I once wrote a column title "A Field Guide to Railbirds," which instantly became the definitive treatise on this vital subject. A complete picture of the genus North American Railbird, it described its habitat, foliage, colors, behavior, physical characteristics, and distinctive sounds; everything, in fact, but its mating habits, since the railbird is so busy trying to scrounge up money that it never has time to mate.
I identified the railbird's habitat as a cardroom, where it lurks at the edges of live games or tournaments stalking its prey - anyone with money. I offered a description (shabby dress and empty wallet), and a railbird's distinctive configuration (hand outstretched, mouth opened just a bit at the corner so that he can't be overheard pitching you, and eyes darting furtively around the room looking for others to hit on).
I also described a railbird's distinctive chirping sounds. Looking to be staked in a side game or tournament, a railbird will always say, "This is my best game," no matter if it's hold'em, stud, lowball, Omaha, razz, crazy pineapple, Chinese poker, pai gow, fan tan, pan, or steal the old man's bundle.
The column also included a brief mention of a subspecies of railbird that I did not name then, but will do so now: the taxbird. They are creatures who, when you cash big in a tournament, flutter over and offer to sign for all or a percentage of your winnings so that you can save on your taxes. (Of course, if a railbird had won as many tournaments as he says he has, you'd be cosigning
his W2-G forms.) But since the taxbird seldom if ever has any legitimate earnings, the idea is that he can easily avoid paying any taxes on his tournament "cash-in." Even if he signed for a million dollars, it wouldn't make any difference because a railbird does not have a permanent address, so the IRS could never track him down.
Anyway, taxbirds have been doing a nice, thriving business for years, but suddenly they were threatened with extinction. The problem was that a court had ruled that poker is gambling and not a game of skill (they must have been watching Dirty Wally play), leading to a new tax law that was supposed to take effect next March that would have required casinos to withhold 25 percent of any tournament cashes of $5,000 or more.
Do you see what that would have meant? Let's say that you won $100,000 and you let a taxbird sign for half. Now he has $12,500 of his half held back by the government. Only the most incurable optimist would ever expect to see that money again. All the taxbird had to do was fly away and file for a refund come tax filing time. And what if, by some miracle, you managed to hook up with an honest taxbird, but he died? Sure, you could always file a claim and get your money back … and also get 12 years in the slammer for tax evasion.
There used to be a popular song, first recorded back in 1926, called
Bye, Bye, Blackbird. It seemed ready to change to
Bye, Bye, Taxbird.
Until recently I had never talked to or thought much about these taxbirds because I never won enough to sign a W2-G. Then, by some miracle, I actually cashed out for a few hundred dollars in an Omaha tournament. As I started to walk to the payout area, I found my way blocked by a rather sleazy-looking individual. "Congratulations, sir," he said. "I was rooting for you."
"Thanks, pal," I replied. "I'll remember you in my will."
I tried to push by him, but he held out his arm. "You look familiar, but your name escapes me."
"Max."
"Oh, yes, congratulations, Dr. Stern."
"I'm
not Max Stern. I write for
Card Player."
"Oh, of course, you're really Roy West. What's for dinner, Roy?"
I was losing patience. "Look, buddy, if you'll just excuse me, I have to cash out, get home, and tell Barbara. She'll never believe I won anything."
"Yes, that's what I wanted to talk to you about," he said. He handed me a card that read: "Ben the Pen. Professional Signer." I looked puzzled until he explained that his occupation was signing for tournament winners.
"You're talking to the wrong person. My buy-ins so far this year come to about 20 times what I won tonight."
"Well, better safe than sorry," he persisted. "Our rates are very reasonable."
"Really? And just what are your rates?"
"Well, the Tournament Signers Association has very strict guidelines. It's 1 percent for the first thousand dollars signed for, a half-percent up to $10,000, and 0.245 thereafter."
"And what if I don't want to pay you that much?"
"No problem. I'll settle for a pack of cigarettes."
As I told him for the umpteenth time that I wasn't interested, he began sobbing. "Oh, please, sir, we professional signers need to build a bankroll immediately. After that 25 percent withholding law goes into effect, we'll all be out of work."
"How about finding a real job?"
"But none of us have any qualifications, and trying to keep regular hours would prove fatal." He went on to paint a dire picture of how the national debt would skyrocket if every taxbird was forced out of work and had to go on welfare. "This is important. Maybe you could write a column about it."
I decided to humor him by doing so. This is it. I also alerted George Bush by sending him an advance copy. After an assistant read it to him and explained what it meant, he had someone call the IRS to work out a deal canceling that 25 percent withholding law.
So, you see? All you tournament players owe a debt of gratitude to the taxbirds. Remember that when one of them approaches you, and be sure to thank him.
Just don't let him sign for you.
Max Shapiro, a lifelong poker player and former newspaper reporter with several writing awards to his credit, has been writing a humor column for Card Player ever since it was launched 20 years ago. His early columns were collected in his book, Read 'em and Laugh.
