 Laurlee
Roark - “All in,” said
the young man with the New York accent,
sitting next to the dealer at the poker
table. Ten pairs of eyes turned towards
him and then immediately down to the two
cards in their own hands. One after the
other, around and around the table, cards
were thrown into the middle, mucked.
“Okay, me too. I’m all in, too.”
These words came from a small unsteady voice
across the table from the dealer. Eyes flew
over to this new all in person and landed
on...me.
The guy with the New York accent had five
thousand dollars worth of plastic chips
in front of him. I had about twice that.
In just two hands, for no reason other than
luck, I had just gotten to be the chip leader
at the table. I pushed all my chips—representing
thousands of dollars—into the betting
ring.
The guy with the New York accent stood up.
I stood up. We both turned our cards face
up. He had a pair of kings. I held a king
as well, but I also had an ace. My hand
is called “Big Slick,” which
I often get confused with President Clinton’s
nickname, “Slick Willie.” Either
way, if another card doesn’t come
up to pair with my ace, slick or not, I
have nothing, and the guy across from me
wins.
We both hold our breath and wait. The dealer
lays out the first three cards, the flop,
as it is so casually called. A nine. A ten.
A queen. He still has the best hand, but
I’ve got the possibility of a straight.
All I need is a jack or an ace, but at this
moment, I still have nothing.
He could win this, I’m thinking. Maybe
I shouldn’t have gone all in. But,
how could I have not? I reasoned, I had
to with that hand.
Thoughts ran though my mind faster than
the dealer could lay down the next card.
This was the fourth card, called the turn.
It’s a nice little two.
Only one card left to go, I tell myself.
I’ve got just one more chance.
I am sitting in the middle of the poker
room at the MGM Grand casino. I am here
in Las Vegas with my husband and our two
poker playing good friends. We come here
once a year and stay in a condo right off
the Strip. We’d spent the night before
playing cards until four in the morning.
We promised each other we were going to
get up early in the morning to be at the
casino for the 9:30 signup where we’d
buy into the 11:00 Texas Hold’em tournament.
I was the only one who made it. I look around
for my husband or my friends, wishing they
could see how great I’m doing. But
I am still alone in a crowd of professional
gamblers.
“Last card,” the dealer announces.
This card is called the River. Many a hand
is lost with this card. Many a hand is won.
An ace is turned over, and the young man
from New York walks away muttering under
his breath, “Freaking River!”
Everyone nods towards me, some saying “nice
hand,” or “nice call,”
but I don’t even know what they are
talking about. It’s pure dumb luck
that has gotten me this far. This morning,
several hours ago, there where ten tables
full, a hundred people, playing in the tournament.
Now there are only two tables and neither
one has ten people left. For some unknown
reason I have been getting excellent cards
and not only that, they have time and time
again matched up nicely with what was on
the board, thus delivering my wins. Also,
I have not been my usual impulsive, impatient
self, having folded plenty of hands even
when I was bored and would have played just
to be doing something.
However, so far, so good. I spot the poker
room manager, and call out to him, “Excuse
me, when is the break?”
“Ten minutes, Laurelee,” he
says. “Hang on for ten minutes.”
He has called me by my name like he knows
me personally since the night before. That’s
when he told me he had a cousin from the
south whose name is also Laurelee, although
probably not spelled the same way. We joked
about how it’s the law in the south
to have two names. Billy Bob, Cindy Lou,
Laura Lee. For that reason, and also because
I told him this is my first poker tournament,
he has now taken a interest in how well
I am doing. He has checked up on me several
times, and has been very supportive all
morning.
“No problem, I can last ten minutes,”
I say with fifteen thousand dollars in front
of me now. “No problem at all.”
A couple of hands get dealt out and they’re
all stinkers for me. I throw them out and
look around at my table mates. Since the
New York guy left my table we’re down
to six players. The only other table has
about eight. Probably after the break they’ll
merge them together. The top prize is a
little under four thousand dollars. Everyone
paid sixty five dollars to get into the
tournament. Some people who busted out early
were able to buy back in before the first
hour was over. Everyone at the last table
of ten will get at least some money as it
gets down to the final winner. I can’t
imagine being there with that last table
of winners. But, then, I couldn’t
have ever imagined being here at all, so
there you go!
I constantly ask myself, What the hell am
I doing? I’m surrounded by mostly
men, mostly real live gamblers, mostly people
who have played a lot more poker than I
have. I’m a little home game gal.
I’m a “one/two or two/four”
limit table player. I’m a baby gambler
who is still way underqualified. I’m
also a voyeur. So maybe that explains why
I’m here.
In my real life, I’m a therapist and
I think the game of poker is a great metaphor
for the human condition...an excellent example
of the complex and confusing world of people.
Here we are, a bunch of strangers sitting
around a table, and in turn giving money
to each other, but we’re doing it
in a very creative and inventive way. We
use cards, and they have to go together
in some sort of order, and often we lie
or “bluff” about the cards we
are holding. This sometimes can be so intimidating
that other people just give up and let us
have the whole pot. It’s fascinating,
but now that I’m in the middle of
it, and I vacillate between feeling like
I’m going to throw up and jumping
out of my chair in pure glee.
The next hand is dealt, and everyone must
put in one thousand dollars to call if they
want to play the hand. I see that I have
a pair of tens. Pretty good, but definately
not the best hand. I wonder if it’s
worth a thousand to see the flop. I decide
it is and I push in a yellow chip.The guy
next to me raises to five thousand. Two
people call him and now all of a sudden
there is almost twenty thousand dollars
in the pot. I fold. The flop comes and it’s
two tens, and a king. I should have stayed.
Geez!
The guy next to me goes “all in”
and pushes all his chips into the middle.
Everyone folds and he gets the pot. He is
now the chip leader and I am the big blind.
That means I must post a thousand dollars.
Everything speeds up for me—my blood
pressure, my respiration rate, and the sweat
glands under my arm pits start pumping.
I get dealt a queen and a king. Gulp!
People go in, people fold. The flop comes
and it’s a two, a three and a five.
I have no doubt there's going to be a straight
on the board in about one minute. I cannot
get out fast enough.
My husband suddenly appears behind me and
whispers in my ear, “Hey, nice going,
Babe. Good luck.” I smile up at him,
but then frown as I look down at my chips.
I had so many chips just a little while
ago, and now I feel as if I have nothing.
The plastic disks say right on them, “No
Real Value,” but I feel as if they
really are real, and I am now destitute.
I sneak a peek at my neighbor. He has way
over thirty thousand dollars in chips, and
he is again going all in.
Someone calls him. They both turn up their
cards. The guy has a pair of aces. My neighbor,
Mr. Moneybags, shows an ace and four. He
wins with a straight: ace, two, three, four,
five. The challenger slinks off flat broke.
Now I’m the small blind and I put
out my five blue chips, each worth a hundred
dollars. King Midas puts in his thousand.
He has so many chips I can’t stand
it. I hate him. The cards go around the
table. There are now only five of us playing
so the deal doesn’t take long. I wish
we could take the break right now. I have
to pee and I need to regroup. My thoughts
and emotions are all over the place and
I want to reel them in. It’s getting
hard for me to think.
I look at my hand. “Ohmygod,”
I think, “A pair of aces! “The
nuts!” Being a feminist, I’m
thinking, “The ovaries! Yippee! I’m
going to make it to the last table.”
I realize, that's all I want at this moment,
just to make it till the break, and then
get to go to the last table.
My selfish greedy neighbor raises ten thousand
dollars. Everyone folds. Everyone except
me, of course. I call. The flop comes and
its a bunch of junk, a six, an eight, a
jack.
“Big deal,” I think, “I
got the ovaries, nothing can stop me.”
I confidently put five thousand in and look
over. I try my hardest to have no expression
on my face but I’m afraid my hand
is showing all over me.
“Raise,” he says and stares
straight ahead, blankly.
“Raise?” I think, “Raise?
What can he have?”
I decide he has nothing, and I know I have
the top pair. I quickly push in another
five thousand.
The turn is a four, and the betting comes
back to me.
“All in,” I say, maybe a little
too loud as people turn to look at me from
the other table. I quickly push all of my
hard won chips in front of me and let them
go.
My nemesis calls, and we both stand up.
The standing up part is one of the best
parts of going all in. It’s so dramatic,
and I feel as if I’m on TV. We both
turn over our hands.
My wonderful pair of aces are so beautiful
sitting there in the middle of the table.
The dark green felt sets off the red and
black of these two high cards. I am sure
there is nothing that can beat them. The
other hand is shown and it’s—Thank
you, Jesus!—a five and a jack. They
call that hand Motown, Jackson Five. Big
Shot now only has a pair of jacks, way less
valuable than my pocket rockets.
“I won, I won,” I’m thinking
and then I immediately start to judge him
by wondering why in the world did he call
in the first place, raise and then go all
in with such a crappy hand. I decide that
I was right and he is just a greedy jerk,
a liar and a cheat, and I am correct in
hating his guts.
However, along with the judgement, I do
feel a little sorry for him because he has
gotten beaten so badly by such a newcomer
like me. My pity is boundless for how pathetic
he is. Yawn.
Then, a nano second later, I decide I’m
not such a newcomer after all, and actually
I should probably quit my job and become
a professional poker player. I could easily
go all the way to the “World Poker
Tour,” and win millions of dollars
because obviously my incredible playing
skills and my unbelievably good luck is
a hard combination to beat.
With that split second decision my hand
moves towards the money. At the same time
the dealer puts down the river. It’s
another jack. A loud gasp whirls around
the table. Trips! I watch dumbfounded as
all my chips are pushed towards the winner.
I can’t believe it. I lost! I lost!
I have no money left. I am numb and suddenly
have to pee RIGHT NOW. All the air has been
sucked out of the room, and I can hardly
breathe.
This is what is known as a bad beat, and
what a bad beat it truly is. With my face
red with shame, my heart sinking into the
pit of my stomach, I pick up my purse, my
Starbucks tea cup, and without making any
eye contact with the other players, I silently
leave the table.
“Tough luck, Laurelee,” the
poker room manager calls as I head towards
the ladies’ room. “Hey listen,”
he tells me, “don’t feel bad.
You came in twelfth. That's very good for
your first time. Better than good! Really
great, really great! Come back tomorrow
and try again, okay?”
“Okay. Bye. Maybe so. See ya. Okay.
Fine. Whatever,” I’m muttering
as I quickly walk away, my dreams of being
in the World Poker Tour dashed, along with
my earlier desire to just make it to the
final table. I am crushed. My ego, so inflated
a few minutes ago, is now microscopic. I
wonder if I will need treatment for the
post traumatic stress syndrome that I shall
surely suffer. I want to cry, scream or
something like that, but I hold it together,
barely.
Walking to the ladies’ room I decide
that after that I’ll go into one of
the shops and buy something. Something very
expensive. I start to feel a little better
and then immediately worse because out of
the corner of my eye, I see that the next
hand of cards is already being dealt. Poker
chips get thrown into the round, and the
game continues behind me as if I had never
been there.~
===========================================
Laurelee Roark, MA,CCHT,CMT is a certified
hynotherapist, a certified yoga instructor,
a certified massage therapist and has been
a licensed cosmetologist for over 30 years.
She is also the founder of Beyond Hunger,
Inc., www.beyondhunger.org,
and the co-author of two books, It’s
Not About Food, and Over It. Her newest
book, Your Name Is Edith, is due out sometime
in 2006.
Laurelee Roark
laurelee@mchsi.com
P O Box 816
Clearlake Oaks, Ca 95423
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