The first thing that he said as he sat down beside me at the poker table was, “ Either I’ve had too much to drink or it’s really hot in here.” His voice was thick and clouded, like humidity or smog. He looked like a guy you’d see leaving an alley in haste.
We were at the Madison Pub’s regular Tuesday night game. Perhaps 50 people were there to play Texas Hold ‘Em, with the winner receiving a $25 gift certificate for the place. I’m a bad poker player who is almost completely ignorant of the protocols at the table. I play cards with the same amount of intelligence and design as I play a scratch-and-win ticket. I also talk constantly, always telling people I don’t know what I’m doing, and so for most serious players—even in a no money game– I’m a really irritating presence. To make matters worse on this night, I kept winning.
(This is a rough approximation of me at the table)
Drunk guy: This is bullshit, man!
Me: I play by my gut. I play the person, not the cards.
Drunk guy: Are you saying you played me?
Me: What I’m saying is that I just got lucky. Honestly, I’m a beginner and I really don’t know what I’m doing.
Drunk guy: I see through you, you fucker. Don’t keep feeding me that bullshit line, okay?
And then he glowered at me, rolling up his sleeves to reveal his white supremacist tattoos. I pretended to suddenly become transfixed by something that was happening on the TV.
This tension continued for another half hour, eventually culminating with the drunk guy accusing my friend and I of being cheats, before our table was broken up by the powers that be, and we were sent to different games like a bunch of delinquent children in need of a time-out.
After I was eventually bounced from the tournament, I started to play pool, where I met a woman named Mary. This woman had met actress and model Milla Jovovich on the set of one of the Resident Evil movies that was shot in Toronto and proudly announced that she had her cell phone number. Although she would not divulge the number to me, she agreed to act as an emissary and send some question to her on my behalf.
These are the ten questions:
- How many actors have you had sex with?
- How many actresses have you had sex with?
- Would you be interested in funding and starring in a movie about a couple of Poker Grifters who go from moneyless game to moneyless game in pursuit of the validation and love that eluded them as children? It will be an Oscar caliber screenplay.
- If a ghost lived in one of your many zillion dollar mansions, what name would you give it?
- Have you ever caused a ruckus on a plane? If so, please explain.
- What music do you put on when you’re feeling like doing it?
- Where do super-models hang out in Toronto?
- What is the best way to approach a supermodel? I’ve heard that they’re easily startled.
- Do you eat Kale? My wife says it’s a SUPERFOOD, but I’m suspicious.
10. The troops, are you for them or against them?
Comments
8 responses to “Playing poker at the Madison Pub in Toronto”
It’s true what they say about supermodels. Just a moment ago I had to brush right past one to get off the road, and as she wasn’t paying attention at the time, she honest to god yelled “Whaaaah!” right in my ear as I passed by.
A friend of mine used to live in London and New York and he would come into contact with “supermodels” from time to time. He used to tell me, ( and I would never believe him) that they weren’t actually attractive, that their features were so exaggerated, so striking as to be jarring. More like an alien species or a cubist rendition of a woman, than a woman herself.
Brilliant…goodness I love your writing….
Ray:
Let’s run off and live in a treehouse together.
I don’t play poker–but I did see supermodel Cindy Crawford about 5 or 6 years back coming out of the Hotel Vancouver and she looked amazingly beautiful–like the next step in evolution.
I have heard that Cindy Crawford glows.
And Lord, I’ve seen photographs of her children, and as you say, it was like they were a step forward in evolution, or from some other, gentle undiscovered water planet. There was a rumour that she was going to be buying a cottage near a friend of mine’s cottage, but sadly, very, very sadly, this never tured out to be true.
The happy truth, J. Michael Murray is that we are all supermodels in our own way; ready to strike a pose at a moment’s notice and never feeling less than utterly beautiful.
Is it a sign of advancing age that I still prefer the full-figured form of Marilyn Monroe and the healthy look of Cindy Crawford to that of today’s emaciated models and so-called “stars”?
It is?
Well, to hell with you, then, sir and Good Day.
I said, Good DAY!
Jon:
You’re right.
I am a supermodel.
I am fierce and beautiful.