Perhaps it was the possum in the middle of my lane, transfixed by my headlights, for as I swerved to miss him I wondered what omen I should choose: the one in my gut or the knee jerk response. I swung back into my lane before the posted 30 mph curve and told myself that tonight’s game at R’s might be a losing proposition.
Flopped straights ended up split pots; nut flush draws were folded to paired boards; open-enders went nowhere when given odds and position; and within three hours I was down to my last eight bucks. KQh was good enough to throw it in. Santa called with his 8c8d. 2d10cKdQdJd. Thank you and goodnight.
DW asked, “But did you have a good time?”
I didn’t kill the possum.
R’s next game is in two weeks, the night before we leave to welcome our first grandchild into the world, so I won’t be going to that one. R will go on vacation for a month after that, so the next game will be the annual New Year’s Day tourney marathon. I will miss the gang. Yes, we do have some laughs.
For instance, the story of one player, who, when a young man and married to his first wife of many, was tied to the bed, covered in crunchy peanut butter. The excitement was too much for the wife and they feared for her heart, He was quickly unleashed to call an ambulance.
Two trucks from the firehouse pulled up and caused quite a sensation. Neighbors gathered, and since the wife’s mother lived just doors away, she did not stop at the sidewalk.
My poker friend had time to put on a robe, the spread still matted into the hair on his chest. And the wife? Breathing into a paper bag was all the treatment needed.
On the ride home I noticed tire ruts in the mud where a vehicle had gone off into the ditch. You know where.