Gambler Girl considers her first memoir

As you know I'm planning on moving to Vegas for the summer to watch the World Series of Poker. I’m in the process of pitching article ideas to magazines, but I’m also tinkering with the idea of writing a book about my experience there. Notice I said watch, some friends have been confused and think that I’m going there to play. Nope. I’m nowhere near that level, just a fan in love with the idea that I have the flexibility to hang out in Sin City for six or more weeks, meet some poker players, and write about it.

And if you don’t know already, I come from a family of gamblers. So, we went to Viejas while I was down in San Diego, and I came back with a story. I’ve been telling it verbally, but I also wrote it down as practice to see if this kind of writing would be interesting on a book level. Don’t worry, my interactions will have to be even more brazen than this one in order to sell a decent print run. I know that. And I’m definitely open to putting myself in interesting situations. Ahem, can we say Phil Gordon.

So, let me know what you think. And feel free to help me think of a title for this half Bridget Jones’ Diary, half Video Night in Kathmandu type memoir. So far, what I’ve got is:

On Tilt in Las Vegas:
Confessions from a Poker Groupie

Now for my journal entry.

December 27, 2004
Viejas, CA

I’m already a sucker for a man in a sweater. Pay no mind to the two glasses of wine I had with my sirloin spinach salad before heading up to the Poker Room. Neither of those have anything to do with the draw of a tall man with a full head of dark hair. OK—it had everything to do with those things—but especially the black cashmere v-neck he was wearing. Whether or not he saw me noticing him, I couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. I was headed to the board to sign up for the lowest table and he was eye candy along the way.

I had enough money to play a rack, and $3-6 was the lowest game they had open. At the table, I had two seat choices. One was across from the dealer and next to a brother wearing classy shades and a Denver Broncos jersey. The other was on the dealer’s left and next to a woman who could beat the shit out of me. I wouldn’t be surprised if she rode a Harley, and her pierced tongue meant she gave good head. Didn’t it? I’ve never had sex with someone with a body piercing, but it’s what I thought of when I saw the gleam of silver flicker off her tongue when she spoke.

It didn’t take long to figure out the Broncos fan talked a lot of smack. And for my newbie blood, it worked. He acted like he knew his stuff, and even though I have been told numerous times that most poker players just think they’re good when they’re really not, I still bought into it. He was attractive and reminded me of my first time in a card room. That was at Artichoke Joes in San Bruno a few years prior. I was on a date with a Blackjack card counter and we just wanted to try a Bay Area gaming establishment. I hadn’t even heard of Holdem, but I wanted to gamble. I sat down at a low limit Omaha table and the players kindly said they’d be happy to take my money, but that I ought to move over to the Holdem table. So I did, and a sweet handsome brother took me under his wing. I played for an hour, topped off my rack, and impressed my date who refused to play but took great pleasure in watching me from behind.

So, here I was at Viejas near San Diego wearing my brown velvet pants, black cleavage-showing sweater, and faux rabbit fur vest. My rock star outfit was only two weeks old, and if I do say so myself, I looked good. I believe in dolling up when I gamble on the off chance that I’m going to win big. You know how they always take your picture when you win the car or the big slots pull. Well, it doesn’t matter what game you play, that could happen at any visit to a casino. Even if you don’t play slots, the pull of that shiny red Mustang convertible hanging over your head is just too powerful to resist. Showing leg is my best uniform and wearing lipstick is my jewelry. It’s the way I get up for the game. I never feel more womanly than when I’m gambling; I’m always going to scrub in before I roll up to the tables, be — it craps or cards.

So tall, well –dressed, and smooth strolled passed my line of sight for the second time. I asked Broncos Fan if he was a celebrity.

“Who, the German?” he laughed, “Nah, he’s just a regular.”

Nice. Just the info I needed. Regular meant my chances of seeing him again the next time I came, were better than average.

So, I started to give my rack to the table blind by blind. I played some stupid hands because I was eager to play. The Broncos Fan fancied himself my tutor. I didn’t need him, but I played it up. A couple of times I took their money, but not enough to play as long as I’d wanted. When I was down to my last twenty bucks, Sweater Man walked by my table again and sat next to me on my left. I was in front of the dealer and had the best line of sight on the cards. It was after midnight and folks had dwindled off. All the seats on the left hand side of the table were empty. Because I was positioned to look at the cards in front of me, I couldn’t see him without completely turning my head. No fair. I wanted to look at him more than play.

I turned to him casually as if it weren’t the first time we were about to speak to each other.

“Why don’t you sit over there so I can look at you?” I asked nodding my head at the chair diagonally across from me.

“I can’t,” he said just as casually. “I didn’t bring my glasses and I need to see the cards.”

Oooh glasses. I like men who wear glasses. I like how smart they make them look, and even more so, I like what it means when it’s time to take them off. This was probably the second best thing he could’ve said besides, “I’d be happy to.”

He brought his chair a little bit closer to mine, and leaned in to ask me what I had when I got my next hand. Ace five. Shit, I can’t even remember if they were suited. I should’ve mucked them in, but I didn’t want him to stop leaning my way.

“What should I do?” I said, playing up some fake ignorance to encourage a little more chit chat.

And then I went blank. I don’t remember what he said. I didn’t even turn myself ever so slightly to get a whiff of his scent. I just started putting in more money. The turn. Nothing. More money. There was nothing but junk on the table and if I got another ace, I just might be able to win. I really wanted to impress him. Especially since I had already made the biggest blunder by playing the hand in the first place. The river. No ace.

I reached in my wallet for another twenty. I didn’t want to leave if he was going to stay. And the only way for me to keep my seat was to keep playing. But now the table was dwindling on the right side, too. I think we were down to four players and they wanted to move us. I didn’t have enough cash to keep playing and it was about 1am. Instead of following them to the next table, I took what few chips I had and went to watch my uncle play at a higher limit table.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw Sweater Man clocking out at the desk. Then, he walked across the room to me.

“Gonaglksn nkgnad. I’sdl sdjkf sdklf slkgnadfngd.”

He came to say good night, and I heard that much. But isn’t it funny how when a tall good-looking man is leaning in to say good bye how very little you actually hear. All I knew was that he’d walked across the room to speak to me. And he wasn’t asking me how to get into travel writing.

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