Max Goes Online

"Let's go," my sweetie said to me one evening as she cashed out. "How did you do in your Omaha game?"

"Oh, not too bad," I replied evasively.

"How much did you lose?" she demanded.

"Not much. A little over a hundred."

"How much?"

"Well, maybe closer to two hundred. But that's not too bad."

"In a $1-$2 game? You're impossible. With all my instruction, how come you always lose?"

"I don't know," I said. "It just seems like when the players see me coming, they rub their hands and run all over me."

"Well, no wonder, with your reputation. Everyone knows you play like a wuss. I wish there were some way you could hide your identity."

"How about I get plastic surgery?" I said sarcastically. "Or maybe use a mask?"

"Those might work," she said thoughtfully. "But I've got a better idea. Why don't you try playing poker online?"

I looked around the casino. "Play poker on line? I don't see any line."

"Quit clowning. I meant on the Internet, where nobody knows who you are."

"Everybody knows who I am," I said indignantly. "I'm America's foremost gaming humorist."

"Oh, you're a riot, all right. Look, Maxwell, there are lots of good reasons to play online. You don't have to sit next to people who need baths, or watch people chewing food with their mouths open making disgusting noises."

"Hey, that's right," I said, beginning to warm to the idea. "And I don't have to tip dealers, either."

"Oh, sure," she laughed. "Think of all the quarters you'll save."

"Hey, it all adds up."

"The number of times you win a pot, I don't think you have to worry much about tipping," she zinged me, getting in the last line, as usual. "But the main thing is hiding your identity, because when you play online, you can use a fictitious name, like 'Bust-Out,' or 'Worm,' or something like that."

"Yeah, how about 'Max the Ax,' or 'Poker Ace'?"

"I think 'Dead Money' or 'Fishy-Fishy' might be more appropriate," she responded. We finally compromised when I came up with a name that nobody could ever associate with me, and one that Barbara warned me never, ever, to reveal to anyone. It's "Mop-Top." Clever, aren't I?

I asked Barbara what I had to do next to play online. "Buy a computer," she said.

"I have a computer," I protested.

"You call that relic a computer?" she laughed. "Its memory is measured in kilobytes, it has the speed of a turtle on crutches, and it runs on Windows 1956."

"Hey, I paid a lot of money for that computer."

"You found it in a dumpster, Maxwell. Don't be so cheap and buy one that works."

Again we compromised. I took it in to an electronics store, had extra memory put in, and even replaced two missing letters on the keyboard. What a waste of money! How often do you use the letters "q" or "z" anyway?

Before I started playing, I thought I'd do some research. I asked my friend John Bonetti if he played online.

"Soitenly not!" he replied indignantly. "What's the point of playin' poker when you can't coise the dealers? Fuhgetabout it, I got my standards."

How could I be so thoughtless? Next, I ran into Big Denny and asked if he ever played on the Internet.

"Yeah, once," he said. "I seen dis ad what said dat if ya wanted, ya could play poker on da computer widout wearin' no clothes. So I tried it, an' ya know what - dey arrested me!"

"Wait a minute," I said, thoroughly puzzled. "You were undressed, playing poker in your own home on your computer, and they arrested you?"

Big Denny scratched his head. "Dey didn't say nuttin' about playin' at home. I ain't got a computer, so I wuz playin' in one of dem Internet cafes.

"Anyways," he added, "I wuzn't havin' no fun on account of ya can't t'row cards or peek at someone else's hand or do nuttin' like that."

Well, so much for my research. I told Barbara I was ready to give it a go. We investigated various poker sites, and I chose one that offered games with 25- and 50-cent limits. It was called "Piker Poker." Following her instructions, I managed to log in and sign up for an Omaha game.

Checking out the table, I was intrigued by some of the names that players used, such as "Pokerhontas," "Stinkerbell," "EmptySeat," "ChipsyWoman," and "AmarilloNotSoSlim." I was studying them when a beeping sound went off.

"Is that the microwave oven?" I asked.

"No, you fool. That's a warning signal that your time is running out. It's on you."

"What's on me?" I asked, brushing off my shirt.

"You've used that gag before," my sweetie said in disgust. "You have to act."

"I'm supposed to act?" I stood up and started acting: "To be or not to be." "Frankly, my dear, I don't give a damn." "Stella!"

As an alarm went off and I was timed out, Barbara threw up her hands. "I give up. You're on your own, ace."

"Well, fine! I can handle this myself just dandy without your meddling, thank you very much," I said, though not loud enough for her to hear.

Getting back to Piker Poker, I examined the photos next to each player's ID. An adorable little blonde named Cupcake caught my eye. I began flirting harmlessly with her on the chat box, and our exchange of notes eventually resulted in a face-to-face meeting. To my dismay, I discovered that the names and photos were not always true-to-life. "Cupcake" turned out to be a 900-pound truck driver.

Oh, well, I wasn't exactly being completely honest by calling myself Mop-Top and using a photo of a young Paul McCartney. But at least nobody could ever guess who I was.

I started playing, using my usual scientific Omaha strategy. Out of the first 45 hands, I folded 42 times before the flop, twice on the flop, and once I went all the way to fourth street. I was starting to get a little upset because I had played less than two hours and was already out $1.65. Even worse, the other players began posting insulting notes on the chat box.

"That rock plays just like Max Shapiro."

"Nah, nobody plays that bad."

"Hey, maybe it is Max Shapiro. Hey, Max, did your mommy give you some money to play poker?"

I'll show them, I vowed to myself. Sure enough, a hand later, I was dealt A-A-2-3 double-suited. I raised, which threw the table into shock, but five players called, and there were two more raises. The flop was a perfect A-5-4, which gave me a wheel and a set of bullets! There must have been some flush draws and other good hands out there, because the pot was capped and everybody called. A 4 on the turn gave me aces full along with my wheel. Another capped pot! On the river, incredibly, the pot was three-bet. I was about to make the final raise, which would have created an astounding, record-breaking $24 pot, when a horrendous message suddenly flashed on my screen:

"Your cheap computer has caused a fatal exception error. AOL will now shut down for upgrade and maintenance. You may be able to sign on again in a week. Thank you for using AOL."

Frantically, I began trying to reach the Internet again. The start-up was infernally slow, and after finally getting online, I had to go through the process of signing in and finding my table at Piker Poker. When I finally got there, the hand was long over. I was left with 40 cents and a bunch of sniggering remarks in the chat box.

"Keep the 40 cents for a tip!" I wrote in a rage, and signed off.

Later, my sweetie asked me how I liked playing on the Internet.

"Easy pickings," I replied. "I had some bad beats, but I'll do better next time."