Sometimes, our preconceived notions get the better of us. For a guy like me, where a trip to the Korean supermarket is considered international travel and where the closest I get to Kerouracian adventure is taking a different route through East Baltimore than the rest of the white collar sect, sometimes the minds takes advantage of us, making us into sad, real life versions of Walter Mitty.
Case in point, my friend (who we'll call Tobius) and I went to visit the Final Table Poker Club. As my pal Ad-Rube said before the trip: "Uh…are you serious?" Sure, what's not to like...I imagined that this place was going to be like Teddy KGB's place in "Rounders." All in the confines of Duldalk (east Baltimore, a butt of jokes in Baltimore much like West Virginia to the rest of the States in the Union).
Tobius and I made the trek up to Duldalk. In the heart of the wilderness of white trashia, past the ghettos of racial discontent, right near a Gentleman's Gold Club and a little past a super buffet, we found ourselves at the Final Table Poker Club. Adjacent to a pizza and pasta joint called Papa Leone's (and uncomfortably close to a landmark called "Drug City"...making me think of Hampsterdam), we parked the car and had a moment of doubt. Why were we here? Should we actually go into this poker club in this sketchy part of Dundalk? Why do I have the sudden urge to wear a wife beater?
Scratch that, I had the moment of doubt. As soon as the engine came to a stop, Tobius was out the door, ready for action. One thing you can say about Tobius, amongst the volumes that I can write about the man, is that he is brave. I might add that he's brave from ignorance, laughing in the face of danger with a blank smile and an awkward pause, but I'm sure Tobius would disagree. Maybe he was feeling the mood to beat a bunch of dock workers with rolled Aces over Kings.
Turns out he really had to use the bathroom.
The Final Table Poker Club is an innocuous place. It is apparently very legal and very law abiding. My dreams of under the table deals, payoffs like those ubiquitous Cherry Slots machines in liquor stores around Baltimore, scrubby guys with threatening looks and even meaner girlfriends were dashed upon the clean, smokeless air of the place. There was no danger in the air. Instead, there were clearly worded guidelines on the walls and a table filled with crappy prizes, like a set of kitchen knives and a AM/FM radio.
Turns out it is completely legit. So why would grown adults pay $22 a pop to play meaningless tournament poker? Apparently, there is a quarter of a year long season where people try to accrue tourney points. The top 9 point getters are invited to a final table showdown where the winner get an all expenses paid trip to Las Vegas (2nd prize: a room at the Borgata; 3rd: a 24" flat screen TV). For this chance, people pony up the money Tuesday - Saturday. Enough people do it to routinely fill 3-4 tables, though last night there was the same amount of players as there were staff, three.
Needless to say, I was very disappointed. I was so dejected that the only way I could feel better was to indulge in a pure, immoral lie, calling up Ad-Rube to tell him that we had been kicked out of the club due to homosexuality. Rube didn't really believe me, but it made us laugh for a few seconds before my conscious got the better of me (honestly, I tried to call you back, Rubes, but you didn't answer to accept my apology).
Would I play there? Probably not. Why pay to play for nothing but the chance to win a prize. That's 22 a dollar a pop, and I'd only have to save a few of those buyins to actually play a real tourney in Atlantic City, possibly winning cold hard cash with which to buy a set of kitchen knives or a box of Francesca wine.
Another moment of my mind playing tricks on me...at least, after we left the joint, we went as saw "Shoot Em Up." What mindless entertainment to cap a night of mindlessness.
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