Stop the Clock

A while back I drove up for a tournament at the Barstow Card Casino and was stunned to discover that the tournament director was Filthy Willy. I asked Big Denny how come.

"Aw," he shrugged, "Dirty Wally wuz cryin' on my shoulder about how his grandpappy couldn't make ends meet on his Civil War pension of $11 a month, an' so I let him have the job only because I'm such a softhearted lug."

Yeah, I thought, and only because you're probably paying him 40 cents an hour. "Look, Denny," I said aloud, "I'm warning you - it isn't going to work."

It was the easiest prediction I ever made, because Filthy Willy was as qualified to be a tournament director as Tom McEvoy is to be a fashion consultant. Willy didn't have the foggiest idea of what was going on, or how or when or why the limits were supposed to go up. To make matters worse, his pocket watch kept stopping and he kept falling asleep. Consequently, the limits changed anywhere from every 15 minutes to every two hours. They sometimes doubled, sometimes tripled, and once or twice decreased. Fortunately, the Barstow rustics playing in the tournament didn't know the difference, but I certainly did.

Afterward, I complained to the big guy. "You can't run tournaments like that, Denny. You have to keep up with the times. Why don't you get one of those tournament clocks?"

"Hey, dat's a good idea, Maxey," Big Denny replied, with no idea of what I was talking about. "Does Kmart carry dem?"

"No, no," I explained. "Tournament clocks are run by specially designed software programs. They show what the current limits are and how much time is left until they go up. They tell you how many players are left, and all kinds of things. They're really neat, and all the casinos are putting them in."

"Gee, I don't know, Maxey. Dat sounds like a swell t'ing, but I couldn't afford nuttin' like dat."

I had an idea. "Look, Denny, you have a school here called the Barstow Institute of Technology. Each year they have a competition to design some high-tech device, like the electronic hog feeder they worked on last year. Why don't you ask them to come up with a tournament clock for you this year?"

Big Denny shook his head in admiration. "Ya know, yer really some kinda genius, Maxey. I don't know why yer wastin' yer time at dat Card Player. Why don'tcha try ta get a job wit' Poker Digest? I hear dey pays a hell of a lot better."

As usual, Big Denny was a bit behind in the news. So, rather than go into a long explanation, I simply thanked him for his advice and promised to look into it. A few months later he phoned me excitedly. "Hey, Maxey, yer idea worked! Da school had dere students do clock ideas, and dey picked da best one. It's supposed to be really somet'in', an' we're gonna try it out at our big hold'em tournament dis weekend. Why don'tcha come down an' write a cover story fer Card Player?"

"Sure, Denny. The next issue's cover has been promised to Bellagio, but I'm sure they'll will understand."

I drove up to the Barstow Card Casino accompanied by Paul Westley, a genial Brit who programmed the tournament clock now used by several major casinos. He came along out of intellectual curiosity, and to see if there were any innovations he could steal. We walked in to discover a small crowd of tournament players and Barstow Institute of Technology students eagerly awaiting the unveiling of this newest technological marvel. Covered by drapes, it stood at the front of the tournament area, where the dean of BIT was about to make his introductory speech.

"On this auspicious occasion," he began, "the faculty and student body of the Barstow Institute of Technology, the most prestigious center of higher learning to be found anywhere between Baker and Bakersfield, is honored to have played a role in the scientific advancement of poker, and … "

"Cut da crap an' just show da damned clock!" Big Denny bellowed. "If ya keep yakkin' much longer, dese farmers will doze off."

The startled dean prudently cut his speech short. "Very well, Mr. Denny. Let me introduce the winner of our design competition, Melvin Milkthistle."

A geeky kid rose to his feet. "Thank you, dean," he began. "I think that all of you will be impressed by the innovations in this new tournament clock, a versatile, multigaming instrument boasting features never seen before in any simplistic and inferior model now in use." He smirked at Westley, who responded by making a face and sticking out his tongue.

"And now," Melvin said triumphantly, "behold the tournament clock for the ages, the Melvin Milkthistle Marvel."

He pulled a cord, and the drapes fell away to reveal a contraption that consisted of a control panel with a bewildering assortment of knobs, dials, switches, and buttons clustered around a TV monitor.

"Good heavens," gasped Westley. "The bloody thing looks like something out of a Jules Verne novel."

"Yeah, as interpreted by Rube Goldberg," I added.

"Let the games begin," Melvin declared triumphantly. He hit a button. A tiny door opened, a rail slid out, and a little wooden cuckoo bird emerged. "Cuckoo, cuckoo, the time is seven o'clock, and all is well," the bird chirped.

"What's wit' da bird?" Denny yelled. "We don't need no stupid birds. Get rid of dat t'ing!"

"All right, all right," Melvin replied nervously. He hit another button and the bird retreated back into its compartment. "Here we go again," the young inventor said. He hit a switch, and a voice called out, "Play ball!" followed by an off-key rendition of Take Me Out to the Ball Game.

"Oops," Melvin said apologetically. "I'll get it right this time, I promise." He pressed another button. A gong sounded, and this time the voice announced: "Round one!"

"Round one?" I said, puzzled. "This isn't a boxing match."

"It's gonna be in about one minute," Big Denny growled. "Look, kid, ya got one more chance ta get it right afore I sits on yer head."

In a panic, the genius from BIT twirled some dials, and finally the monitor lit up to show the first level and time remaining.

"Dat's more like it," Big Denny said. "Now hows about showin' da limits?"

Melvin pressed another button, and a voice dutifully reported the limits as $15 and $30. Denny smiled happily.

" … and the low-card bring-in is $5," the voice added.

"Low-card bring-in?" Denny screamed. "We ain't playin' stud, we're playin' hold'em!"

"Hold'em? What's that?" Melvin asked in a puzzled voice.

The players were starting to lose patience. "Hey, let's get going," one yelled. "Yeah, it'll be time to milk the cows soon," another added.

After a few more minutes of frenzied dial twirling, all the elements were in place: blinds, limits, time remaining, and number of players. The cards were dealt at the tables, and everyone breathed a sigh of relief. Things progressed smoothly for a half-hour until the time arrived for the limits to increase. Right on schedule, a "bong" sounded, and the voice announced: "The limits are now doubling from 15 and 30 to 25 and 70."

"Terribly sorry about that," the dean of BIT murmured. "We simply must upgrade our math department."

The numbers were corrected, and the tournament proceeded. But just when it seemed as if everything was finally going right, the voice in the clock suddenly boomed out: "The next number on your BINGO card is O 47." That was followed by, "And it's Runny Nose in the lead by two lengths." Then came the winning lottery numbers.

Melvin frantically began hitting switches, only to have the tournament clock announce, "You've got mail." Big Denny's face was getting redder with every glitch.

"Frightfully sorry for the poor lad," Westley sympathized, grinning from ear to ear.

Then came the clincher. The clock stopped, the screen went dark, and the computerized voice announced cheerfully: "Now let's take a brief timeout while we bring you an important word from our sponsors." The first "word" was from Oklahoma Johnny Hale pitching a major new Seniors championship event, The Oklahoma Johnny Hale The Seniors World Championship of Tijuana. That was followed by a commercial from Slick Simpson, owner of the Barstow Better Buy used car lot, with the day's bargain special: "a preowned '79 Chevy pickup for just eight hunnerd and ninety-nine dollars on easy credit."

"Dat does it!" Big Denny bellowed. The room reverberated with a horrible crunching sound as new meaning was imparted to the term "punching the clock."

And that effectively ended the Barstow Card Casino's first and only foray into high-tech poker tournaments and saved Paul Westley's clock from obsolescence. A couple of weeks later I stopped by the casino again and discovered that Filthy Willy had his job back.

"I told Mr. Denny that these danged gadgets wouldn't work," he cackled. "Now I got me a new watch, Mr. Denny hiked my pay to 50 cents an hour, and I got the job down just dandy." He lowered his voice. "Just one thing I don't understand."

"What's that, Willy?"

"What in tarnation are blinds?"