Prisoner of the Internet

My sweetie, as usual, was playing poker online when she got an emergency phone call.



"It's me, Jerry, Ann Broom's husband!" shrieked a voice at the other end. "Ann's been locked in her room playing poker on the Internet for eight months now. It's all your fault, Barbara. You got her started. You have to do something or she'll die very soon!"



Concerned and sympath-etic, Barbara responded in just the manner I knew she would: "I'll have to call you back, Jerry.



I'm in a hand right now."



Ann Broom, apart from having an addiction to Vegas keno machines, used to be a reasonably normal person – or at least as normal as poker players ever get. Her main eccentricity was the little old ladies hat she habitually wore, the kind with a big flower on the brim. It was all the rage the year that Charles Lindbergh flew the Atlantic and landed in Paris.



Ann said it was her "good luck" hat. Some luck. Legend has it that it was worn by Bonnie Parker the day that she and Clyde Barrow were gunned down in a police ambush. At least that would account for the bullet hole in the hat. I've never known Ann to have a winning session at poker. Actually, she had been a so-so average player until she had the bad luck to meet Dirty Wally, who talked her into taking poker lessons from him. Naturally, she was wearing the hat at the time she met him.

Ann Broom, B.C. (Before Computers)

She used to play side games and tournaments a few times a week at local poker parlors. And then came the fateful day when Barbara taught her how to use a computer and introduced her to online poker. Ann was immediately hooked and lost contact with the outside world. Barbara's intentions were honorable, though. She was merely trying to get a little rake-back by having Ann use her bonus code on a site called PikerPoker.



"Barbara," I urged my sweetie, "tear yourself away from the computer and let's go and try to help poor Ann. This sounds like a life-or-death situation."



"OK, as soon as I get even."



Fortunately, my sweetie eventually got even, and we drove down to the Broom residence. A distraught Jerry took us in and led us to the closed and bolted bedroom where Ann was holed up. From inside we could hear muted, computer-generated sounds of cards and chips moving about, sounds that were frequently drowned out by curses whenever Ann lost a hand.



"This is terrible, Jerry," I said. "Haven't you been able to do anything?"



"Nope. The only time I've laid eyes on her in the past eight months was once for an hour when there was a neighborhood power outage."



We began pounding on the door, pleading for Ann to open it.



"Not now," Ann called out. "I'm in a hand." (Barbara had taught her well.)



"She sounds kind of weak, Jerry," Barbara said.



"No wonder," he replied. "All she's had to eat in eight months are pancakes."



"Why only pancakes?" I asked.



"I have to slip her food under the door, and that's the only thing that will fit," he explained.



"I have an idea," I said. "Wait here." I drove down to a fast food place and came back with a steaming platter of fried chicken and chitlins, which I placed by the door. As I had hoped, the aroma proved irresistible. As Ann opened the door to retrieve the food, we stared at the room in dismay.



The drapes were drawn, and the room was dim and dank. There were three computers and 12 poker screens going on PikerPoker, PovertyPoker, and PatheticPoker. Dust several inches high coated everything but the mouse on each computer. Spiderwebs hung down from the ceiling. In one corner was the skeleton of their pet cat, whom Ann had forgotten to feed. In another corner, a river of ants feasted on pancake syrup coating a mountain of discarded paper plates. In another corner lay a huge pile of unopened mail that Jerry had slid under the door, including birthday cards and greeting cards for Easter, Christmas, Halloween, and the festival of Kwanzaa. The only diversion was a television set, but it was tuned to a poker tournament. I'm pretty sure it was poker because it showed Phil Hellmuth lying prone on the ground, wailing and kicking his feet.



Ann was alarmingly gaunt and pale. Her hands were shaking. Even the flower on her hat had wilted.



"Ann," Barbara said gently, "this is no way to live."



"What's the harm?" Ann responded. "I'm only playing for very small stakes, no more than 10 and 20 cents."



"So, how have you done overall?"



"I'm stuck a little over $180,000."



We argued fruitlessly with her, until I had another idea. "You've heard of Alcoholics Anonymous, Ann," I said. "Well, now there's an organization called "Interholics Anonymous" for people addicted to online poker. There's a meeting tonight and they can help you. Why don't we take you down there?"



"OK, as soon as I get even."



Ann wouldn't budge until Jerry threatened to cut off the electricity again, after which she reluctantly agreed to accompany us.

Ann Broom, A.C. (After Computers)

We drove to the Interholics Anonymous location and walked into the meeting hall. At the entrance was a box for donations. "We accept NETELLER and PayPal," a sign on the box read. There were also sheets listing the warning signs of online poker addiction; I began reading:

1. Has it been more than a month since you've seen your wife and children?

2. Have you recently developed eye cataracts from staring at the screen and carpal tunnel syndrome from working the mouse?

3. Have you absentmindedly begun signing letters and checks with your screen name (such as "EmptySeat003")?

4. Do you find yourself transferring money more often than a Brink's truck?



The warnings were getting a little frightening. I looked at the stage where an IA member was starting to speak. "My name is Bob and I'm a recovering Interholic," he said. "It's been six weeks since I played online. I had my wife hide my computer, but I still find myself getting up at night sometimes to look for it."



His fellow recovering IAs in the audience nodded their heads in recognition and sympathy – all except those who were still busy playing poker on their wireless laptops or cellphones, that is.



The speaker seemed to get Ann's attention. We then were relieved to see that she began talking to and asking questions of other recovering addicts. And soon she began driving down to meetings herself several times a week.



So, is she cured? Not exactly. It turns out she was talking to other members just to get tips on how to play better online, and now she's got four computers and is spending more time than ever on the Internet. She's even discovered online keno. Oh, well. At least we don't have to look at her hat anymore.