Just around noon Sunday, they were calling names for a limit game and I was on the list with Seat No. 7 locked up.
Looking around the table, there were mostly familiar faces — an African-American gentleman, a hyperactive millennial in Seat No. 5, a guy who actually reads a book between hands (and sometimes during hands), a poker room supervisor from another joint and an old codger who goes by the nickname of Mr. (pick a letter).
Call it Q. Mr. Q.
You could feel the energy at the table ready to be unleashed as the dealer carefully peeled out the decks, inspected the cards and dropped them into the automatic shuffler.
We went around a few laps and I managed to run up my stack a little.
We watched numerous hands play out, including the one in which the hyperactive millennial raised, then got check-raised when a possible flush appeared on the turn. He called and snapped off a bluff from pocket 5s with his set of kings.
The game drifted into a routine. The guy with a book returned to his book. The supervisor wandered off for a serving of french fries and came back with the fries and a giant bowl of ketchup.
I looked at him. I looked at his ketchup.
He grinned at me. “I like ketchup,” he says.
Mr. Q was yammering to the dealer about splitting a bad-beat jackpot a million years ago somewhere in Louisiana. The dealer tried to feign interest.
An hour into the game, we went to a half-kill and raised the stakes a little. I called in middle position with A-x suited. Mr. Q elects to pop it to two bets.
I call. The dealer burns and puts out 6-7-8 with two spades and one of my suit.
Mr. Q bets and after some consideration, I call.
Hmmm.
The turn comes a queen of my suit.
I let the gears in my brain idle for a few seconds and carefully bet out with my ace high flush draw.
Mr. Q looks momentarily puzzled.
He looks at his hand. He looks at the pot. He looks at me. He looks back at his hand.
If he’s got A-K with the other flush draw, he would call in a heartbeat. But clearly he doesn’t.
If he had pocket aces or kings, he would call in in a heartbeat. But clearly he doesn’t.
If he had pocket queens, he just made a set and would raise. But clearly he doesn’t.
Mr. Q thinks a little bit more. And folds.
Well, you know he did split that bad-beat jackpot a million years ago.
I stack the pot.
Gonna fly now.
