“C’mon Stanley, show your hand! You bet, I called, you show.” There’s a big sigh. Â A shrug. Â Another sigh. A very long pause. Â “C’mon is my straight good?” I ask impatiently. Â Stanley gives yet another sigh and turns over the nuts.
He’s slow rolling again.
“Oh, that’s slowrolling?” He asks coyly. Â “I’m sorry, Dude.” Â Yeah, right. He knows he has my number. Â He’s just one of those guys that’s gets under my skin.
Why do I choose to spend my Monday nights with this guy? Â The rest of the week I’m surrounded, mostly, by people that want my life to be better. Â Not this guy. Â He wants me guessing whether I’m coming or going. Â He wants me on the verge of getting up and leaving the table. Â Nothing would make him happier than to hear “Fuck you , Stanley” and wait for the door to slam.
You know what?
I love it. I even love him. Â He’s a living, breathing, slow rolling workout for my patience and anger management. Â You know what else? I’m getting in better shape. What used to send me into a murderous rage now only barely irks me. Â I know what’s coming and I roll with it. Â I wish I could say I have a zen-like amusement about it all, Â but I don’t.
So here we are again. Â Stanley bet. I called. I wait. He’s really Hollywooding. “I’m vulnerable” He says. Â “Just show it.” I say. Â Reluctantly, he turns over a full house. Â “I have the small one.” Â He says with a smirk. “That’s good…” Â I say. Â Then I wait. Â And proceed “…because I have the big one. Oh, is that slowrolling? Â My bad, dude.”
I play poker to say “Push those chips a little closer to me, bitch.” Â Okay, so I still hold a little resentment.
Why do you play? Let me know at stories@whydoiplaypoker.net
