It’s a quarter to ten and I’m standing in the dingy vestibule of an old brownstone somewhere in soho. The routine is always the same. I ring the buzzer, the intercom crackles and I’m asked my name and told to stand in front of the camera.

I oblige, telling them my name for the 10th time and removing my hat so they can get a better view. I’m told that I’m OK and am buzzed in through a series of doors.

The interior of the club is dingy and sloppy, it looks to be somewhere between a living room and the back room of a bodega. White walls with glossy lime trim, unflattering fluorescent overheads and dingy green checker board tiled flooring. A tabby cat sashays between the legs of the players, looking for attention. Something about the acoustics causes the usual clatter of chips to be amplified, but it’s a soothing sound so I don’t mind.

Two tables are going, a must move and the main table. Both are full and I’m told it’ll be ten to fifteen minutes. I grab a seat in the back and start a conversation with the massage girl about eastern medicine, massage therapy for animals and different muscle groups of the human body. She’s really hot in a weird way, maybe it’s the ink - I have a tattoo fetish of sorts - or maybe it’s the no-nonsense way she talks. Definitely street smart, probably a bit of a ball buster. Just my type. Too bad she’s got six inches on me in the height category.

After awhile a seat opens up and I sit at the must move table. I buy in for my usual $400. Instead of taking the time to study the field, I throw myself straight into the play coming out firing on my first two hands. The table is wound tight and it’s mostly guys I’ve played before. I take down the first pot, but get caught in a draw on the second hand which zaps the profit of the first pot.

After that the well runs a little dry and I’m getting some crap hands, or good hands with mismatched flops. Grind city. So I tighten up and wait to limp or play a premium. To pass the time I start making up back stories for the people I’m playing with.

The Field

In the 1 seat is a guy whose nickname is really “The Lockbox”. I have no idea what that means. He has a casual brooklyn or long island accent, plain in appearance, probably around my age but older looking. I catch a few rifts of conversation between him and the dealer, it’s obvious they know and play with each other. They talk about the 5/10 and 10/20 games in AC, The Lockbox’s preference for Omaha. He definitely knows how to bet and has no problem laying the sweat on the field in any position. I’m going to try and stay away from him.

In the 2 seat is a unabomber clone replete with the hoodie pulled over, sunglasses, iPod. He rarely speaks, plays tight as a whistle but - like the Lockbox - can bring some heat. I play a few small pots with him and he turns out to be a very nice and polite guy with solid table etiquette.

I’m in the 3 seat. To the left of me is some young asian kid, looks to be a comp sci student or was. He’s tilting like a drunk trying to balance. I’m going to try to play with this guy as much as possible. To that guy’s right is an unclean lifer with dirty hair, about my age, his fingernails chewed to a nub; a blinking neon sign of mental/emotional issues. After him is a slick looking middle aged asian guy who is trying to sell a social game, but nobody’s buying it.

I should interject that I’ve noticed of late that it’s not so much the type of play that differs between Vegas and New York as it is the type of social games people run. People seem to eat up the social shit in Vegas, everyone in NYC usually seems like they’re at work. In Vegas, the strength of people’s personalities seem weaker somehow than the stock of personality you find at a club here in the city. Perhaps it’s the anonymity that Vegas affords, the shifting wave of people you play over the course of a session.

The rest of the table is relatively caricature and non-descript. There’s an old italian guy, sort of brutal looking, who jams the pot every chance he can. A chubby white guy into freeing Tibet, with his little Bhudda card protector and hemp shirts. It reminds me that I should probably tap him to see if he burns. A young asian hoody with an I *breakdance* NY t-shirt. I learn he’s a dealer at a club in Flushing. Average player, predictable. Other people come and go, but those are the ones who stayed the entire session.

Self Doubt

At some point I’m dealt 57s on the button with limpers to me. I play the button, because the books and television shows tell me to and make it 15 to go. I get one caller and the flop vomits a hideous 46Q rags. It’s checked to me and I bet the pot. Call. The turn throws me a bone with the 8 of spades. My opponent leads out with $35 and I call. Final card comes a Jack and I suddenly wonder if I’m any good. It’s checked to me, but I don’t bet and offer a check in return. I flip over and pronounce a baby straight, fully anticipating a show of 9T, but he mucks instantly.

It strikes me as odd that I’m playing so cautiously. A safety bet should have flown out from my stack on the river, but I’m shy about a re-raise. I have this guy on two pair in my head, but my gut is saying T9. Granted, I’ve had a couple of bad sessions lately, but nothing major. Maybe it’s something about this club, I’m not sure if it’s the people or the ambiance or what. I won’t realize until later it’s because I’m putting two stress factors on myself: I’m only giving myself 4 hours to play and I’m not buying in with relation to the stacks on the table.

Nothing I can do about the 4 hours of play, I need to learn to work around that. My usual expectation is to triple up, that’s the goal I set for myself. 4 hours is fairly unrealistic for that to happen, so I’m going to lower my goal to doubling up and apply a smaller sliding scale of $100 for this particular club. I’m thinking of upping my buy-in to $500-$600 to widen opportunity for participating in a wider range of pots. Obviously, this ups the risk factor on bankroll loss, but the extra comfort is worth it.

The other thing I have to contend with is the must move table. This table sucks because people rotate in and out, a constant wobble between 10 handed and 5 handed. The constant adjustment of hand value, and having to re-rank adversaries throws a lot of shit out the window. And because the big stacks are waiting to get on to the juicier main table, the action is feeble. You are being blinded to the tune of $50+ every hour.

The Lockbox

It’s around 12:30 and I’m $400 up, at one point in the last hour being $150 from the felt. Getting cards. Missing flops. Same old story.

I’m in the button and get dealt hooks. I fucking hate Jacks. You raise here and you chase everyone out except for the people who can stomp your dick into the ground with AA, AJ, AQ, AK, KK, QQ, KQ. You limp and your shit is worthless on the flop. Someone told me that there are only two ways to play Jacks and they’re both wrong. Truer words never spoken.

5 limpers to me. I raise it $25, but thinking after I placed the bet that I should have pumped it to $40. I get 2 callers, the comp sci student and The Lockbox. Flop bestows 7 4 10 rags.

Finally, a flop I can work with.

Checked around to me, I fire a pot sized bet. Don’t want to let someone with A10 see another card - and with the tightness of the field I’m happy with the $75 I’m getting for the jacks.

Comp sci student folds, The Lockbox calls almost instantly. Turn pops a queen and I know my jacks have been counterfeited. Fucking jacks. The Lockbox checks and I agree. River is a blank and The Lockbox fires $100 at me. I show my jacks and muck. He shows me QJ and then has the balls to say: “I didn’t mean to call on the flop.”

The Unabomber clone tells The Lockbox, “That’s a fucked up thing to say. I’m just sayin’”

I’m steamed now, dude wants to try to squeeze my nuts with some bullshit table banter. I try to keep myself even and calm, but degenerate rubs it in passive aggressively by sending condolences my way whispering, “That was a shitty play by that guy. What a douche bag.”

I take a breath, through the nose, out the mouth, just like my therapist told me to do. I relax a little, but I’m annoyed. Not by his play, mind you, but what he said and the fact that I’m letting what he said get to me.

A Revenge Best Served Tilted

The very next hand I’m dealt AK of spades. I raise it to $50. Three callers. You know The Lockbox is one of them.

Flop drops QT7 rags. Checked to me and I continue with a $75 bump. Button calls, The Lockbox min raises. I call. Button calls.

Dealer flips the turn, 8 of spades. The Lockbox drops $150 instantly. He’s putting me nearly all-in. Sick bastard. I have no right calling here, but I’m steamed and it’s The Lockbox. I’m breaking a golden rule, I’m playing against a player purely out of emotion, playing right into that shit like a donkey. He’s on J9 or AQ, either way I’m beat and staring at 4 outs. 8% chance of hitting.

Fuck it, I’m all in. I push my chips up and resign myself for a hasty retreat back to work. The river peels a Jack and a Broadway so beautiful I’ve not seen any time in recent memory. I flip up the AK in such a way that it lands nearly in front of him. “Dirty” is the only the thing he says.

The unabomber clone gives an accurate assessment, “Beats a queen jack.”

Jacks Again

Next hand - I shit not - I’m dropped JJ again. $50 raise. The Lockbox calls. Heads up to the flop and J39 appears on the board. The Lockbox bets 50 and I re-raise him $100 on top. He calls and the turn drops junk. He checks to me and I put $250 forward. He thinks about it for awhile and folds.

We never played another pot together again.

The End

About 45 minutes later I peel myself off the table, nearly doubled up. Not a fantastic run, but satisfying towards the end. I’ll probably be playing again tomorrow, so I’m going to up my buy-in and lower my goals to see how I fare. There’s got to be some comfort zone that I’m just not hitting at the moment. Too much preoccupation with stack management and not enough cultivating table image so I can ramp up the bluffs.

I miss Vegas.