People on the Felt

No Cheap Thrill - Suzanne Vega (mp3) link removed by request
Beat's So Lonely - Charlie Sexton (mp3)

Because one of my roommates was touched by the gods with the gift of The Earth-Shaking Snore, I found myself at a No Limit cash game in the GoldStrike's poker room at 4:45 a.m. on a Tuesday morning. Over the next seven hours of sitting at that table, the men (and one woman) I encountered gave me some of the best memories of my entire gambling weekend. The people always make the memories.*

If anyone enjoys books like Midnight at the Garden of Good and Evil, books that are as much about the odd and compelling characters that can populate a small area of shared space, then I highly recommend a poker room in a Mississippi casino. Although it's a little skewed toward the male perspective, you will otherwise find a greater diversity of background, ethnicity, money, disposition and alcohol tolerance than you could find almost anywhere else in the South outside of a Waffle House.

On my side of the table, three of the four guys had been in the poker room or in poker tournaments for at least 24 hours straight. They were all very good and regular hobbyists (as opposed to pros who hold no other job).

GRAY was this short and fairly tubby fella in his mid- to late 20s with a blonde burr haircut. He reminded me of someone I grew up with who had a developmental disorder. He didn't talk much, and he mostly seemed bored with the whole process, but maybe that's because he'd been in that poker room for 42 hours straight, with the exception of two free trips to the buffet.

He won his money, I think, because he looked stupid. And at a poker table, looking stupid but being halfway intelligent is an uncoachable gift. Woody Harrelson is stupendous at looking stupid, for example.

Anyway, he came to the GoldStrike at noon on Saturday with $400, and by the time he called it a day at 7:30 a.m. on Tuesday, he went to his room with $1,500. "Standard good weekend," he explained. He started talking with my side of the table at about 6:30 because he twice fell asleep at the table, and that was the only time he ever talked, he said. Besides, his plan was to grab a room at 7:30, sleep 'til 5 p.m. and then drive back to western Kentucky on a straight shot.

I have no idea if Gray was his real name. But that's what he said it was. Poker people are kinda tricky like that. It's like we wish we were in Top Gun, so everyone gets some kind of call sign. (Well, I didn't get a call sign, but I ain't got time to explain that.)

Here's one stereotype that rings pretty true at a poker table: the best women are tight and tough to crack. Bad women players rarely sit for more than an hour because they lose their money quickly. But the good ones, they play very few hands and just wait. The poker room is filled with an unspoken misogyny, full of men who absolutely can't stand losing a single chip to the fairer sex. So the smart women wait patiently -- very patiently -- to catch something good and then just call those big testosterone-fueled bets.

MORRIS was the most solid (read: best) player at the table. He was also a larger guy, but his buzz cut was gelled up and dark. He was on the final hours of his 28-hour run and was kind enough to give me his take on the players on the other half of the table.

One of the best things about being a talky and (mostly) friendly kind of guy is that, when you sit next to someone who knows their craft, they'll pass along crucial info. Especially if they're about to leave, because nice guys usually like to pass along their wisdom to someone else when they can't use it anymore. ("If that guy bets big on the flop, he's chasing. Just call and bet hard on the turn if nothing scary hits." "If Kevin has anything better than top pair he'll check-raise you.")

As a mere bear cub in the poker world, I'm delighted when an Obi-Wan wants to offer me advice, hints, tips. Unfortunately, when someone sitting next to you keeps giving you advice at a poker table, 80% of the time it's a donkey who doesn't know his ass from shinola but just won't shut up.

A donkey, for the uninitiated, is a poker buffoon. They don't mind giving their money away because they don't realize how bad they are. They tend to just think other people get lucky on them. They tend to think their bad bluffs almost worked. We had two of them at our table, and they combined to give the rest of us more than $1,000.

Both donks were in their 20s. The first was lanky and skinny and dressed in a satiny black shirt unbuttoned halfway, exposing a designer cross. Much like Morris, his hair was gelled, but it was a much fancier -- and metrosexual -- deal. The kid clearly came from money, and it clearly didn't mean much to him. He was just tickled to death to sit with eight other people who had no choice but to listen to him. When you're a donkey, people don't ask your name. Everyone just called him SLICK. Y'know, for the ironical glee of it.

The other donkey earned the moniker TWIN. He earned this name because he apparently looked like he could be my brother. And he was originally from Chattanooga. He was the worst kind of donkey. He was a Drama Donkey. Every decision required deep thought, and he would talk about it as if he had to fold AA when everyone at the table knew he was going to fold two seconds in. I made $150 off him in one hand because I knew he was bluffing and let him bet into me every time. He bet $100 on the river -- no small amount for me, mind you -- and I called instantly and showed the better hand.

"Would you have called me if I'd bet $200?" he asked, baffled that I called him with what wasn't all that impressive a hand.

"No way dude. I would have thought you really had it then," I lied. Because that's what you do at a poker table.

* -- Unless you win, like, a SHITload of money. Then the money makes the memory.