Maybe it was because it was Friday night. Maybe it was the full moon, not that you could see it through the city street lights.
But somewhere up there, lunatics were being called.
It was a perfectly normal $3/$5 NLH game, with a $10 perma-straddle. Pots of normal magnitude were being won and lost, with the attendant desultory table talk.
Then Peter sat down.
The regulars all sat up a bit in our seats. It was as if the Universe had tired of the mundanity of our game, like we were ignoring the day of the week and celestial alignment.
Raising dark on a moonlit night
Peter doesn't come to the club much. But when he does, you notice.
Not that he's loud or boisterous – in fact, he's fairly quiet, usually has a comfortable smile. Peter, he makes his mark with chip movement. Lots of it, sometimes strategic, sometimes tactical, and sometimes absolutely random.
He got himself settled with a glass of wine on a side table. Did nothing noteworthy for an orbit or two.
Then he posted $100 dead, immediately behind the straddle. In a game with a $1K max buy-in.
I felt the edges of my seat and confirmed that, no, there wasn't a seatbelt. Some of the less experienced players at the table couldn't fathom what was going on.
"Is that a raise?"
Dealer: "Yes, it's a raise."
"But you haven't dealt the cards yet."
Me, in my thought bubble: "You're missing the whole point."
It folded all the way around, and Peter picked up the blinds and straddle, less the house's $1 entertainment tax.
Easy decision, hard luck
In a short period of time, Peter had played a handful of pots, and had won most of them through naked aggression. He made it $100 blind each time he was first to act behind the straddle.
One time, two people called the $100. I knew this wouldn't end well. Came back around to Peter, who announced he was all-in for $900. Whether he had looked at his cards, only the Man in the Moon knows. The limpers folded.
Little bit later, we had a re-run of the same movie. Two people limped behind Peter's dead $100. I didn't suspect either of them sandbagging a big hand. No, what these people do is limp, and they don't pay a lot of attention to silly details like the cost of the limp. So when I found AJo, my decision was easy.
"I'm all in."
Came back around to Peter.
"How much you got there?"
"Um, $1K and change. $1,050?"
"That's more than me. I've got a little less than a thousand. Okay, I call."
The limpers realized the error of their ways and released their cards.
I was the first one to get all the chips in, so I tabled my cards. Peter looked, nodded, and tabled eight-four-offsuit.
The gasp from the peanut gallery was still echoing when the eight appeared on the flop. Nothing else interesting happened on the run-out, and Peter mostly stacked me.
I reached for rebuy chips in my pocket. Peter quietly collected his winnings. Both of us have been to this show hundreds of times and didn't think a lot of it.
But there was a cloud of disbelief hanging over the table.
'Better not let him in'
An hour later, Peter mixed it up with one of the newbies.
Peter had posted his dead $100. The newbie raised some amount, and Peter jammed for $1,500 or so, which the newbie covered. Peter's opponent tanked a bit, shook his head, called, and tabled pocket jacks.
Peter didn't move. The board ran out with an ace, king, and queen. Peter looked at the jacks, gave a little smile, and mucked his cards. Then he picked up his wine glass and wandered out across the cardroom floor.
The winner of the pot was in a bit of a shock. He stacked his newfound winnings, then stepped away from the table. Probably needed to collect himself. He came back a few minutes later.
"I talked to that guy. The crazy one. He said he had pocket tens."
The old guy on my right snorted. "And you believed him?"
On the drive home, I got away from the city and the moon – all of it – was shining down on the Interstate.
I smiled and put Werewolves of London on the car stereo.
Featured image courtesy of Aron Visuals/Unsplash.
