Wednesday, January 05, 2005

Bullies and Table Etiquette - Final Vegas Post

If Chris were any more a retiree, he would have been wearing his bathrobe. I kind of figured that out when he sat down at the table - his plaid shirt, knee-lenght shorts, salt-and-pepper mustache and black socks told me all I needed to know.

And since we were reveling in stereotypes, he was crabby, but to be fair, I ate too much - playing the role of chubby white kid.

Our first encounter started when he started yelling at me over where I held my cards. He proceeded to lecture me when he almost mucked my cards along with his. The second time it happened, I snarled, "Dude! My fingers are on my cards? What the hell do you want?"

He muttered something under his breath, and then our rivalry really began. I was dealt K2o on the button and limped in. Generally, I don't play this hand, but I was bored - not having seen anything in awhile, so I figured what the hell? Rainbow flop - but there was a 2. Everyone checked to me, so I bet. And everyone but two callers folded - Chris being one of the foldees.

My king popped up on the turn, so I started betting in earnest and wound up winning the pot. Chris lost his shit. Badly.

"I knew you had a second pair. Knew it. You guys always just get lucky. You don't know how to play. I know how to play the game - it's not luck." Blah blah blah.

I'm not going to lie. I didn't like this guy. At all. And for the next two hours, when I went on a monster rush and wound up $100 (at a $1-$3 table, to boot), he seethed and muttered.

Then he gave the luck speech again. Finally, I looked over at him and asked "If you're so damn good, why are you short stacked at at 1-3 table?" He shut up and moved to a different seat. After that, I contented myself with raising him every time he tried limping into the flop.

Eventually, I left the table and moved out into the cool night. I shouldn't let jackasses like that bother me, but bullies just push my buttons and I can't seem to force myself to turn the other cheek. He's just a lonely old man trying to feel important somewhere. And maybe I saw more than a little of myself in him as well.

In any case, the trip ended the next day. The real world beckoned off in the distance, and like all things, this trip came to an end. I swore no more Vegas for at least a year - or at least six months. I just need a little time to forget the exhaustion.


Lisa said...


I thought what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. I've been to Vegas. Nothing that interesting happened. Did I go to the wrong Vegas??


Gordon said...


Didja do the 99 cent, pound-and-a-half hot dog?


Brian said...

No, no .99 1.5-lb hot dogs; although at one point, when my luck was at its lowest ebb, I thought of going for the $1.99 hot dog and a Heineken. Or a 3 A.M. shoeshine, but I held out.