Poker Fiction: ‘My Night Not on High Stakes Poker’
The year I was signed up to play on High Stakes poker, I grew a mustache over my teeth. I don’t know how hair grows on teeth, but let me tell you, it was hard to look at. I’d won my seat by winning 1300 freerolls in a row, one after another, during which I had not left my computer for a month straight. My mother fed me sugar candy through a straw. I guess it was all the sugar that made my teeth grow the hair: I can’t think of any other way to explain it. The hair was white like an old man’s and would grow right back when you cut it.
When I got to the casino where they were going to film the episode, the producers of High Stakes poker ushered me quickly away from where the cameras were and into a little room. They paid a guy to try to cut the hair out, though I told them it was no go.
“We can’t let you on TV like this,” they were saying, “you’ll make the poker-watching portion of our nation ill.” “I’ll wear a bag on my head,” I said. “I’ll sit really close to Phil Hellmuth, no one will even see me.”
“You’re probably going to lose money out here anyway,” one guy said, and offered me a check not to go on. It was just enough for teeth replacement surgery. I said okay. I spent the money on a red car.
