A Typical Friday Night

By Mr. Subliminal © 2005

"There is a time for playing cards and there is a time for playing." - Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

Friday nights are reserved for playing. There can be no other way as the daily grind of live No Limit cash games exacts a hefty toll on my psyche. I need a diversion urgently.

Friday night, 9:35pm

One last look in the mirror. I tighten my belt one more notch, but there is no avoiding the Homer Simpson-like side profile. No matter, if this is the price I have to pay for maturity and a modicum of sophistication, then so be it. I fling the fur coat around my shoulders, apply a final spritz from a 30-year-old bottle of Aramis and slam the door behind me.

Friday night, 9:36pm

Bang frantically on the front door upon realizing that my keys are still on the coffee table. The banging stops when I remember that I live alone. My neighbor has a spare key and hopefully will be home when I return later from/with my conquest.

Friday night, 9:40pm

My cab arrives. I could swear some part of my clothing rips as I contort my way into the back seat.

Driver: "Where to, Sir?"
Me: "Bellagio."

I expect the crowd at the Light nightclub to be the pick-me-up I so desperately need.

Driver: "Aramis?"
Me: "Davidoff."

Let him call my bluff if he doesn't want a tip. I fart silently to confuse him further.

Friday night, 10:00pm

The cabbie drops me off at the Flamingo Street entrance and I nearly collapse as the hot 98 degree night air hits me. What's with this fur coat shit, a habit I can't seem to shake from my New York days, or should I say nights.

Friday night, 10:05pm

I am in the men's room, rubbing the soaked back of my shirt against the electric hand dryer. The place now reeks of Aramis. Luckily it's a young crowd.

Friday night, 10:25pm

The bouncer at the Light, for some unknown reason, doesn't want to let me in.

Bouncer: "It's a private evening, Sir."

Meanwhile everyone and their dog is being let in. I hate resorting to the old Benjamin Franklin trick, but he leaves me no alternative.

Me: "Maybe this will refresh your memory."
Bouncer: "Sorry, Sir."

At least he has the decency to return the crumpled up $1 note, which I immediately deposit into a nearby slot machine.

Friday night, 10:35pm

Me: "What's the list like for $2-$5 No Limit?"
Poker Floorman: "You'll be sixth, Sir. Aramis?"

Mr. Subliminal is a former lumberjack and subsistence farmer who is currently living under highway overpasses in Las Vegas.