Twenty-Two--Quincy at the 2005 WSOP

He'd had his look completed by a Piotr-arranged Hollywood makeup artist, Angela Sherry, who, when she leaned in close enough to make sure that his foundation was applied evenly, exposed Quincy to sights he had never seen in high school.  Hollywood cleavage, he thought, and instantaneously sprouted an erection.  He pictured a pond surrounded by naked women with enormous breasts tickling each other with foot-long pink feathers and giggling while Beck played softly in the background.

Give the finger to the rock n roll singer

As he's dancing upon your paycheck

The sales climb high

Through the garbage-pail sky

Like a giant dildo crushing the sun.

Noticing his discomfort, Angela declared, "No foul as long as it stays in the shorts," and resumed her work.  Meanwhile, he concentrated on baseball stats to avoid climax.

Piotr had warned him that if he won, he wouldn't be able to walk away with any money.  "You don't have an SSN.  Just enjoy the experience," Piotr had advised.  Quincy had no clue what an SSN was, but he was already enjoying the experience.  Piotr had also paid the manager of the Rio pit enough money so that when Quincy showed up mustachioed, sporting a bald spot the size of mother Russia, and dragging a cane by his side, Quincy would have no trouble.  Spotting him, the manager squinted, then said under his breath, "Shit.  How old are you supposed to be anyway, kid?"

"84."

"Christ."  He laughed.  "You look like walking cancer."

In this way, Quincy entered Event #2, $1,500 no limit holdem.

*     *     *     *     *

He was handed a transparent baggy full of chips and found table 16, seat 7.  There were three other seats open.  His table consisted of five older men and an acne-stained teenage girl wearing gigantic black headphones and lightly bobbing her head.  Sitting down, he opened his bag and saw one red chip, two whites, four blues, eight blacks and eight greens. Fiending for lunch, he mixed his chips into a single heterogeneous stack and wandered off to find a restaurant that served mac n cheese.  After spotting a small eatery near the craps table, where he saw two blonde dealers staring off into the distance, he ate a quick lunch for two bucks, tipped twenty, and headed for the craps table.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Craps," the woman replied.  She woman was wearing a red V-shaped blouse, where the V ended inches above belly button. Las Vegas cleavage, he thought.

"What do I do?" he asked, breathless.

"You put your money on the table."

He pulled a wad out of his pocket and plopped it on the table.

The woman's eyes widened a bit, but she leaned over and passed the cash to the man sitting next to her.  

Once he was done counting, he said, "Cash only, thirty-two thousand four hundred," and, after another pit boss came over to glance over his shoulder and nod, moved two stacks of chips, orange and red, over to her.  When she leaned over to pass the chips to him, he saw that she had an innie.

He put the chips on the rail and stared at the woman.  She looked like Jack Bauer's daughter in 24.  "Put some money on the line," she said pointing in front of him.  He did.  "Roll the dice that way.  Make sure you hit the wall."

Just then, a middle-aged black woman in a miniskirt appeared at his side.  "Would you like a drink?"

"Okay."

She smiled.  "What would you like?"

Quincy couldn't think of anything.  He passed her a green chip and said, "Whatever you would drink."

He rolled for a few minutes.  The waitress came back with a drink that look like Coke but smelled like car fluid.  It was surprisingly sweet.  He drank it in three gulps.  Meanwhile, the dealer took a chip, she gave it back, took another chip, gave it back.  

The waitress came back.  "Would you like a drink?"

He said, "Didn't you just ask me that?"

"Yes."

"Okay."

"Same thing?"

"Okay."

He won a chip, he lost a chip, he won a chip, he lost a chip.  When the waitress returned, he gave her another green chip and finished his drink in five seconds.  He found himself getting bored.  "What's that?" he asked.  He was surprised at how loud he had become.

The dealer seemed unfazed.  She explained the hardways to him.  "Put one of these on all of them," he said, and passed her the orange chips.

"A thousand on each of the hardways," she said, tossing them to the middle.

Quincy ordered another drink and rolled the dice.

"Six . . . hard," she called.  As she leaned with the stick to retrieve the dice, Quincy thought he saw the bronze outline of a nipple.  Like a light switch, his erection returned with a fierceness.  He pushed himself against the craps table in his embarrassment and realized that he couldn't move.  He realized that he was trapped at the craps table.  He was holding a drink in his hand, so he drank it.  

"Press it?" she asked, as he pressed himself against the wood paneling.

"Huh?"

"Let it ride?"

Press it let it ride press it let it ride.  He couldn't understand her sex talk.  He took a guess.  "Yes, another drink please."

"You won nine thousand," she said.  "Do you want to bet it?"

"Okay."

He was in pain, but he knew he couldn't move.  He rolled the dice and she called hard eight, at which point he almost lost control, and asked him if he would let it ride.  He said, "Okay," and drank his drink and rolled a few soft numbers and then another hard eight, at which point she told him that he was at the table max and couldn't let it ride, and those words made his erection shrink a bit, which was a good thing, so he said, "Okay," and rolled the dice and she called hard ten, which excited him more than the other hard numbers but he didn't know why, and she asked him to press it and he nodded and his erection returned and then he rolled hard four three times in a row, and he had another drink so he drank it, and before he knew it he was looking at a long row of red chips, given to him by the hottest woman he had ever seen, except for Natalia Pertman, and he had trouble standing up straight.

Then the female dealer said, "Do you want me to ride with you?" and Quincy felt himself get lightheaded.

He meant to say, "Pardon me?"  Instead, his voice uttered this sound: "Uh?"

"I asked if you want me to ride with you."

"In my Maserati?"

She laughed then, as if he was a genuine comedian, and said, "No, silly.  If you want to bet for yourself and for me, I'll be riding with you."

"Okay," said Quincy, and splashed some black chips onto the felt.  

"Put them everywhere?"

"Okay," he replied, and he rolled eleven, at which she called out, "Yo!" and dropped black chips into the box near her hip, and then he rolled a couple more hard ways, and then she called out, "Winner!" louder than before, drawing the attention of players at the roulette wheel, all while Quincy tried to keep his erection trapped against the side of the craps table.  If he moved it for any reason, he knew, disaster could strike.

His rolling and her calls became a blur, until he felt a tap on his shoulder.  He turned and saw the manager of the WSOP, who said, "Take him down," and waited impatiently until Quincy racked up his red, orange, and purple chips.  As he drew him away from the table--the woman calling out, "Thanks!"--the manager said, "Kid, you can't cash those out.  What do you have there?  100k?"

"I dunno."

"Are you drunk?  Come with me," he said, hustling him across the casino, past the cafe and the bar until they were in the poker room.  "They're blinding you off over there.  Take your seat."  And he deposited Quincy at his spot.

When he tried to add the rack of five-thousand-dollar chips to his stack, they spilled onto the felt, and the dealer said, "Sir, you'll have to keep those off the table."

In reply, Quincy burped and tasted mac and cheese and car fluid.  He was dealt 83 offsuit and raised from middle position.  The button reraised him, Quincy shoved, and the button folded.  The girl wearing the black headphones raised a single eyebrow.

He folded a few hands and then raised pocket fours to three hundred from under the gun.  The action folded to the girl with the headphones on the hijack, who reraised him to a thousand.  He shoved, and she instantly called, showing AK offsuit.

The door card was an ace, and Quincy was out of the tournament.

He nodded at her and said, "Nice hand."

She nodded back and replied, "Your mustache is falling off."

As Quincy stood, the manager rushed over to guide him to Piotr, who led him upstairs, chips clacking in his pockets.

"How'd you get all those chips?" Piotr asked.

"Pocket deuces, fours, sixes, and eights," Quincy replied.  Then he meant to say, "Kidnap the craps dealer," but he had already passed out.