Pocket Kings Read Online Free

Pocket Kings
Book: Pocket Kings Read Online Free
Author: Ted Heller
Pages:
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anything of a financial nature, crosswords, computer know-how, conversing about indie films and alt rock bands), and the items on List B, which contains those things I am good at (writing novels that don’t sell and screenplays that never get filmed and plays that never get produced, playing poker, not doing volunteer work), you would think that List A would feel sorry for List B and perhaps send a couple of things over just to boost morale. Sort of like a talent mercy fuck. But List A is merciless, takes no prisoners, brooks no quarter, and the end result is I might very well be a no-talent bum of the first order.
    So that was my life the day I won that first hand of fake money: I had two books under my belt, and while they had not sold well, one ( Plague Boy) had been optioned by Hollywood (the red-hot director Pacer Burton was slated to direct). I’d written a third novel but its fate was unknown and possibly extremely dire. On the plus side, I had a great job. My wife and I had enjoyed seven truly wonderful years of a yin-yang marriage. However, we had been married for ten, and lately (ever since my books began withering on bookstore shelves), my irritable and shabby New Jersey yin had been clashing with her carefree and classy Park Avenue yang. Because I could no longer bring myself to start another book and because I had so much free time on my hands, the stage was set for me to become a semiprofessional poker player.
    At least I was doing something I was good at.
    I refused to let all the lights go out.

    A week or so after I got back from Vegas, I opened up, with Wifey’s approval, a separate account at my bank and put a thousand dollars in it. When I got home from work one day I went into the Galaxy and set the whole thing up, linking the new account to the site. In the eyes of over 50,000 winners and losers around the world, I was now Chip Zero, Man of a Th ousand Dollars. I would either grow my stake into two or three thousand or fritter it away in a week. If it turned out to be the latter, then so be it. I’d have learned my lesson.
    Th ings would be different now: I wasn’t gambling with play money. Play money was Whiffleball; this was hardball. Of course, I didn’t have to play for real money—I could shuttle between the play tables and the real ones, hone my skills in the former to unleash them in the latter.
    Cynthia hadn’t come home yet, and after ten hands with the fake stuff, I made the move into Real Money World. I went to a table in “Low” with five- and ten-dollar blinds; my hands were ice-cold and my armpits were like sponges. As is possible on the site, before I took my “seat,” I observed the game and the players for a while. It was not surprising that play here moved slower, that the players deliberated longer: money really does change everything. Th is was like going from playing checkers with a ten-year-old to playing chess against Big Blue.
    I had also noticed—the site informs you—each player’s winnings (or stacks); that is, how much money players brought to the table. For example, Foldin’ Caulfield (an orthopedist from, ironically, Council Bluffs who either plays poker between surgeries to relax, or performs surgery between poker games to relax) might have a stack of $150,000, while Halitosis Sue’s stack was a modest $450. For this, my first game, I chose a table where people didn’t have that much, took my seat and played as the Big Man again. I don’t know why, but I was drawn to that avatar. (If Wifey resembles, as she thinks she does, Ava Gardner a year past her prime, I resembled Gérard Depardieu then, circa the 1980s, albeit with moppier, grayer hair and not as big a galoot. I was ten pounds overweight but, in my defense, it had been the same ten pounds for twenty years.)
    Chip Zero was now in the house.
    I dumped five bucks the first hand, folding two fours. Th e
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