Of course the majority of the three weeks of the Grand Prix Tournament blended into one shift nightmare after another – probably best described as one long, square needle to the frontal lobe. We had a short meet before each shift to get our line-up set and if anything new was in the works we were informed about it then. I don’t remember crap about anything new coming up. Some dealers quit, new ones came in, and on it went.
In those days a tournament director would come in and take phone numbers and names of all the dealers that dealt the circuit that were interested in dealing the next tournament. That’s how I met Tony Shelton and a few others.
I don’t believe I dealt through a shift where I felt comfortable or even knew WTF I was supposed to do most of the time. If you’re reading the thread, you’ve read about my first experience with ‘put it on the piece’ and one would think that was the standard. It is, but it depends on who’s in the game and how stuck they are.
Technically, the dealer is supposed to give change – and even make sure there’s $5,000 in that roll of 100 dollar bills but that doesn’t always happen. Most big games are played with chips now because bills are too slow and messy. What happened was that one player would grab back his roll, count out what he owed, and throw that amount into the pot as it’s being pushed. Another would count out what he owed and semi throw it at the player that won the pot. And others would have a fit and grouch at you if you even acted like you were going to touch that roll of bills. “DON’T you touch my money!” dripping with ‘I’m going to kill you if you do!’ sentiments.
That my friends, is the reason there can never be a clear cut set of house poker rules that all houses conform to. Everything is subject to change depending on who is playing in the game, who the live one is, and the amount of ‘stuckedness’ by the noisiest players. And, believe it or not, according to the player that tipped the biggest to the floor person.
The Grand Prix was the only time I remember dealing to Fred “Sarge” Harris. I dealt to him two or three times; he never looked up or got involved in conversations that I knew of. I admit to trying to get him to talk when he was playing and I was dealing. (In those days I still thought dealers were people and not furniture…no, really!)
Sarge was sitting across from me, head down, shuffling chips, waiting for the next hand. One of the players asked me something, probably about the buffet or something really important like the way the desert feels at 4am. (If it had been about a rule I would’ve called the floor.) So as I dealt the next hand, I said, “I don’t know. Do you know, Sarge?”
He never even looked up, just kept shuffling away, but his response was soft, with none of the grating harshness I heard from most players. “I don’t know Honey.”
For those kind words I always felt a gentle spot for him – I did hear undertones from others later that lent to suspicious activities by Sarge. And the only reason I bring the whole thing up is because all the old timers knew who he was and now there’s fewer and fewer old timers. *Sniff* And that’s how dumb I was back then, I thought if you spoke to someone, they would have the courtesy to answer in a civil tone – and he did!
I found it completely bizarre that when we hit the sidewalks after shift along about 3-4 a.m., porters were out with polishing machines washing and waxing the sidewalks and tiles in front of the casinos. In those days you never saw a piece of gum or the remnants of some greasy beverage like a Baileys and coffee spewed all over the sidewalk or side of the building. Did they have Baileys in those? No idea, but they’ve always had greasy, buttery drinks.
We played poker, we dealt, there was no bright spot. The clown I called boyfriend was as bad as the ones I dealt to. Just to give you an idea, years later I watched him play the last of his chips in a $5-10 Limit 7 Stud game at Ballys. He kept trying to beat one player in particular, mainly trying to draw out on the guy rather than actually start with the best hand and play the hand to value. Clown lost. He flipped his cards at the dealer and when the dealer cautioned him, he stood up, picked up a freshly delivered glass of coke, turned it upside down on the felt where his chips had been, and asked, “How do you like that?” as coke and ice flooded across the table. And then he turned and walked away like a vanquishing hero that just showed the world he could take it like a man. I wanted to puke. Especially when the players and dealer looked at me. I left as fast as I could.
Here’s another part of not knowing what you’re doing that gets you into trouble. It was a $50-100 limit Holdem game. A new player came in and sat down behind the button. His chips were on the table and I just dealt him right in. No one said a word. When the bet came to him, he called. He went to war all the way through the hand with Becky Farsai. She began giving me hell, I wasn’t supposed to deal him in unless he posted.
Nope, I had no idea.
It was too late and he won the pot. No one asked for a decision, perhaps I should’ve asked for one on how to handle a dealer that doesn’t know the rules. Becky wasn’t happy but she wasn’t mean about it. It stung though. Now it all makes sense why a player would have to post to take a hand, but in those days…no clue!
Becky probably spent more time watching the dealers and correcting the game than she spent on concentrating on her game. I say this because she corrected me in another game that Cheryl Davis was seated in. Cheryl started laughing and said something to Becky like, ‘you just don’t let them get away with anything do you?’
Who was trying to get away with something? I was trying to survive.
The whole center of the table was raised up so the flop went on a hump that looked like a green felt mesa rising above the plain. It was because some big name whiners had complained that they couldn’t see the flop. Seriously? There was no way they could slump and see it now. It was a PITA to put the flop on too.
Time Pots, yah, that’s coming up.