John Butlergambles on moving to New York
When I arrived in the city I wanted to be a nightwatch man, but the sheer number of writers in New York makes the market for that job too competitive. You've got to be John Updike to get the nightwatch gig. So I started selling pies at a traditional Aussie pie shop in the East Village. I worked 4pm to 2am five nights a week. The money was bad, but the job was simple and there was free internet access. Anyway, I had a plan to make ends meet. I worked the till, served pies, cleaned the pie-warmer, but after 10pm things got quiet and I played online poker for cash.
To play poker during work you need an absent boss, loose morals and no distractions - I had all three in spades. I would wipe pastry flakes from the keyboard and get busy nightly, and I would win, too. I'm no Phil Ivey, but midnight in Manhattan was 6am in Europe, and this time difference was my edge. Each online player enters their own country of origin, so I would join a table populated by Europeans. It seemed that their standards of play dropped further as the night wore on. These players were drunk.
Problems arose when a customer wanted a pie after midnight. If you stand up from an online poker game in the middle of the hand, you are check folded, which is to say the computer will automatically check - and then fold - your hand for you in your absence. Sometimes a customer in the shop would want to be guided through their purchase while I was busy playing. I believe it is referred to as customer service. Well, I'm sorry pal. It's a meat pie. Buy one / don't buy one - I've got Ace King over here. Before you condemn me entirely, I must tell you that my boss was even gruffer to his customers. This was part of the charm of the shop.
I got a name on the block as the poker guy. The tango instructor from next door stopped by on Wednesdays. He'd have a different date every week, trying to seduce her with pies (struck me as an error in judgment). He and a waiter from Mali would discuss my strategy as if I wasn't there.
The waiter thought my gambling was immoral, and tried to visualise the player at the other end. "He is an orphan! No. He is homeless!" But when I won a hand he would cackle like a witch, pounding me on the back. "You makin' bank now!"
The taxi rank outside the door was marshalled by an Iranian. At the end of his shift, he'd stop by, drink a root beer, take a paper pie bag and empty his pockets into it. Six-inch thick rolls of money, up to $10,000 a pocket, from all the cabs. He insisted I raise on every hand. "They don't know you have nothing! You have to represent my friend!" He'd watch me for two hours, then leave with his bag of cash. But my money was easier. After a month, I was making enough to live just by playing poker. I kept the job for the internet access, and in my own way I was also generating business for the shop, creating a dynamic ambience for the eating of pastries. It seemed like this house of cards would stand forever.
The end - when it came - bore the most unique form imaginable. One wet night the pastry chef was out making a delivery. I stood outside, drinking tea. It was nearly 10. The wind whipped down First Avenue, across Houston, and the streets were empty. One or two cabs lined up across the street, drivers smoking. Bengali phrases drifted across the night air.
I went in, fired up the laptop, and within an hour had been sucked into a game beyond all reason. There are a million cliches, and they all work here, but the best one is about pride before a fall. I had raised the pot on a hand that I couldn't possibly lose, and had, incredibly, been re-raised by two drunk Europeans. It's the dream situation. As the bell on the door tinkled I threw all the money I had saved from online poker into the pot, and swivelled triumphantly. When I returned to the game I'd be rich like a Getty.
There stood David Bowie, holding a "Violet Crumble". They are chocolate bars imported by the shop from Sydney. He is the greatest rock musician ever. And I couldn't handle the complexity. I should have played out the hand, given him the chocolate bar gratis, then thanked him for the music. I did do all three, but in the wrong order. When I finally got back to the computer, I found out that the drunk European had re-raised again, I had been check-folded out of the hand for not acting in time, and had lost all my money. Hang on tightly, let go lightly.
Since then, President Bush has concurred with the Malian waiter, banning cash poker on the internet in America (home to the city of Las Vegas). I wish this was the only reason I no longer play, but it isn't. The pie shop continues to thrive. David Bowie continues to tour and record.
• John Butler writes for film and television in Los Angeles. His writing can be found at lozenge.wordpress.com.