Well kiss my grits! I’ve been going through old picture albums and a few million other things and just like Ray Price singing, “Ain’t it funny, how time slips away,” I found this picture of myself sailing tickets around the green felt at the Ox in 1985.

Damn…I was a cutie then. I think I have to do a trip down memory lane every now and then with pictures – right here on Tango. Let me start with the beginning.

*Begin history*

In 1979, my ex-husband, my three sons, and me gave up. We ran away to Hawaii, only to find (after about six months of hell) that we didn’t wanna be there. My sis, Vickie, and her family lived in Missoula. She was willing to give us a place to stay while we got our feet on the ground. And we jumped – right into the basement – lounging on the floor and walls just like the cockroaches we had left behind in Hawaii. We had no money and nowhere to go.

I started the search for work and applied for numerous jobs as a legal secretary. Missoula is a college town and most of the girls in business classes filled in as typists and part time help. There were no jobs in that profession. And even if I landed something full or part time, it would almost cost me money to go to work; the pay was criminal.

I was qualified for other jobs: a service clerk for a Sears catalogue store; a long distance telephone operator; a bartender and a cocktail waitress; manager of a small delicatessen and lunch shop. The whole job market was totally unattractive for a woman that had three sons and an ex-husband to feed. For some unspoken reason, I was the one that looked for work while the ex waited at home.

Vickie suggested that I deal poker. Falling on the floor, stomach holding, tears running down my face, total all out belly laughing would come close to describing my reaction. I didn’t even know what a poker hand was. I’d never played poker and had no idea what the game was even about, let alone learn to deal it.

When we were kids, our dad played poker in dark rooms in hidden places and our mom went nuts with it. Poker was a big taboo as far as I was concerned. Sinful!

Vickie talked it up – and kept talking – and kept talking. She played. She played regularly at the Bowling Alley and a few other places. She explained that people tipped the dealer when they won a pot and the money was pretty good. The more she talked, the more interested I became. She sat down with a deck and showed me what hands beat what – of course it didn’t register. I was lost. I didn’t understand the betting or what a raise was or how the hands were read or anything else about the game.

Nothing slowed Vickie down. She found an ad in the paper. The Oxford, dubbed the OX by everyone in town, was looking for a dealer. An innocent looking establishment on the corner of Pine and Higgins – the OX was about to become an experience I would never forget.

Talk about ballsy, I barely knew what two Aces were, let alone how to toss cards around the table. Hell – I went in and applied anyway.
I spoke with the owner, Brian Lundmark, about my job qualifications and the position offered. It was an extremely simple interview, just sit and visit. We did. He wanted to hire me to deal but in order to obtain a Dealer’s License, one had to be a resident of the State of Montana for a year. I had been in the state about two weeks. I found out later, and I still laugh when I think about it, the Gaming Commission did not want the mafia running in and taking control of gambling in the State, hence the time requirement. No shit?

I thanked Brian for his time and headed out the door. Just as I got to my car, Brian caught up with me. He had a part time bartender job open. He stressed the fact that it was basic bar, nothing blended, no fuss, no muss and it was a pretty sad job. He liked the way I presented myself and would gladly give me the job if I wanted it. I took it. I think I was the first woman to ever tend bar at the OX. Until the early 70’s, women just did not frequent the OX. It was a man’s establishment and they were damn proud of it.

I had three relief shifts – what an eye opener. We literally put big boards up around the bar at 2 a.m. because the restaurant and poker game stayed open 24 hours a day but liquor service stopped at 2 a.m. I went to work on Saturday night at 6 p.m. and closed the bar down at 2 a.m. On Sunday I started my shift at 8 a.m. by taking down those same boards I had put up six hours earlier, finishing at 6 p.m. Back to the OX at 8 a.m. on Monday until 6 p.m., gave me 28 hours a week.

I was someone to be watched and believe me, the patrons of the bar did – some of them in an alcoholic stupor; some because they wanted to test me (trying to run over me and force me into feeling guilty and into giving them a free drink after every one they paid for); some just because I was young and female. Young was anything under 50 in that place.

The OX was an aging labyrinth of anterooms, basements, cellars, and storage areas. The floor was uneven and covered with worn linoleum – the furnishings were soiled and run down. It sported a ticker tape machine, cigar counter where one could buy cigars, cigarettes, and also order ice cream cones and shakes, and a stand up Five Card Stud table. Another room in the back held two Pan Tables and another poker table.

The old bar cash register had been around since the first spark of life on Earth. The receipt number ran up to nine and started over at zero. The lucky customer that ordered a drink when the zero receipt hit, got a free drink of the same monetary value as the drink they ordered. It was always a war, between four or five of the permanent fixtures on the barstools, to see who would get the zero. They counted the rings, hour after hour, each one trying to best the other in the Free Drink Wars.

With an hour left of my shift one Sunday night, after an incredibly busy day, I walked around the end of the bar, sat down with my back to it, and totally relaxed. A wino named Frank came running up, put both of his handss on the bar on each side of me, pinning me, and excitedly started to relate some tale. He spit chew all over my face! I never sat on the other side of the bar again unless I was having a drink as a customer.

Karl, one of the regular fixtures at the bar, had been a prominent bookkeeper for a major company in Missoula years before. Now he kept Coors in business by sitting at the bar all day, and ordering mug after mug of beer. His hair was gray and collar length. No matter what jacket he wore, he had a wreath of fallen hair and mountains of dandruff on his shoulders. He would take a drink of beer and stroke his face from the chin up to his nose with an open hand. Each gulp of beer brought the same action. When he ordered another beer, I couldn’t stand to touch the mug, it was glazed over with body ooze. I grew to hate seeing Karl come in for the day.

Chubby’s first cousin could have been a rat – the resemblance was remarkable. Years before, Chubby and his wife toured the states. He played sax and she played piano. When she left to play with the angels, Chubby took up residence at the bar. He liked Blackberry Brandy and beer chasers. He also played poker but at this point, he was a fixture to me because I was a bartender.

On Christmas Eve, 1979, Chubby sat at the bar all night long, counting every ring of the register, vying for the free drink. I gave him several free drinks during the evening. He ordered a mug of beer and hit the zero receipt at the same time. He wanted brandy, which was more expensive, and I told him that he would have to pay for the brandy but he could have a free mug on the ticket.

He mumbled and grumbled while giving me The Look (known in poker lingo as trying to kill you with hate beams from their eyes). We had a little war of the minds in which he was always unarmed.

He informed me that everything was all right until I started working there.

I flippantly asked him if he was going to buy the place and fire me.

He told me to kiss his ass.

I told him I couldn’t stoop that low and if he talked to me like that again, I would have him removed.

This was my first experience with people that had serious drinking problems, other than ex’s addiction. It was a very harsh environment and spiritually depressing but it was a job and I had kids at home and rent to pay.

A young guy came in one Sunday afternoon and chose to sit where he could watch every move I made. I was very uncomfortable with his scrutiny. Unfortunately, he was my only customer. He became very personal and wanted to know where I was going and what I was doing when I got off work.

I told him I was going home to my husband and sons.

He told me he had already gotten off on me three times.

Paul, one of our cooks, happened to overhear the conversation and stepped around the counter waving a huge butcher knife, “Yes, and I’m her husband. She’s coming home with me!”

The guy eyes popped out and fell out of his face; he left without finishing his drink. I was very grateful to Paul even though I lost my only customer.
Too many times some guy would come through the door, his appearance shouting that he resided in a dumpster, and hold up a watch, then proudly tell me that as soon as he sold it, he would be taking me out to dinner.

I always wondered if the thought ever crossed their minds that I might not go.

It was a strange time and a strange place. If cockroaches could stand the freezing temperatures in the winter, I’m sure they would have outnumbered the patrons a million to one on the busiest day. There were other incidences and memories but it all boiled down to this – I hated bartending.

Early in January of 1980, when I put the boards up around the bar at 2 a.m., a partner in the OX, Bill Ogg, called me over to the Five Card Stud table. Bill was very blustery, noisy, and instantly liked by everyone he came in contact with. He wanted me to take a seat next to him and play.

I flustered and floundered with the fact that I did not have any money.

He set a stack of $1 chips in the open seat, told the dealer to deal me in, and patted the stool beside him. I kept trying to escape, telling him I did not know how to play, but he waved me off with a laugh. He folded his hand and told me what to bet and do with mine. I started with split 8’s and won the hand.

My life would never be the same again. Pandora’s Box exploded, ripping apart at the seams, and catapulting me into the last great, untamed domain – the only place left that one can escape the real world and be completely surrounded by people.

*End history*

So-o-o-o-o there’s a lot more. I may not get to it right away – it’s kind of like the book I’m writing. But in the meantime there’s a special Noble Poker $2000 free roll for PokerWorks.Com Depositors (Deposit $20 or more and take a seat. Receive 100% up to $800 on your deposit). I’m registering. Come on and play with me, we can talks some super smack about how we got started in Poker. I’m wondering…what should I pick for a user ID…maybe something frisky like ‘Cutie85’. I need to sleep on it. G’nite.