Vote for Windy

I hadn’t seen Windy Waggy since the time she descended on the Barstow Card Casino and ended up turning Big Denny into a quivering heap. Promising to provide a marketing plan to triple his business, the pushy dame proceeded to camp out there for a month, complaining about everything from the thread count in her bedsheets to the vintage of the wine served to her by Aunt Sophie the cocktail waitress. She talked Big Denny into doing idiotic things like digging a lake alongside his casino and renaming his desert dump The Bayside Inn. Desperate to get rid of her, the big ape tried to frighten her off by proposing marriage, and then suffered a heart attack when she accepted. She finally skipped town rather than have to care for him.

Much to my dismay, I encountered her again while I was checking out Steve Wynn’s elegant new hotel and casino, Encore.

“Dr. Stern,” shrilled that unforgettably annoying voice, “how fabulous to see you again.”

“I am not Max Stern!” I yelled. “I am Max Shapiro, America’s foremost poker humorist.”

“Oh, yes, you do those silly little pieces in Card Player. How amusing. But that gives me a wonderful idea. Let me buy you dinner while I explain it to you.”

Before I could beg off, she grabbed my arm and dragged me to the buffet. As we approached the cashier, she pulled out her cellphone, said she had a very important call, and asked me to pay the tab, for which she would later reimburse me. I reluctantly pulled out my wallet and handed over 60-some dollars, which I knew I would never see again. Meanwhile, Windy was yammering away loud enough for everyone in the buffet (and the entire casino, for that matter) to hear:

“Oh, thank you, President Obama. It was a pleasure helping you with your inauguration speech. Of course I’ll be glad to come to Washington next week to advise you on foreign policy. And please give my best to Michelle.”

I couldn’t help notice during her “conversation” that her phone was flashing red, meaning the battery was out. Oh well, nothing new there.

As the hostess started to seat us, Windy threw up her hand. “I must insist that you place us in a private, secluded booth away from all these tourists. It is so annoying to have people come over and ask for my autograph while I am attempting to dine.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” the hostess shrugged. “All I got is this table by the kitchen.”

“_What!?_” Windy exploded. “Mr. Wynn has left explicit instructions for all his employees to accommodate me in every possible way. Do as I say or I shall be forced to report you.”

The terrorized hostess threw an elderly couple out of a booth in the rear and seated us.

“Oh, the mediocre level of service these days,” she sighed as she rearranged the silverware to her liking. “Well, let us inspect the fare, shall we?”

Glad to get away, I strolled down the rows of exotic and mouthwatering entrees, loading my plate with an assortment of goodies. “Great food, isn’t it?” I said as I sat down again.

“Adequate, I suppose,” she frowned. “Unfortunately, there is no sign of the foie gras, Lobster Newberg, and oysters Rockefeller to which I am accustomed, but I shall make do.”

Windy “made do” by gobbling down four servings of fried chicken and a whole pepperoni pizza before burping down her last bite, ordering a glass of the most expensive wine on the menu, which I also had to pay for, and finally getting to why she wanted to talk to me.

“Maxwell, the entire poker community is up in arms because I, the most qualified individual alive, for some inexplicable reason have not yet been inducted into the Poker Hall of Fame. I would like you to help rectify this oversight by urging in your column that I be the next inductee.”

“Well, I don’t know,” I said. “I already promised Dirty Wally that I’d help him. Then there’s Eskimo Clark, and …”

“Don’t be childish!” she snapped. “There should be a woman in the Hall of Fame.”

“There already is,” I reminded her.

“Oh, your sweetie. I mean a qualified woman. What’s she ever done?”

“Not much,” I admitted. “Only won more than 30 major tournaments, been the first woman to win two ladies championships, the first woman to win a major open event at the World Series, the only woman to make the main-event final table, the only woman to win a best all-around, little things like that.”

“Yes, I know, but my accomplishments far exceed those.”

“That’s funny, I once checked you out on the Card Player database and couldn’t even find your name.”

“Oh, you know how modest I am. I don’t seek attention, or wish to promote myself, so I use an alias.”

“Which one?”

“Annie Duke.”

“Oh, right. But if you don’t wish to promote yourself, how come you took out all those ads in the Vegas papers, put up billboards, used skywriting planes, and sprayed graffiti all over town touting yourself for the Hall of Fame?”

“My admirers compelled me to.”

“Look, Windy, I know that Johnny Moss, Wild Bill Hickok, and all the rest of the gang would love to have you join them. But it’s not easy getting into that club. Maybe you should try for the Women in Poker Hall of Fame; just as prestigious, but a lot fewer competitors.”

Windy sniffed. “Only the original could do justice to my stature.”

“Well, how about Oklahoma Johnny Hale’s Seniors Hall of Fame?” I persisted.

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m much too young,” she protested, hiding the copy of the AARP magazine that she had been reading. “Besides, he’d induct anyone who bought two of his books. There really are no famous names in there.”

“Well, he’s about to induct Oprah Winfrey,” I pointed out. When Windy demanded to know why, I explained the circumstances. With all the weight she’d packed on recently, Oprah also developed an embarrassing gas problem, and took up poker for diversion. When Oklahoma Johnny heard she was playing poker, he offered to induct her, and she was so elated, it cured her gas problem. Therefore, to thank and honor him, she offered to change her name.

“Change her name? To what?”

“Oprahoma Windfree.”

Windy Waggy exploded. “We are discussing a very important matter here. One more of your childish jests and I shall be forced to leave.”

Before I could think of another childish jest, she resumed chattering about herself and proclaiming her accomplishments, on and on and on, dropping the name of everyone in the poker world she had “advised,” from Benny Binion to Donald Trump, along with just about every legislator in Washington, not letting up until the buffet was closing. Finally preparing to leave, she dropped two pieces of fried chicken, 12 cookies, and the empty wineglass into her purse, wagged her finger at me, and, with a final admonition, pranced off.

Well, that’s it. You’d better support Windy Waggy for the Poker Hall of Fame, or she might spray-paint your front door.

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.