Wit Stop

TEXT BY GENE PERRET ILLUSTRATION BY ROBERTA HANCOCK

A Riverboat Gambler? In Your Dreams

A Mississippi-style paddle wheeler called the Colorado King I runs excursions along the Colorado River from September through May. The trip begins at Fisher's Landing on Martinez Lake and goes to Imperial Dam and back. And, of course, somewhere on the boat there's a gift shop.

My wife said, “Let's go to the gift shop.” I said, “No, you go on. I'll just relax here on the deck chair and watch the river go by.” I fell asleep on that chair and dreamed of the days when riverboat gamblers rode paddle wheelers and played high stakes poker.

In my dream, I spotted a table with an empty chair and knew immediately that three poker players occupied the other chairs because they looked like poker players; they acted like poker players; they smelled like poker players. The poker game they were playing helped a bit, too. One was a bowler-hatted dude. One was a filthy mess with scraggly hair on his head, his chin, and under his nose. His face looked like it needed a gardener. One looked like Clark Gable in Gone With the Wind. When I said, “Do you mind if I sit in?” I expected him to say, “Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn.”

Instead he asked, “Do you play poker, stranger?”

I laughed. None of them did. “Do I play poker?” I laughed again. None of them did again. I sat down.

“Do I play poker?” I repeated.

“My wife and I play poker three Saturdays a month with two other couples. On the fourth Saturday, we play Pictionary, which I actually play better than I do poker. I don't suppose any of you would be interested in playing Pictionary?” None of them answered.

Pigpen just spat a stream of tobacco juice toward the cuspidor on the floor by his feet and, unfortunately, by my feet also. Ten percent of it went into the cuspidor, 90 percent of it went over the toes of my previously white Nike walking shoes. He either had bad aim or very good aim.

Clark Gable shoved stacks of poker chips my way and started dealing.

I said, “My cards are sticky.”

Pigpen said, “Baloney.”

The “Ba” in “Baloney” sprayed a tobacco juice pattern all over my pink Izod shirt. I understood why the cards were sticky.

I lost with a pair of eights and a pair of twos to Bowler Hat who had three fours. I said, “We generally make twos wild, so I would have beaten your three of a kind with my four of a kind.” He pushed back his coat and began rubbing the sidearm which I just noticed he wore. In our friendly game with the other couples we don't permit any weapons, except of course for the knife to spread the cheese dip on the crackers that we always serve during the game. These gentlemen didn't serve crackers and cheese.

began rubbing the sidearm which I just noticed he wore. In our friendly game with the other couples we don't permit any weapons, except of course for the knife to spread the cheese dip on the crackers that we always serve during the game. These gentlemen didn't serve crackers and cheese.

The next hand, I had an eight-high straight. Not bad, but the other guys seemed to be happy with their hands, too. When the bet came around to me, I said, “For a full flush stray.”

Clark Gable said, “Excuse me?”

I said, “Oh, I was just talking to myself. In order to know what beats what I say 'forfulflushstray.' That reminds me that four of a kind beats a full house which beats a flush which beats a straight. Then there's three of a kind, two pair, and . . . .

Bowler Hat slammed his gun on the table. Pigpen shouted, “Baloney!” It didn't bother me. It was an old shirt. I was about to get rid of it anyway.

I lost to a flush.

Now it was my deal. I said, “I know a fun game. Let's play Peekie Peekie Boo Boo.” They all shouted “What?” like a trio of well-rehearsed back-up singers.

I said, “It's easy. You'll learn it very fast. Now red threes, fives, and nines are wild. Black fours and face cards are wild, too. If the first card you get is a seven, then it reverses all the wild cards. You see, red fours and face cards are wild . . . .” Pigpen grabbed me by the throat and Bowler Hat stuck his weapon up against my nose. Clark Gable scraped all my chips into his plantation hat. Apparently I was out of the game and gone bust.

Pigpen kept shaking me and shaking me . . . until I woke up. It wasn't Pigpen at all who was shaking me; it was my wife.

“Wake up, honey. Wake up.” What a relief. I was in the present day, riding the Colorado King I toward Imperial Dam. It had all been a fantasy. I hadn't lost a fortune at all.

My wife said, “Let me show you all the things I got in the gift shop.” She showed me. I had lost a fortune.

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