Max To Write for the Barstow Bugle

The phone rang. It was Big Denny, and I feared the worst, but for once he wasn’t threatening me. “Hey, Maxey,” he said, “how’s about comin’ up ta Barstow? I got somet’in dat might interest ya.”

I sighed. “Look, Denny, haven’t you fleeced me enough with your crooked games and rigged tournaments? What’s your scheme this time?”

“Doesn’t ya trust me, Maxey?” he asked, posing a question I didn’t dare answer. “Look, it’s got nuttin’ ta do wit’ me or da casino. I knows someone who wants ta offer ya a job. Come by an’ I’ll tell ya about it.”

I was skeptical but curious, so a few days later I drove up. Denny opened the conversation with a question. “So tell me, Maxey, how much does dat magazine ya works for pay ya?”

“_Card Player_? The compensation is … is … adequate,” I muttered.

“Yeah, I bet it is. Well, guess what? I knows anudder place ya kin do better writin’ for.”

“Oh, really? Where’s that? The New York Times? London Observor?”

“Never heard of dem. Dis here is wit’ our first-class local paper, da Barstow Bugle. Da publisher, name of Scoop Scully, is a real sharp guy. He heard dat poker was gettin’ big an’ wants ta run a poker column, so I recermended you.”

I should have known better, but agreed to check it out. I located the Barstow Bugle office and discovered it was housed in a run-down storefront location. In the waiting room, I glanced at a copy of the paper. The only articles were about bake sales, PTA and Cub Scout meetings, and a story about the birth of a five-legged cow over at Homer Pritchett’s spread.

Just then, in walked Scoop Scully, an old codger dressed in a suit even older than he was. His vest pocket was lined with a row of pens, and he was wearing a tinted eyeshade visor of the type worn by newspaper guys back in the ’20s.

“Welcome to Barstow Bugle. Finest newspaper anywhere between Baker and Boron. Have look-see, right?”

His staccato speech sounded as if he was communicating with a telegraph device in Morse code, which he probably did in his earlier days. Or, maybe he thought he was that newsman of the ’30s, Walter Winchell: “Good evening, Mr. and Mrs. North and South America and all the ships at sea; let’s go to press.”

“Visit press room first,” he announced, leading me into a room where two ancient “reporters” were banging away on rusty old manual typewriters, making corrections with pencils.

“Uh, don’t you have computers here?” I inquired.

“Computers? Newfangled nonsense. Won’t last. Typewriters here to stay.”

Our next stop was the printing department. My mouth dropped open as I stared at a Linotype machine for the first time in 50 years. An operator was seated at this huge iron monstrosity that was first introduced in 1886. He was reading typewritten stories and typing them out on a keyboard, after which the machine would extract molten lead from a pot heated to more than 500 degrees and cast a slug of type.

“Modern technology,” Scully beamed. “Take lead bars, put in tray. Ink down. Put paper over tray. Run roller over paper. Presto, newspaper.”

“I’m sure Benjamin Franklin would have been impressed,” I nodded. “Look, Mr. Scully, I don’t like taking up your time. I understand you wanted to talk to me about a poker writing job.”

“Excellent!” We went to his office and began talking poker. He asked me what kind of column I would do. I explained that I was America’s foremost poker humorist, and wrote very funny columns based mostly on oddball characters I knew.

“Like who?” he asked.

“Well, my main guy is Big Denny. I just love poking fun at that big ape.”

Scully threw up his hand. “No can do. Barstow Card Casino biggest advertiser. Some issues, only advertiser. Who else?”

I began ticking off and describing other characters: Dirty Wally, Filthy Willy, Booger Boy, Ralph the Rattler, but he just kept shaking his head. “No place for any of them in family newspaper. How about strategy?”

“Well, I could talk about continuation-betting, algorithmic permutations, floating, implied odds …”

Scully had no idea what I was talking about. “How about real stuff. Like what beats, straight or flush?”

“Well, hold’em is such a complicated game, there’s lots I could talk about.”
“Hold’em? What that? Five-card stud all they play here.”

I could see I was getting nowhere. “Well, maybe I could interview some top players.”

“Good idea. Start with Johnny Moss.”

“I’m not sure he’s available,” I said diplomatically.

“Maybe cover some games. Farley Hoskins has real whiz-banger at his home every week. Pot one time over four dollars.”

“Very impressive, but it’s a little far for me to drive. Look, Mr. Scully, why don’t I just send you a few sample columns and you could pick whatever you want.”

He agreed, and I finally asked what he intended to pay. As I suspected, his offer was below minimum wage; below minimum wage in Bangladesh, that is. After printing out and mailing the stories (since he had no computer and I couldn’t e-mail), I might even break even. Oh well, I’ll just send him old stories. After all, no one there had read my columns in a long time, because Card Player pulled its magazines out of the casino after Big Denny wouldn’t pay for the ads he ran. So I’d be doing the good folks of Barstow a public service by introducing them to fine literature.

Watch for my columns. And who knows? Maybe someday I can get promoted to covering Cub Scout meetings.

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.