Marathon Game
Early in my career as a Parisian poker pro I found myself in a game that seemed would never end. Karin, my German wife was visiting her mom so I had nothing better to do even though I was opposed to games that went beyond seven or eight hours. All one ends up doing besides getting thoroughly exhausted is hurting weaker opponents thus giving them an excuse to drop out.
Fifty-seven hours ago nine of us sat down to play poker. Now we are only seven. We took a half-hour break at midnight Sunday when Annie Alphand, our host's wife came home unexpectedly. Jacques Collard was sitting buck-naked. Annie let out a scream. Jean-Paul Alphand and Collard are surgeons. Together they run a successful clinic in a western suburb. I don't think either of them will be operating today.
Collard promised us he would take off his clothes if he ever recouped the five thousand dollars he was losing. He’s a nut. All poker players are nuts, doctors in particular. Collard was down about twenty-five thousand francs at dinnertime. That was last night. It seems like last week. Dinner was a couple of stale baguettes and a few pieces of old gruyere. The losers bitched and moaned about stopping to eat.
“The hell with food,” said Collard. “If I want dinner I’ll go to a restaurant. We’re here to play poker.”
“That’s not what you said when you were winning last time,” said Pedro Da Silva, a Portuguese broker in granite and marble.
“Oh, man, that was months ago.”
“What do you care about a few paltry francs?” asked Jacqueline, the lone female player at that session. “Between your clinic and your father’s fortune . . .”
“I’ll tell you how much I care,” said Collard. “If I get my money back I’ll run through the streets of Paris naked, singing the Marseillaise.”
“Keep your clothes on,” said Jacqueline. “There’s not that much to see when they’re off.”
“Can you believe that damn Bertier,” said Da Silva. “The moment he recovered his losses he lit out of here like a man on fire.”
“What else would you expect from an art dealer?” I said. “They’re all a bunch of crooks.”
“Hey, you, Americano,” said Alphand. “No comments from the foreign brigade.”
“I guess that lowball hand still sticks in your craw,” I said.
“Damn right it does. A pat six against my seven-five.”
“Will you people shut up and play,” said Collard. “Who cares what happened last week?”
A few hours later Collard won a monster pot at seven-card stud. We were playing dealer’s choice. The surgeon’s four nines beat Herve Simeon the photographer’s jacks over fives full house and Da Silva’s ace high flush. Collard’s mood suddenly turned for the better. He stood up on his chair and started to whistle. One by one he threw off his clothing before rushing to the front door.
“Get back here, idiot,” said Alphand. “I’ve got neighbors.”
“Woo, woo, woo,” shouted Collard. “Allons enfants de la patrie . . . »
He regained his seat but not his attire. Annie Alphand was not due back till the following day. When she came home early she was shocked to find her apartment decorated with cigarette butts, half-eaten sandwiches, empty bottles, two jars of urine and a naked physician.
“What in God’s name is this?” she sighed.
“This is my manhood,” said Collard.
“Quick,” said Simeon. “Somebody get a magnifying glass.”
Jean-Paul put an arm around his wife and led her away.
“This next hand,” said Herve, retrieving the cards, “is one I call Cannack.”
A pink pastel dawn is absorbing the last fingers of night. Up and down, up and down. We are on a mad roller coaster ride, in the bowels of a sinking canyon, traversing a drunken whirlpool. Since he got his money back, Jacques Collard has just about stopped playing.
“Is it true, Pedro,” he asks, “that you’ve been dating Catherine Deneuve?”
“Who told you that?”
“One of my patients.”
“How would a patient of yours know anything about me?”
“You’d be surprised. Call four hundred and raise six hundred.”
Pierre Pegon lets out a sharp whistle. “Peace, peace! He is not dead, he does not sleep.”
Pegon teaches English Lit at the Sorbonne. Shakespeare and Shelley are among his favorites. Since he is reciting in the original, Collard does not know what he is talking about.
“Go get ‘em, Jacquo,” says Jacqueline.
“He has awakened from this dream of life,” Pegon continues.
“All-in,” says Simeon. He uses the French word: ‘tapis.’
Collard makes a gurgling sound. He looks at Herve’s pile of chips. The photographer’s bet is close to four thousand dollars.
“What game are we playing?” Collard asks.
“Poker, idiot,” says Alphand.
“Poker high or poker low?”
“Take your choice,” says Simeon.
“Illegal remark,” says Collard. “You are not allowed to verbally influence an opponent.”
“You heard me,” says Herve. "I said 'tapis.' "
“But I don’t know what game it is.”
“Then why did you raise?” I ask.
“Oh, man, it’s late. I mean, early. I’m in no shape to go on. Do you guys want a note from my doctor?”
“No,” says Simeon. “We want your money.”
Collard throws his cards on the table. Three kings turn over.
“That’s smart,” says Pedro Da Silva. “The hand is low-ball.”
“Low-ball?” says Collard. “Give me back my money.”
“No can do,” says Herve. I’ve got a straight to the five. I told you I could go either way.”
“Though this be madness . . .” says Pegon.
“How’s about shutting up with your Anglo-Saxonisms,” says Collard. “I’ll be damned if you intellectuals don’t show off words as much as a nouveau riche shows off money.”
Jacqueline stands up. “I’ve had enough,” she says. “I’m going home.”
“You can’t do that,” says Alphand. “I’m down a small fortune.”
“What time is it?” says Da Silva.
“Going on eight,” I reply.
“Mon Dieu,” says Collard. “I’ve got an appendectomy at nine.”
“How much are you winning, Bill?” Alphand asks me.
“About the same as what you’re losing.”
“Will you settle for half in cash right now?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“Of course you do.”
“In that case, it’s a deal.”
I want to go home too. Even though I’m winning big I don’t feel too great. Jean-Paul Alphand is a damn good client. I want to keep his head above water, not drown him. Lately I’ve had a hand on him. All too often these damn Frenchmen take their poker losses personally. Maybe all players do. Well, if you’re going to be a success in this town you had better know how to take one step backwards in order to skip a few steps forward. These Frogs care more about style than they do about substance. That doesn't help much when it comes to poker, but I tell you, even if they are a bunch of bastards, I love them, every last one of them. I really do
Fifty-seven hours ago nine of us sat down to play poker. Now we are only seven. We took a half-hour break at midnight Sunday when Annie Alphand, our host's wife came home unexpectedly. Jacques Collard was sitting buck-naked. Annie let out a scream. Jean-Paul Alphand and Collard are surgeons. Together they run a successful clinic in a western suburb. I don't think either of them will be operating today.
Collard promised us he would take off his clothes if he ever recouped the five thousand dollars he was losing. He’s a nut. All poker players are nuts, doctors in particular. Collard was down about twenty-five thousand francs at dinnertime. That was last night. It seems like last week. Dinner was a couple of stale baguettes and a few pieces of old gruyere. The losers bitched and moaned about stopping to eat.
“The hell with food,” said Collard. “If I want dinner I’ll go to a restaurant. We’re here to play poker.”
“That’s not what you said when you were winning last time,” said Pedro Da Silva, a Portuguese broker in granite and marble.
“Oh, man, that was months ago.”
“What do you care about a few paltry francs?” asked Jacqueline, the lone female player at that session. “Between your clinic and your father’s fortune . . .”
“I’ll tell you how much I care,” said Collard. “If I get my money back I’ll run through the streets of Paris naked, singing the Marseillaise.”
“Keep your clothes on,” said Jacqueline. “There’s not that much to see when they’re off.”
“Can you believe that damn Bertier,” said Da Silva. “The moment he recovered his losses he lit out of here like a man on fire.”
“What else would you expect from an art dealer?” I said. “They’re all a bunch of crooks.”
“Hey, you, Americano,” said Alphand. “No comments from the foreign brigade.”
“I guess that lowball hand still sticks in your craw,” I said.
“Damn right it does. A pat six against my seven-five.”
“Will you people shut up and play,” said Collard. “Who cares what happened last week?”
A few hours later Collard won a monster pot at seven-card stud. We were playing dealer’s choice. The surgeon’s four nines beat Herve Simeon the photographer’s jacks over fives full house and Da Silva’s ace high flush. Collard’s mood suddenly turned for the better. He stood up on his chair and started to whistle. One by one he threw off his clothing before rushing to the front door.
“Get back here, idiot,” said Alphand. “I’ve got neighbors.”
“Woo, woo, woo,” shouted Collard. “Allons enfants de la patrie . . . »
He regained his seat but not his attire. Annie Alphand was not due back till the following day. When she came home early she was shocked to find her apartment decorated with cigarette butts, half-eaten sandwiches, empty bottles, two jars of urine and a naked physician.
“What in God’s name is this?” she sighed.
“This is my manhood,” said Collard.
“Quick,” said Simeon. “Somebody get a magnifying glass.”
Jean-Paul put an arm around his wife and led her away.
“This next hand,” said Herve, retrieving the cards, “is one I call Cannack.”
A pink pastel dawn is absorbing the last fingers of night. Up and down, up and down. We are on a mad roller coaster ride, in the bowels of a sinking canyon, traversing a drunken whirlpool. Since he got his money back, Jacques Collard has just about stopped playing.
“Is it true, Pedro,” he asks, “that you’ve been dating Catherine Deneuve?”
“Who told you that?”
“One of my patients.”
“How would a patient of yours know anything about me?”
“You’d be surprised. Call four hundred and raise six hundred.”
Pierre Pegon lets out a sharp whistle. “Peace, peace! He is not dead, he does not sleep.”
Pegon teaches English Lit at the Sorbonne. Shakespeare and Shelley are among his favorites. Since he is reciting in the original, Collard does not know what he is talking about.
“Go get ‘em, Jacquo,” says Jacqueline.
“He has awakened from this dream of life,” Pegon continues.
“All-in,” says Simeon. He uses the French word: ‘tapis.’
Collard makes a gurgling sound. He looks at Herve’s pile of chips. The photographer’s bet is close to four thousand dollars.
“What game are we playing?” Collard asks.
“Poker, idiot,” says Alphand.
“Poker high or poker low?”
“Take your choice,” says Simeon.
“Illegal remark,” says Collard. “You are not allowed to verbally influence an opponent.”
“You heard me,” says Herve. "I said 'tapis.' "
“But I don’t know what game it is.”
“Then why did you raise?” I ask.
“Oh, man, it’s late. I mean, early. I’m in no shape to go on. Do you guys want a note from my doctor?”
“No,” says Simeon. “We want your money.”
Collard throws his cards on the table. Three kings turn over.
“That’s smart,” says Pedro Da Silva. “The hand is low-ball.”
“Low-ball?” says Collard. “Give me back my money.”
“No can do,” says Herve. I’ve got a straight to the five. I told you I could go either way.”
“Though this be madness . . .” says Pegon.
“How’s about shutting up with your Anglo-Saxonisms,” says Collard. “I’ll be damned if you intellectuals don’t show off words as much as a nouveau riche shows off money.”
Jacqueline stands up. “I’ve had enough,” she says. “I’m going home.”
“You can’t do that,” says Alphand. “I’m down a small fortune.”
“What time is it?” says Da Silva.
“Going on eight,” I reply.
“Mon Dieu,” says Collard. “I’ve got an appendectomy at nine.”
“How much are you winning, Bill?” Alphand asks me.
“About the same as what you’re losing.”
“Will you settle for half in cash right now?”
“Do I have any choice?”
“Of course you do.”
“In that case, it’s a deal.”
I want to go home too. Even though I’m winning big I don’t feel too great. Jean-Paul Alphand is a damn good client. I want to keep his head above water, not drown him. Lately I’ve had a hand on him. All too often these damn Frenchmen take their poker losses personally. Maybe all players do. Well, if you’re going to be a success in this town you had better know how to take one step backwards in order to skip a few steps forward. These Frogs care more about style than they do about substance. That doesn't help much when it comes to poker, but I tell you, even if they are a bunch of bastards, I love them, every last one of them. I really do
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