The Happiest Days of Our Lives (14 page)

The blinds go up to 200-400 and that takes care of Mrs. Funnypants, who was down to the felt when we moved. I try not to get too excited, but I’m currently one off the money. That’s pretty damn cool, but there’s a sobering reality: If I go out next, I have as much to show for my efforts as Mr. Lawyer, and I really fucking hate that guy.

Shortly after the blinds go up to 800-1600, Mr. Director busts out Mr. I Won An Emmy, and I find myself in the money! I can’t believe it!

I look at my stack: I have about 5,000, I guess, and I’m looking to make a move. Mrs. Beautiful is stacked…and is also the chip leader with over 13,000. Mr. Director has about 2,000 less than she does. He reaches into his jacket and takes out a Camel cigarette.

“You can’t smoke in here, sir,” the dealer says.

“What?” Mr. Director says.

“It’s against the law,” the dealer says.

“We’re in an illegal cardroom, and you’re worried about me smoking?”

“Sorry,” the dealer says. “House rules.”

For a moment, I think Mr. Director is going to punch him, but then he laughs.

“Fucking California,” he says. We all laugh as he puts the cigarette behind his ear.

During the shuffle, Mrs. Beautiful turns to me and says, “Hey, where the hell is Shane?”

“He’s…babysitting.”

“Babysitting?! Who?”

I tell her that I’m not sure. Mr. Director offers the name of a fairly prominent studio executive, well-known for his tantrums.

“I really don’t know.” I’m sort of glad I don’t.

For the next several hands I steal a few blinds with all-in moves, but I’m nervous every time I put all my money in; I’m really getting nothing but a bunch of small off-suit junk and the occasional medium king. The only pair I get is crabs and that also gets no callers, so I let Mr. Director and Mrs. Beautiful beat up on each other while I tread water. When the blinds go up to 1000-2000, my short stack looks a lot shorter. I have just enough to cover one or two more blind bets, and I’m hoping for a miracle.

Mrs. Beautiful is on the button, Mr. Director is the small blind, and I’m the big blind. She calls. Mr. Director folds, and I look at my cards. There’s my miracle: A-10 hearts. My heart thumps hard in my chest. This time, I hope to get called by a worse hand. I’ve been jamming so much, any competent player should call with just about any face card that I’m ahead of. It’s clear that these guys are competent players, so I wrap my left hand around my small stacks of chips and push them toward the center of the table.

“I’m all in.” I know the words come out of my mouth, but they sound distant.

Mrs. Beautiful studies her pocket cards. “Call.”

Visions of doubling up and making a strong run at second, or even first, begin to dance in my head.

I stand up and turn over my cards. Mrs. Beautiful bites her lip and turns over Siegfried and Roy.

Two. Fucking. Queens.

With a gentle smile, she says, “I’m sorry.”

Oh fuck me. Three outs. Come on, three outs!

The dealer knocks the table, slides the top card under the muck, and deals out three cards. He spreads them out with a flourish, just like on TV. He flips them over and the flop is revealed: 9 hearts—10 diamonds—5 clubs. I make a pair, but her queens still beat me.

I’m not good enough at math to know what my odds are, but I know that I’m looking at five outs, more if a heart comes. Well, maybe I’ll get lucky again.

The dealer burns and turns…a red deuce…is it hearts or diamonds? It’s a heart! The lowly two of hearts. It’s the most beautiful card I’ve seen tonight. Eleven cards left now in this deck that can keep me in this game.

The busted-out players who have stuck around to drink surround the table. A wave of excitement ripples through them.

“Come on, Wil!” yells Mr. Drunk Guy.

Ever since the first time I caught the World Series of Poker years ago in the middle of the night on ESPN, I’ve entertained notions of playing in the big one. But every time I go to Vegas, I look into those poker rooms and lose my nerve. Before tonight, I’ve never had the balls to play in anything bigger than a home game with friends. I doubt I’ll ever play in the World Series, but the way I feel right now, I could be at the final table, staring across the felt at Johnny Chan.

I take a deep breath and grab the back of my chair tightly. I don’t have to look at my knuckles to know that they’re white. Here comes fifth street, and the whole thing is in slow motion: The dealer knocks three times with one knuckle; grabs the red-backed corner of the top card, his thumb covering the little Bicycle cherub; and burns it away.
Was that one of my outs? I’ll never know.
His hand rests atop the deck, and it feels like an eternity before the river is revealed…

…and it’s the queen of clubs. I go out in third place.

Mrs. Beautiful stands up and hugs me. She smells good. Mr. Director shakes my hand, and tells me that I played well. Mr. Drunk Guy tells me how much he loves me.

I pick up my coat and go collect my money.

The girl at the bar counts out a stack of bills. Blue eyes. Pale skin. Jet black hair down her back. God
damn.

“You’ve never played here before,” she says.

“Nope. I didn’t even know this place existed until two weeks ago.”

“You should come in on a weekend night. It gets crazy in here.”

“Plato’s Retreat crazy?” I ask.

She gives me a blank look. I realize that she can’t be older than 22.

“It was a ’70s sex club in New York,” I say. “Not that I went there when I was eight, or anything.”

“Oh.” She smiles. “Well, it gets crazy in here.” She hands me my money. “You should really come back.” There’s a subtle flirtation. I wonder for the briefest second if it’s me or the cash I am stuffing into my pocket. She takes out a shiny black business card with “Odessa” stamped on the back in red ink and writes “Jessie” on it. “This will get you in.” She smiles, puts it in my hand, and holds on a little too long.

I’m enjoying this entirely too much. “I usually spend the weekends with my wife and stepkids,” I say. “But I’ll hold onto this.”

“You do that,” she says. “You want anything for the road?”

Do I.

“A bottle of water would be great,” I say.

She turns around and reaches down into a box against the back of the bar. Her shirt lifts up and reveals a tattoo of ribbon, tied into a bow, just above the top of her black and red—

I really need to get out of here.

“Here you go,” she says.

“Thanks. Bye.” I take the bottle and walk to the door. Mr. Webmaster is waiting for me.

“Hey, you played really well,” he says.

“Thanks. Too bad I got clobbered by those fucking queens.”

“It happens. Can I ask you a question?”

Oh good. He wants me to introduce him to the agent I don’t have.

“Sure.”

“Why didn’t you play on Celebrity Poker Showdown?”

“Because I’m not a celebrity,” I say. “At least, not in the way it matters to Bravo.”

“Aw, fuck them. You can play here whenever you want.”

“Thanks, man. I appreciate that.”

“Just bring Shane and his money next time.”

I laugh and shake his hand.

“Will do.”

I walk out the door, down the alley, and past a long line of hipsters, behind a velvet rope. They have no idea about the game. The Odessa keeps a good poker face.

We put “Lying in Odessa” at the end of the book because, even though it’s not 100% thematically connected to the rest of the stories, I think it’s some of the best narrative writing I’ve ever done. We figured that, by the time the reader gets here, they’ll either come along for the ride, or just close the book and curse me for not writing another missive about gaming.

This poker game, and the story I wrote about it, happened right at the beginning of the poker boom, in February, 2004. I had just finished reading Jim McManus’
Positively Fifth Street
and Anthony Holden’s
Big Deal
, and when I played in my first ever poker tournament—a game of questionable legality, at that—I couldn’t wait to write about it. I serialized it in my blog, and it became one of the most popular series of posts I’ve ever written. In fact, it directly lead to me joining Team PokerStars a year later, which directly lead to me playing in the World Series of Poker, twice, and busting out on day one, twice.

Many details have been changed to protect the innocent, and last time I checked, the Odessa was just a memory; it’d be hard to say if it even existed at all.

acknowledgments

I
owe a tremendous debt of gratitude to everyone who reads my blog and my columns online. Without their support and constant requests for me to write another book, you wouldn’t be holding this in your hands.

My wife, Anne, and our kids, Ryan and Nolan, always know when to encourage me to stop working, go outside, and play Frisbee for a little while. Words are not enough to express my love for them.

I couldn’t have done this without the tireless assistance, guidance, and magnificent red pen of my editor and friend, Andrew Hackard. I’ve worked with several different editors in my brief life as a full-time writer. Until I started working with Andrew, I didn’t understand why some authors would follow certain editors to the ends of the Earth to keep working with them. I also want to thank Andrew’s parents, Jim and Sandra Hackard, for creating him, making him the person he is today, and for being so supportive of our work together.

Monolith Press simply could not function without Russ Unger. Thanks, Roughy, for being with me from the beginning.

All the stories in this book were originally published online in some form or another, mostly on my blog, using the TypePad software from SixApart. Thank you to everyone there for making it so easy for me to take what’s in my brain and put it on the Internets, which is a series of tubes, not a truck like some people think. Thank you to everyone at Feedburner for making it so easy for me to syndicate my content to anyone who wants to read it.

My parents, Rick and Debbie Wheaton, my brother and his wife, Jeremy and Jenn, and my sister and her husband, Amy and Andrew, have been so supportive, we’re never going to get a dysfunctional reality TV show together. That’s okay with me. Extra special thanks to my mom, who helped me find all the photos that are in this book.

Pink Floyd, Oingo Boingo, The Who, the soundtracks to
Kill Bill
and
Death Proof
, Verve Remixed, Wilco, and The Cure provided the always-important soundtrack to keep me motivated and focused. When I worked on this special edition, I mostly listened to The Pixies.

The first rule of TWS Fight Club is that you don’t talk about TWS Fight Club. The second rule of TWS Fight Club is that I get to enigmatically say thank you to people whose advice, support, and ideas have helped me grow several levels in Writing. You’re awesome people, and I’m lucky to call you my friends.

Warren Ellis, John Scalzi, David Wellington, Neal Stephenson, David Sedaris, Cory Doctorow, and John Vorhaus all inspired me and made me want to be a better writer. They also write books that are exceptionally awesome, and you should go out and buy them all.

Aunt Val, I still miss you. I wish you could read these stories with me while we eat Sugar Pops and wait for
Fantasy Island
to start.

Christopher Suicide brought me to Suicide Girls to edit geek news. Helen Jupiter made me a columnist, and Missy Suicide gives me more creative freedom than I’ve ever had in a weekly gig. I love writing the Geek In Review, where some of these stories started.

Mykal Burns, Stephanie and Patrick Kirchen, Darin and Dee Miller, Ryan and Kim Kallberg, Yuri Lowenthal and Tara Pratt, and Dan and Sharon Goldman are awesome friends who make me feel cooler than I really am.

Lee Jones read “Lying in Odessa” and began my two-year journey through the world of poker. While I was there, Brad Willis, Paul McGuire, and the members of Team Blog at the 2006 World Series of Poker inspired, challenged, and supported me. I am a better writer for knowing and working with them.

My manager, Chris Black, does a fantastic job helping me balance acting and writing, and is always patient when I tell him I can’t meet with a casting director because I’m on a writing deadline.

A special thank you to Bill, Cherie, and everyone else at Subterranean Press for making this expanded edition a reality.

I know I forgot someone, so this is where I say, “Oh shit. You’re right. I suck,” and write their name here:
_____________________________________________________.

Finally, I always thank my ninth-grade English teacher, Mrs. Lee, who told me I was the worst writer she’d ever read and that I’d never amount to anything because I was “a stupid actor.” I’ll keep on doing my best to show her—and every other teacher who thinks it’s awesome to insult and belittle their students—how very wrong she was.

about the author

W
il Wheaton grew up in Sunland, California in the ’70s and came of age in La Crescenta, California in the ’80s. As an actor, he prophetically played the writer Gordie LaChance in Rob Reiner’s 1986 classic
Stand by Me
and the ultrageek Wesley Crusher on
Star Trek: The Next Generation
.