“Just fucking open the gate!”
Morales sucked his finger, waiting for a response. There wasn’t that much pain. However, after slamming his fist into the card slot, some of the blood might have gotten into the reader. It was extraordinarily tilting to think that now it was possibly his fault when really it was the casino’s fault all along that he wasn’t eligible for free parking.
The intercom voice scratched on, indecipherable and critical as a battlefield communication.
Morales banged on the machine with the soft part of his palm.
The gate opened without explanation. Morales gulped air and stuck a middle finger up as far and high as he could, until the bowling injury flared in his neck.
Next, a late lunch at the chain Mexican place where you pick a format of food and an employee fills it with beef, chicken, or pork.
“Can I get some extra chicken? You’ve put too little in. Also, that’s plenty of Surf rice, you can take some back if you want.”
The employee contemplated Morales a bit then complied. She followed him to the cashier, which gave him a chance to look at her. He declined the combo meal; he could hydrate at home and didn’t want the Mexitaters.
“How would you like to pay, sir?” Apparently, staff was short today.
“With my casino rewards card preferably,” Morales said, waiting for the joke to land.
The girl, small of stature and heavy on mascara, looked at the line.
“With cash,” Morales said gruffly. No one has a sense of humor. “Gracias.”
“Enjoy your meal,” the girl responded.
Nothing new, he thought. Vegas is a hard place for a social life.
That gave him the idea when he sat down to write his poker tip list of the day.
- You need to take beats well. You don’t want enemies at the table. Let things go. Be friendly. Never berate the fish.
He was struck by how fruitful a start this was. Morales felt the instinct to get it all out and set his Baja chicken bowl with extra chicken aside.
- Table presence is everything. You want to have a good image. They should respect your open raises because they know you play good cards.
This was going well. Going to be a big day, maybe even a viral one.
- Show up every day, like clockwork. That way they know you are serious about the game.
About your craft, he retyped. Morales nodded at the wise change of wording. He could already see the view count.
- Watch a variety of vloggers to learn the game well, don’t get stuck on one. Always include the classics like Brad, Jim, Geoff or Ethan.
Smart. He could @ them and possibly get a retweet. Respect is everything.
Morales pushed the phone away, having really earned his Baja chicken bowl, despite what happened earlier. In fact, the meat was drier than usual, but he didn’t mind. After all, you eat for fuel. Goggins says it; World of Men posts it nearly every day. High protein, low carbs, big T.
He did mind the beats he had taken today. First, Alex the Whale had gotten there with king-jack, which Daniel Negreanu said was the rookie hand. Second, the new guy had hit and run after the flip; fuck that guy.
Morales grabbed his phone.
- Always hang out for at least half an hour after a big pot. You don’t want to upset the loser of the hand. Fish can be sensitive.
- Lists are important. Keep track of everything you notice. Be organized.
- Always play more when you are on a heater. Ride out the good cards, leave when they are cold.
- Be willing to take the worst of it. Let go of bad rulings. Be the good guy and people will like you.
That’s four in a row. Flying today. The meta one on lists was something he used over and over, but he understood his craft. Filler was okay.
Really, this was going to end up being an amazing day.
Of course, things would have been better if the third thing had not gone wrong: chopping with ace king suited versus ace king is so annoying. That guy should have folded when the flush draw came in.
“You got lucky,” Morales had told him, holding up his superior draw for the whole table to see. “That’s called a freeroll.”
“Sorry,” the fish had said.
“I don’t mind. Keep playing like you do, I’m going to get it all,” Morales had told him.
The wound on his left hand started throbbing at that moment. Morales went for the soft drinks; some ice would help.
At the cashier he asked for a cup.
“One second, sir.” The line was long now.
“I don’t mind waiting,” Morales told her. “Take your time.”
Somehow this didn’t please the girl as it should, but Morales still ended up with a little waxy paper cup. It fit a few ice cubes and then he took up his work again. Orders were called. A few cops entered the store, their radios burbling codes and locales.
Fucking fascists, Morales said to himself. He continued, however, inspired, uninterrupted and dedicated.
- Take whatever the casino gives you. They’re trying to screw you out of everything, especially parking fees. Fight the power.
Almost done. It was a different tone now but a serious one. The muse seemed to be leaving him but she had delivered so much. He corrected some spelling and chewed down on the barbwire chicken. He needed some water. He looked at the cup, its content just a bit pink thanks to a touch of blood. Not useable.
Morales waited politely for a customer to finish paying before asking.
“I just gave you one!” said the girl. It was an outrage but at least she knew to turn red at her impertinence. “Sorry but…”
“It’s just a cup,” Morales reminded her. “The other one broke.”
That’s not what he meant, but he was flustered. She had flustered him.
“Just let me get this order first.”
Now this was unfair. He had made his request before the second customer had put in his order.
“Do you not believe in lines?” Morales told him. “I was second.”
“Dude you just came up here from nowhere, you’re not even in line.” The guy was blond and tall and unbearable.
‘I’ve already paid, buddy.” Morales was not unaware of his rights. He had purchased a Baja chicken bowl long before this fellow had even talked to the girl.
“So what?” the guy responded, and before Morales could reply, started his order.
Morales froze. The dude had turned his back to him. An unbelievable affront. Privileged. And yet Morales was the reg here, someone who ordered the Baja chicken bowl with extra chicken three days a week and sometimes on the weekend.
Which meant, of course, that he knew where the waxy water cups were stored. It only took a second to walk behind the counter and seize the cup. Well, the cups, because he was in a hurry and ended up with a small amount of them, maybe two or three or thirteen.
“Seriously?” someone, maybe the girl had said, he wasn’t sure. When he turned to go back to the dining area, one of the cops was blocking him.
“Can you put that back, sir? We need to talk.”
“I just need some water.”
“I understand, but that’s not how to do it.”
“I’m a reg here, I know exactly how things work.”
“Are you saying you work here?”
Morales remembered saying some more things, too, but it wasn’t clear looking back how he ended up in the police car. He did realize a few things. One, his phone was in the Baja Mexiwraps. Two, his hand hurt like a motherfucker now: they had scraped the wounded finger so bad he had cried out when they cuffed him. Three, that experience was humiliating, because the second cop had laughed at his scream.
“Hang on there, buddy, you’ll get through this thing you started,” the second cop told Morales.
Arrested for stealing a water cup, Morales thought. Horrifying. I need my phone. What happens to my car? I didn’t finish my chicken bowl.
Above all, though, the phone. Today’s list for tweeting had been so good.
Morales squirmed. The window was half down in the squad car.
“HEY!” he cried. “Hey, my phone is in the restaurant!”
The cops just stood there, talking to some new cops that had just arrived.
“HEY MY PHONE! MY PHONE!”
One of the cops looked at him but turned away.
His heart pounded until he felt lightheaded. He needed to calm down.
I can focus on the list, finish it, he realized.
- Keep your head in poker. Things can happen. The best players never lose hope.
One more try, though:
“MY PHONE, GUYS, PLEASE!”
When he woke up the squad car’s door was opening. He heard some words, then he was lifted up with a hand on his head. The cuffs came off.
“They’re not going to file a charge and we can’t take you in. You’re free. Try to stay on your side of the counter, Mr…. Morales.”
The cop handed him his license, although he had no memory of giving it to anyone. Morales’ head ached and strangely he did not feel the wound on his hand.
Morales found his usual table in the Baja Mexiwraps. The ice in the first cup had fully melted into pink lemonade. His bowl was half-eaten but dry as a desert carcass; even the famous white Surf rice was crusty. And his phone was gone.
His phone was gone. Contacts, files, passwords. Above all, the list.
The perfect list, ready to go viral. Ready for Rampage to retweet, ready for Brad to like.
Morales buried his face in his hands.
“Here, this is yours.”
It was the counter girl. It was his phone.
He was too stunned to thank her. “I’m so thirsty,” he did say.
“Yeah, I’ll bet but the manager is eighty-sixing you. There’s a McDonalds right across the parking lot.
“Thanks.”
“So you have to go. But you can have the cups,” she said hesitatingly, “We can’t use them.”
She held out thirteen cups. An ambivalent yet pitying expression was on her brown, tired face.
He had not seen such friendliness in years. He took them carefully with his good hand and the wounded one. Everything seemed out of order.
“My name is Jeff. Jeff Morales.”
She thought for a moment, then said Ok and went back to work.
