly bunch.

The dealer told me she’d keep an eye on me and not to worry. She also told me I had sat down right into the blind. Huh? Was this a Braille table? The “blind”, she explained, meant that I had to ante up some money before anything happened. Ok, I could do that.

My plan was to sit back and watch for a bit until I got the sense of what was going on. It was a good plan, a wise conservative plan; because initially it appeared that everything was moving fast and cards were flying. I just kept folding my hand – that is, throwing in the two cards I was dealt without playing them at all – and that gave me time to observe my fellow players.

A middle aged man directly across from me was sporting a hat that said “Caesars Palace” – that could be trouble, I thought. Seated to my right was a very friendly older gentleman, sipping on a cup of coffee, beside him were two younger guys in ball caps and on the other side of the table, a husband-wife team seemed comfortably ensconced.

All around the room there were girls giving back massages for $1.00 per minute and cocktail waitresses taking orders. The monitors around the room had simulcasts from racetracks all around the country. Nice room. I began to relax.

“Don’t take the cards off the table!” the dealer snapped at me. Ok, Ok, Ok. I had indeed picked them up to look at. I had to, I thought, so that the nice gentleman on my right couldn’t see what I had. The dealer smiled and explained that lifting the cards made people concerned that I might slip an ace or two up my sleeve. Forget that I was wearing a short sleeve polo shirt. I got the message and only accidentally lifted the cards two or three more times. I’d just have to learn to trust my neighbor

Meanwhile, the game kept going along at a brisk pace. Sometimes I couldn’t even tell who won a hand, but since I was folding all the time, I knew it couldn’t be me so I didn’t concern myself and just kept a friendly grin plastered on my face. Once I accidentally picked up one of my neighbor’s card – and I had been worrying about him seeing what I had! The dealer called for all the cards back and began the hand again. “What? Why?” the guy in the Caesars Palace hat looked confused. It was probably his best hand all day and now, because the rookie across the way couldn’t keep track of his own cards, he had to toss it in.

“Sorry! Sorry Sorry!” I told the dealer, quietly. For the rest of the table I just looked as disappointed as they were; I shook my head slowly from side to side to show annoyance. Maybe they’d think it was the old guy to my right that had messed up.

Finally, I drew two kings from the dealer. Ok, time to throw some money in, and I did. Now the dealer turned over another king and when the betting came around to me, I raised. I also grinned. I shouldn’t have done that. After watching me fold every hand for 15 minutes, now here I was throwing in chips with abandon. Do you think everyone suspected I had a good hand? They all folded and I won a small pot. Hey! I won a pot! Yeah, I played it all wrong but look; the dealer was sweeping those chips over to me! Where was that massage girl?

I settled for a cup of coffee, which I normally wouldn’t have had at four in the afternoon, and high-rolled the waitress with a $1.00 chip tip.

Now that I had established my street style to the other players as someone who never played unless he had really good cards, I was ready to spring my trap. After folding another six or seven times in succession, I peeked at my two cards and began to toss chips onto the table like a drunken sailor on shore leave, bopping my shoulders back and forth in time to some Motown song filtering through the overhead speakers. Soon, only two players remained; Mr. Caesars Palace Hat and me. My hand stunk; I had nothing, but he folded. Wow! What an adrenaline rush! I bluffed him and it worked! I wished my mom was there to see that – she had told me so many times that I could never fool her; I began to believe I could never fool anyone. The older gentleman to my right leaned toward me and said, “You’re in the chips.” What nice guy! “You’re doing just fine,” the blonde dealer said. I hadn’t noticed till just then how attractive she was. I think I was falling in love with her.

But for as much fun as I was having, the winning didn’t last. I got overconfident and careless, totally abandoning my conservative ways. I thought I had the other players confused, but I had only succeeded at confusing myself. The next attempt at a bluff fell flat and then I folded when I should have stayed and hung in when I should have folded and then I was down $22.00 and I began to have some inkling, some sense, that what I now knew about poker was just enough to be dangerous. To myself.

I was off my game now and before long all my chips were gone. The chips I had started with and the chips I had won. Last hand, there was some adventure with “All In” which the dealer guided me through but I lost that, too. I considered buying some more chips and trying to fight my way back, but decided against it. It had been fun. I had a pretty good idea of where I had gone wrong. I’d leave it to another day to make a comeback.

On the ride home, I thought about what a complex game poker was, and how it could be enjoyed on so many levels. I thought about the hands that I had won and what an unusually pleasant sensation that had been. As I drove, I realized that my mouth was dry and my stomach was quivering.

Must have been the coffee, I thought.