My friend Bill is never free on a Saturday night, anymore. Nevertheless, I still call him up every Saturday afternoon, “Whadya got going on tonight, man?”

A long beat of silence from the other end of the line and then, “Shit, you know I’m playing tonight.”

I press my fingertips to my closed eyes and lower my head in consternation. “Tell you what, Bill; how about instead of playing tonight, you just come over here with a twelve- pack, give me your twenty bucks and I’ll set it on fire for you. Sound like a plan? ‘Cause it’s no damn different than what you’re going to do tonight and at least you don’t have to go to Mira Mesa to do it.”

Again, that long shameful beat of silence and I can picture Bill, sitting in his air conditioned cave of a bedroom, watching TV, collecting unemployment and trying to concoct a defense for his vice. “Whatever, man. The difference is that if I come over there I have no chance at taking 200 bucks from your dumb, broke ass.”

I can’t help but concede the point, usually mumbling something about there being no accounting for taste and then we change the subject. Then, one week I decide to give Bill the benefit of the doubt and join him at his weekly poker night. I have him over for a few beers on the Wednesday prior to the game and ask him if I can join in. A slow grin spreads across his face, threatening to split it in two as he squints at me through his glasses.

“Really!?! What changed your mind?”

I glower at him across my kitchen. “Never you mind my mind. Am I in?”

Saturday night and Bill and I are cruising to Mira Mesa. Describing Mira Mesa is an exercise in futility; like trying to describe the taste of water. A better description would derive from Mira Mesa’s tiny seat in the immense suburban sprawl that is Southern California. I spent most of my life in Colorado and many of my friends still live there. One of them recently came to visit; his first trip to So Cal. He described to me a sense of near panic as the plane crested over the Cleveland National forest and he caught sight of our beautiful nightmare megalopolis; this great gangrenous left limb of the continental U.S., crosshatched with concrete and macadam lines of infection spreading to all horizons. Everything beautifully paved and neatly lined into row and repetition, from palm to palm and ranch-style-three-bedroom to ranch-style-three-bedroom. Utter banality celebrated as some sort of goal or penultimate ideal of a happy life and, ultimately, nothing more than a nice place to piss away an otherwise extraordinary existence.

We drive on, into the midst of one of these named but nameless boils: Mira Mesa, Tierra Santa, Rancho Penasquitos. All the same. All great places to say you escaped from. I should pause here to explain the sea change in my attitude toward Bill’s weekly game and my subsequent journey. It all comes down to something of a legend. The legend of the blind coke dealer.

I had met him a couple times; a soldier in one of the smaller Philippine gangs and former MMA fighter. It was the latter of these pursuits that had robbed him of his sight. Bill had mentioned that this guy regularly attended the game and had one of his friends read his cards for him. I relished the idea of this mini don sitting at the table with his huge dark glasses on while some lackey whispered, hand cupped to his ear, and him responding with a satisfied grin and raise or oath and fold. Obviously this was pure fantasy as I’m sure, in reality, he kept a strict poker face regardless of his hand, but my other reason for hoping to see him there was obvious too. The cocaine. Apparently it rounded the table almost as frequently as the big and small blind chips on some nights and the play was sure to become more heated as players made discreet trips to the kitchen, returning with the sniffles and a mad resolve to win it all. I figure a couple white bullets to my brain might just make me feel okay about burning my own twenty. I could always chalk it up to money I’d otherwise spend on a night of debauchery.

As we pull into the subdivision that is our destination I turn to Bill and give him a hopeful raise of the eyebrows. “Any idea if Erik’s gonna make it out tonight?”

“Nah, he said he can’t afford the buy in. He hasn’t been around in the last couple weeks, actually.”

Well there goes the night. “Man, I wish you’d told me! I wanted to see the blind coke dealing wonder with the whispering gimp behind him and all!”

“Trust me, it wasn’t all that impressive. These are good guys, though. You’ll have a good time,” says Bill. And I can see a change in his demeanor, almost an admonishment. This ain’t no party, this ain’t no disco. Bill is here to play cards and take money. The twelve-pack in the back seat is perfunctory. The prospect of a coke addled evening is nothing more than a novel aspect of the atmosphere inside the game. The game is what makes his twenty bucks worth burning. I resign myself to straight play and drinking as much of the beer as possible.

We walk into the anonymous house and immediately I am relieved. On the far wall are two flat panel TVs, one playing Sportcenter and the other broadcasting that evening’s Padres game. I can survive any tortuously boring situation if I can only gaze at the flickering image of a baseball game or at least hear it crackle on the radio. This, of course, flies in the face of many people’s view of baseball as itself being tortuously boring. My own philosophy is, if you can’t enjoy a ballgame as welcome distraction from life’s waiting rooms then there’s just no hope for you.

Bill and I walk through to the kitchen to deposit our beer in the fridge. This place is the apotheosis of 21st century middle aged bachelorhood. Bare walls, expensive electronics, limited furniture, and a nearly empty fridge. We are guided to our seats and have apparently arrived just in time for the first hand.

Now, this isn’t my first game of poker. I had played with friends at their houses with music blaring and cigar smoke shifting lazily through the pool of golden light centered on the table, all of us rocking in and out of the surrounding shadows, our guts quaking with beer fueled laughter that seemed to spring from nowhere. Those familiar climes with my friends and we were anything but serious. Any of us who remained to the end of the game were inevitably forced by drunkenness and the late hour to divide the money as best we could. It never mattered much, as the buy in was always around five bucks and the big win was measured in pint glasses and good memories. This place though; this game out here in the bosom of mediocrity is a different story.

I’m introduced to several people in a blur. Kevin, the host. A skinny guy with the unlikely name Doc. A couple, both of whose names I forget almost instantly. Vincent, from the same group as the absent blind man. These and three others make it a ten top. We start play and immediately, I can see that I’m out of my league. No music plays on the stereo. All smoke breaks are regulated and taken outside. Jokes are tossed about sparingly like gauges for reading change in facial expression. I’m inside the incredibly boring world of amateur competitive poker.

At first, I’m playing with some attention to strategy or at least my fractured idea of it. I place my bets without fear, but not foolishly. On my third hand I follow a straight to the nine only to be bested by Vincent with a flush of hearts.

“I would have bet the same way,” he says with a smirk as he embraces about half my chips. I flip him the bird and get up to grab another beer. In the kitchen, I meet Ken, the house’s other tenant.

“Here,” he says. “A snapper will ease the pain.” I take a rip from the large glass bong he hands me and become even more okay with the loss of my money. I return to my seat and proceed to fold on the next five hands in a row. My own “strategy” had swirled rapidly down the shitter, so I take Bill’s advice and play the slow game: folding often, only betting on good starting hands and then betting in a deliberate, regular fashion. In this manner, I sit by, paying more attention to the Padres than the table, as my pile of chips dwindles.

It is then that I notice people exchanging the white chips with “1” on them for more chips. I’m too embarrassed to admit I didn’t realize these chips are worth 1,000 bucks. I affect nonchalance as I calmly turn in my white chip. Bill, on the other hand, has already exchanged both his white chips and is on his way out. I turn three hands of luck into a modest fortune and I’m up by four grand. By this time, several of the other players have gone out and I’m made aware of the bounty rule.

“Basically if you take someone out, you get two grand.” I turn to the girl on my left, one of that couple, and offer her a potato chip from the bag I’ve been snacking on.

“Really? That sounds pretty damn cutthroat for a friendly game!”

She drops me a wink. “Just don’t go far with those chips and we’ll stay friends.” I honestly can’t tell if she’s referring to my Lay’s or the several thousand dollars amassed in the pot. However, I can tell her boyfriend doesn’t care to stay friendly. I can see that across the table where he’s keeping a close glare on the two of us. The next hand is dealt and I enter into a bidding war with the girl. Sure enough, the boyfriend plays Gawain and goes all in. While I’m touched by the valiant effort, I decide the best thing for everyone concerned is if I take them both out in one fell swoop. That way, she won’t be next to me at the table and they can go work out their relationship issues like normal people with childish bickering followed by angry sex.

Kevin, the constant dealer, turns the last card. “Three sixes showing. The number of the beast.” I turn over my pocket aces and try not to smile too broadly as they pull back from the table.

The game is finally interesting. We’re down to four: myself, Doc, Kevin, and this guy Brad. Bill had bowed out some time ago and had become my adviser, standing behind me, whispering advice, hand cupped to my ear.

“Double up”

I turn slightly, looking behind me. “Isn’t that something you do in Blackjack?”

Again, the whisper. “No dipshit, that’s double down. Just go all in the next time you get a good hand.” I heed my sage’s words and Doc and Kevin fall in quick succession. It’s down to me and this guy Brad. I’ve never won a poker game in my life.

Bill, whispering once more, “Now, you do have the option to just split the money with Brad and deal out second and third place from between your two winnings.” I shoot Bill a reproachful sneer. Then, I turn to Brad.

“Look man, I don’t know you, but there is no way in hell I’m not winning this game.” Brad nods his agreement and then we play our last hand.