It’s an otherwise ordinary day when we wander into a poker emporium in the northwest valley.
After a few table change requests are honored, we are seated at a table with familiar faces: Three Dollar Don, so-called because he sometimes bets the table minimum in contested pots; No See Lenny, so-called because he wants the dealer to announce raises because he sees poorly; and Princeton, so-called because he allegedly went to school there and has “smart” picks in betting sports.
“Lakers,” Princeton says to me with no other introduction. “I’m on the Lakers tonight.”
I nod. We play several laps with little action.
After an hour or so, I move seats to get position on a player with a big stack who has been running over the game.
Then a new guy sits down to my right. He plays a few hands in straightforward fashion, then digs a canned drink out of his pocket, cracks it open with a pffffft and pours it over ice. This is odd. You can get any drink you want in the poker room—a mixed drink, beer, wine, Champagne, coffee, tea, hot chocolate (with or without whipped cream), Red Bull, juice, water — you name it, they’ll bring it to you. It’s complimentary but a tip of a dollar or two is expected.
I cast a glance at this guy’s beverage. It’s a blackberry and coconut drink “infused with cannabis.”
That’s a new one on me.
He notices me watching him and asks, “Look interesting?”
“Yeah,” I say. “Where did you get that?”
“Dispensary.”
Ohhh.
The guy with the cannabis-infused drink eventually leaves. No See Lenny goes bust, rebuys and runs his stack up again. Three Dollar Don wins a modestly sized pot with A-K. He bet $3 on the river and was called.
We play a few hands. I call a raise from the big stack with 6-6. But I whiff the flop. The turn brings a king, and the river is another king, and the big stack shows K-3. Better way to play that hand?
In the big blind, I flop bottom two pair on a Q-8-6 board. But another guy makes a bigger two pair when an ace lands on the river. Better way to play that hand? Regardless, it’s time to leave. As we wander toward the exits, we take the long way to get in a few more steps for the day. As we are walking, the intoxicating aroma of a lit cigar wafts around us. It has notes of coffee, chocolate and citrus. Stop and weave among a few banks of slot machines, but we can’t find the smoker.
We walk farther still and do another lap around the casino. That should put us near 5,000 steps for the day. When we circle through the banks of slot machines again, the cigar aroma intensifies. We are close. Then we spot the cigar. It’s a large ring gauge (big) cigar. And we notice the smoker. It’s a woman, maybe 70, slim, wearing glasses, playing a slot machine. We stop and inhale the delectable aroma.
“That’s a good one,” I say.
“Thanks.” She suspects I am curious about the details, but she confesses she discarded the label. I wonder if she has others and inquire politely.
“Nope,” she says. “It’s the last one — for the day.”
Her credits on the slot machine evaporate, she reaches into a purse for another Franklin and inserts it into the machine.
“Well,” I say. “Enjoy.” She nods.
And I head for the parking garage.
Princeton needs to go back to school. Lakers lost and failed to cover.
