June 18 2005

Interesting story this week. It seems that a bunch of the boys that have been bitten by the poker bug, and have a Friday night poker game every week, were sitting around a table upstairs at JP’s sports bar last Friday waiting for the fourth man who was running late.
Clay or Cliff that everybody called "CP", which was short for CPA of which he was one, although what the "A" stands for cannot be mentioned here, was counting out pistachio shells.
The reason he was counting out pistachio shells was because if the boys used poker chips it would look like they were playing for money in public. And as a matter of fact they weren’t. They actually played for pistachio shells. And you better believe that the guy with the biggest pile of shells at the end of the night felt pretty good, and the guy with the smallest pile felt pretty bad.
At about the time that the chips were counted out in piles of a hundred white ones, which was twenty-five dollars, and twenty-five red ones which was also twenty-five dollars, but it was just ‘make believe’, "JP" hollered upstairs that Mike Rottingham was wanted on the phone.
When Mike came back up, he had a batch of brews with him and informed the group that the fourth man wasn’t going to make this week.
Just as he was putting down the beers, a fella came up the stairs, said that he happened to over hear the phone call, and would be pleased to be the fourth man at the table.
The boys looked at each other, and Bill Hubbel, whose name wasn’t really Hubbel, but was called that because he liked to position himself so that he could read opponents cards off of mirrors or any other reflective surfaces, invited the newcomer to come sit down and join them.
Hubbel did not explain that they were playing for pistachio shells. That would have been embarrassing. He simply explained that the white ones were twenty-five cents and that the red ones were a dollar.
"CP" whipped out a pen and some paper and would be the bank, keep track of what everybody owed the bank, and they would settle up at the end of the game. That way money would be visible at the table only momentarily.
Well, to make a long story short, the new guy, whose name shall remain anonymous, lost his shirt. And at the end of the game after "CP" figured everything out, the new guy plops down four hundred sixty-five dollars and seventy-five cents on the table.
They all looked at the money. Bill Hubbel glanced around the table said, "Alright, who wants to be the one to tell him?"
The newcomer said,"Tell me what?"
Mike Rottingham half got up, pulled out his wallet and said, "We’re from the state gaming commission, and you are busted my friend."
Well, the poor guy passed out right on the spot.
But he revived after a brandy or two, got all his money back, and is now a member of the Friday night poker game.
After coming around, he noticed the Montrose Beer and Gun Club t-shirt that Rottingham was wearing. "Is there really such a club?" He asked.
Rottingham grinned at him. "You can bet on it," he said.