Mitch the Mooch

I am a dedicated student of Shakespeare because so many of his verses resonate and speak universal truth. Perhaps his most memorable and quoted line reads: "Neither a borrower nor a lender be, for ne'er will a railbird repay thee."

And, of course, Abe Lincoln said much the same thing in his Gettysburg Address: "A railbird will little note nor long remember what you loaned him."

Having been stung more times than a beekeeper, I have tried to live by these admonitions. But my resistance and patience often are strained to the breaking point. My worst experience came during the World Series this year. I had just gotten up from a juicy $2-$4 Omaha eight-or-better game. I was feeling pretty good because I had nearly broken even, making it one of my best nights ever. As I reached the cashier's window, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and, to my dismay, found myself looking at Mitch the Mooch, the king of the railbirds.

Mitch used to beg for buy-ins at L.A. casinos, until he ended up owing more money than a developing nation like Bangladesh owes the World Bank. (I never understood, incidentally, why they call such countries "developing nations" in the first place. The only thing they ever develop is more debt.) Anyway, Mitch finally had to skip town and move to Vegas - after begging for bus fare. Apparently, his standards for Sin City had risen somewhat. In L.A., he was happy to be staked in a $15 nooner tournament at The Bicycle Casino. In Vegas, he wanted a little more.

"Hey, Max," he greeted me. "How about putting me into the $50,000 H.O.R.S.E. event? It's my best game."

"Your best game? H.O.R.S.E. is five games: hold'em, Omaha eight-or-better, razz, stud, and eight-or-better stud."

"It is?" he said in surprise. "Well, that's OK; they're all my best games."

"Mitch, you don't have a best game. Your best and only game is borrowing money."

"That's not true," he said defensively. "I've had plenty of big cashes."

"Look, pal, out of curiosity, I once looked you up on the CardPlayer.com database. You weren't even listed."

Mitch lowered his voice. "Don't tell anyone, but to avoid taxes, I just give them another name when I cash out."

"Really? That's the same excuse Dirty Wally gave me when I couldn't find any of the 175 tournaments that he claims to have won. Of course, he played most of them when Herbert Hoover was president and the buy-ins were 50 cents. So, tell me, Mitch, what name do you give?"

"Phil Hellmuth."

"Oh, that explains a lot of things. I never understood how one guy could accumulate so many bracelets all by himself. Well, Mitch, I'd love to help you, but I'm $49,995 short of $50,000 right now."

"Oh, come on, Dr. Stern. I know you have a lot of money."

"Why does everyone confuse me with that guy!" I shouted. "I am not Max Stern. I am Max Shapiro, the acclaimed poker humorist. If you want to be staked, go see him. Or better yet, ask his wife, Maria Stern. She gives him all his money."

"I bet Barbara gives you all your money," Mitch the Mooch snickered.

"Yeah, right. She keeps ordering me to bring her drinks when she's in a tournament, and then won't even pay me back. Look, Mitch," I finally said in exasperation, "aren't you ashamed of always pleading for money? Why don't you just get a job?"

"Oh, I once had a very good job," Mitch replied. "But then, technological advances in the industry made my job obsolete."

"Oh, yes," I said sympathetically, "that goes on all the time. Where were you employed, in communications, construction, factory work?"

"I was in the collection business."

"Collection business? What do you mean?"

"I had a route collecting coins that were left behind in slot machines; that is, until they began putting in those damn paper-ticket payout things."

"Oh, how thoughtless."

"And the worst part is that they wouldn't even pay me unemployment." Mitch began to sob. "For a while, I got so desperate that I tried grabbing coins that people had thrown in fountains. But then Michael Wiesenberg heard about it. He said he had gotten that job for his Aunt Sophie, and threatened to sue me for trade infringement or else drown me in one of the fountains."

I was getting tired of the conversation and anxious to find Barbara, so that I could boast of my big night playing Omaha. "Sorry, Mitch," I said, trying to brush past him, "I just can't do it."

He blocked my path and fell to his knees. "Look, Max, I'm not greedy. You don't have to back me in a $50,000 tournament. I'll settle for the $10,000 main event."

"Mitch, I wouldn't stake you in a penny slot tournament if your life depended on it."

"Can you at least give me enough money to fill up my gas tank, then?"

"Mitch, there isn't a railbird in the world who owns a car, except maybe just to sleep in, and now it would cost almost as much to fill a tank as it would to put you in the main event."

"OK, then how about if ..."

I had all I could take. "Security!" I yelled as loudly as I could.

Two uniformed guards rushed up. "This guy ..." I started to say.

"Hey, it's Mitch the Mooch," one of the guards cried out. "Where's that five bucks I loaned you, pal?"

"Yeah, and how about my two bucks?" the other chimed in.

Mitch looked at all three of us in alarm. He then pulled a cellphone from his pocket and put it to his ear. It wasn't a working phone, just one he had falsely reclaimed from lost and found to be used in a crisis situation like this one. "Sorry, guys," he said before darting off. "There's an emergency at home. Talk to you later. Bye."

And that, thank goodness, was the last I saw of Mitch during the WSOP. Should you ever run into him, and he tries to hit you up, claiming he just missed making the money in the H.O.R.S.E. event, don't believe him. What he means is that he missed making the money to play the event.

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.