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#641 – Engulfed by Biloxi #11 – The Road to Ruin, Part V
A SMARTER MAN WOULD HAVE KNOWN
I was happy to continue reading about gambling history, and occasionally playing a hand of poker, while seated at Table 68, Seat 1. My laissez fair approach mirrored that of tournament management. We lost the player to my left in Seat 2 at about 12:25. Thirty minutes later, I noticed, his seat card hadn’t even been picked up. One PA announcement was “Cocktails to … everywhere. Cocktails to everywhere in the poker room.”
Inevitably, I put down my reading – as I was learning of the Wilson Rangers, a Louisiana cavalry company during the Civil War that was actually a front for a traveling gambling operation – because the lure of the game was too strong. In addition, I noticed that Mr. 200 was sitting at my table, talking about how poker books were a waste of his time. (Our tournament had a total of 109 entries, which apparently forced him to change the subject.)
My attitude toward Mr. 200 underwent a transformation when he told the player next to him that there were one poker book he really enjoyed. “I read it a couple years ago. It was something-something-Suicide King.” The fellow he was talking to was familiar with the book and quickly agreed that it was excellent.
I couldn’t help myself. Authors are so, so, SO rarely considered celebrities that I had to milk the moment. I leaned across the table and said, “You want to know something really strange about that book? I wrote it.”
I wasn’t looking for more compliments – of which I received a profusion. I just thought it was so cool that something I created has become a memorable part of other peoples’ lives. I know people buy it and read it. I even know it’s generally enjoyed. But “people” and “the two guys in seats 7 and 8″ are entirely different animals. I couldn’t help smiling about it.
Unfortunately, this has traditionally proven to be a jinx. Whenever someone recognizes me or or finds out who I am, a friendly conversation follows. And I soon bust. I don’t think it’s a lack of focus, though I suppose that could be the case. It just always seems I lose all my chips after everybody tells me how much they like my writing.
Even though nothing bad had happened and Table 68 had become very convivial, I was almost pleased when we broke. Perhaps I dodged a bullet. But Mr. 200 and his seat-mate were moved to the same table, so the curse followed me.
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