Max Plays a Slot Tournament

"Maxwell, how'd you like to play in a slot tournament?" my sweetie asked me one day.

"I don't know anything about slot tournaments," I replied testily.

"You don't know anything about poker tournaments, either," she said, "but that's never stopped you."

This conversation was alarmingly similar to the one we had the time that she lured me into a disastrous bingo session. "I wouldn't be caught dead in one of those things," I said stubbornly.

"Oh, come on, you old grouch," she coaxed me. "You'll have fun and might even make some money. It's a video poker tournament, and it's only five dollars with the senior citizen discount they give you."

I should have known better, but I guess I'll never learn, and I reluctantly agreed. When we got to the sign-up desk, I realized that "senior citizen discount" was a joke. Everyone signing up was a senior citizen. In point of fact, I was the youngest one there. Some of the competitors looked like they were drawing Civil War pensions. I began to feel a little better about things. In these tournaments, speed is critical. With all those codgers, it was arthritis city out there, and with my blazingly fast reflexes, my total knowledge of poker, and my unerring instincts, I was a big favorite to win the tournament.

"How long does it last?" I asked my sweetie.

"You have 15 minutes to play out all your credits," she explained.

"Fifteen minutes?" I screamed. "For five bucks? That comes to … twenty bucks an hour!"

"Oh, just make the sacrifice, Diamond Jim. Now fork over some money so I can sign you up."

I handed her $20 and she gave me $5 in change. "Where's the rest of it?" I demanded.

"That's all you get back. I'm signing you up for three sessions."

Three sessions at $5 a pop? This was starting to get really expensive, but I reassured myself by studying my crotchety old opponents. They had to be slower than snails, and probably were so befuddled they couldn't even figure out what their hands were. I was a shoo-in.

Before the tournament started, Barbara gave me a quick rundown on the rules. You started with 1,000 credits and had to use them up in the allotted time to get maximum full value from your play. There were little tricks to remember. For example, flushes payed extra, so she advised me to go for them, even with three suited cards, unless I held a pair, and as long as one of the flush cards was a pay card. I had no idea what a "pay card" was, but I nodded my head as if I understood, and assured her that I was ready.

I found my machine and sat down five minutes before the tournament started. I decided to practice a little and limber up, so I hit a couple of keys. To my dismay, the video game started running and the timer began ticking off the seconds. "Barbara!" I yelled in panic. "The stupid machine is running!" The tournament director ran up. Giving me a disgusted look, she opened the machine and reset the timer. "Keep your mitts off the buttons until I give the word to start, buster," she said angrily, smacking me on the head.

I looked around. To my left an old geezer wearing a T-shirt that read "Vote for Herbert Hoover" smirked at me. On my right was an old biddy smoking unfiltered Camel cigarettes. "Imbecile," she sneered, blowing a cloud of smoke in my face.

"Same to you, granny," I replied.

I sat there in a gloomy funk until I was suddenly jolted awake by Barbara's voice several machines away. "Maxwell!" she yelled. "Wake up! The game's started!"

I glanced at the timer and discovered that 30 seconds had elapsed. All around me, all those gnarled and arthritic old fingers that I thought couldn't move were dancing unerringly and at warp speed over their video machine buttons. I suddenly realized what I was up against. These old coots were video poker tournament addicts. They probably played every day of their lives because that's all they had to do. I wouldn't be surprised if their social security checks, instead of being direct deposited in their bank accounts, were sent directly to their video poker tournament accounts. Well, I'll show them, I thought as I began working the game at a furious pace.

After a while I decided to check on my progress. To my astonishment, I noticed that five minutes had elapsed and I had played off only 60 of my 1,000 credits. "Barbara!" I screamed. "Something's wrong with the machine. I'm falling behind."

In great annoyance, she left her own video game and ran up to see what I was up to. She quickly discovered the problem. "You idiot! You're playing only one credit at a time instead of five!"

Oh, yeah, I was wondering what that "BET MAX" button was for. I thought it was telling me, "Bet, Max." I resumed playing with a vengeance. I was sure that with my superior speed, I could not only make up for lost time but be first to finish as well. Then I stopped short as I was dealt a problem hand: four spades and a pair of kings. Should I keep the cowboys or break them and go for the flush? I decided to seek advice. "Hey, granny," I said, tapping the old lady on the shoulder, "can you look at my screen for a second and tell me what the best play is?"

Without missing a beat, she hit me full force with her purse, knocking me off my stool. I staggered back to my machine and tried to clear my head as I resumed play. After a while, Barbara strolled over and laughed. "Still playing, dummy? Everyone else finished long ago."

"Don't worry," I assured her, "I'll use up all the credits."

"Good trick," she replied. "Your time ran out two minutes ago, and you still have 300 credits left."

Not surprisingly, I had come in dead last in the tournament. "It's not my fault," I argued. "I started late and was playing only one credit at a time until halfway through. I'll finish five minutes ahead of everyone else in the next session, just watch me."

We were assigned new machines for the next go-round, and my worst fears were realized: I was seated next to my sweetie, who was certain to criticize every move I made. Sure enough, she kept glancing at my screen and deriding my play. "Why are you drawing to an inside straight?" "Don't break your jacks." "You're keeping three spades and a club, you fool."

The more she criticized me, the more flustered I got. So, I bore down and played every hand with deliberation and precision. The result was that this time everyone else finished at least five minutes ahead of me, and I had barely used up half my credits when the clock ran out. "What were you doing, Maxwell," my sweetie cooed, "taking a little nappy-poo between hands?"

Only one more session to go, thank God. By now I had lost any hope of winning the stupid tournament, but this time I was determined to at least play all of my credits before my time ran out, and maybe even set a record for the fastest finish ever. The instant the bell rang, I began slamming buttons like a maniac. I paid scant attention to strategy; all I cared about was getting through this thing as fast as possible. I broke pairs, overlooked draws to open-end straight flushes, and drew to ridiculous hands. In a frenzy, I drew to my last hand, 10-5-2 offsuit, and to my enormous satisfaction saw the credits drop to zero. There was a burst of applause from all the contestants who were watching me in amazement, and the tournament lady handed me a small trophy.

"Oh, boy," I smiled. "Did I set a record for the fastest finish?"

"No, no," she laughed, "everyone else finished ages ago. This trophy is for the lowest score in the history of this tournament."

Oh, well, maybe I'll give bingo another shot.