Tommy Angelo

On June 19, I woke up in Ohio and I went to bed in California. Meanwhile, there were delays. My flight from Cleveland to Houston was a little late getting off the ground, which gave me only 20 minutes or so to walk from gate E14 to gate C32 at the Houston airport, a distance of eight restrooms and two Starbucks. When I got to gate C32, they were still boarding. I stood in line. I scuffled forward with my linemates. I handed my boarding pass to the attendant. The machine rejected my pass. “Where do you think you are going?” she asked. There have been many answers to this question over the years. Now I understand that there was, is, and forever shall be only one answer. “I am already there.” But I didn’t think that was the best answer in this situation, so I said, “San Francisco.” The attendant said, “Well this plane is going to New York. The gate for your flight has been changed. Your flight is departing from Gate 42. Walk back to the intersection and turn right.” She pointed toward a distant Starbucks.

I started walking like a trotting horse struggling to contain a gallop. Then I remembered. It’s all about just remembering. I remembered that nothing matters, as does everything. I remembered that if I miss my flight, I will retain total control over my own disappointment. I remembered that I have been training myself and taming myself for five years so that the thought of and the act of spending the night in an airport not only doesn’t hurt, but is actually perceived as and cashed in as an opportunity for even more training and more taming. Suddenly, I was walking calmly to gate 42, and I was smiling at people and myself, because I was free. There was nothing to fear at gate 42. So I was naturally experiencing the journey, because there was simply nothing else to do.

As I approached gate 42, I saw a standing crowd, so I knew my plane had not left yet. Years ago, I would have been walking quickly and nervously to gate 42, and upon seeing the crowd, I would have felt a huge sensation of relief. This time, seeing that I had not missed my flight gave me a very small tinge of relief, which I have come to understand to mean that I would have felt an equally small amount of anxiety had there been no crowd. And that’s what this is all about, this mindfulness thing. It’s about little or no anxiety or unhappiness about anything, even major physical damage or illness.

The woman with the microphone told us that the flight crew wasn’t here yet. The crew would be leaving nearby Hobby Airport soon and they’d be here in an hour or two. The crowd produced a collective groan. And now I had a fresh excuse to feel frustrated and disappointed. Which meant I had a new opportunity to put my training into practice. And I did. I stood tall, and I breathed in with full awareness that I was breathing in, and when I breathed out, I sent compassionate waves of understanding and mending to my crowd mates. It’s okay. It’ll be all right. We’ll get where we are going eventually. Let’s just relax together and enjoy the ride as best we can.

When I moved to California in 1997, my bankroll was about $100,000. That was the barrier between floating freely on the breeze, and crash landing in the dank underworld of employeedom. Of this $100,000, about $40,000 of it was in the form of actual money. About $20,000 of it was money that credit card companies said they would lend me. About $10,000 was how much I thought I could borrow from my brothers if I was about to move onto a park bench. And the rest of my bankroll was tied up in my rather fine piano. (I didn’t know if there were park bench dwellings in the area that could accommodate my piano, so I was uncertain which of those last two pieces of my bankroll would be drawn on first.)

Given that I was going to have easy access to 24-hour-365-days-per-year mid and high stake poker games for the first time in my life, and given that I tended to sometimes play too long at stakes that I couldn’t really afford, my bankroll was in jeopardy from the instant I disembarked at San Francisco airport with my one way ticket to pokerdise. So, I devised some backup plans, some ways that I might generate income without actually having to get a jjj…, a jjahhh… you know, the J-word.

One of them was to give music lessons. I knew I would be meeting hundreds and hundreds of new people, many of them over and over, in the most intimate setting there is for clothed people: a poker table. To break the ice, and advertise, and maybe even build a little client base just for fun, before I even needed to, I had a custom hat made that I wore to the poker games now and then.

Five years later, I had not taken on music students, and it had been several years since I wore the hat. I was doing some packing, preparing to move. I was rummaging through dark corners of closets and ancient boxes with the excitement of an archaelogist — one never knows what one might find, and when — and I came across the Ask-me-about-music-lessons hat. I put it on my head, for no reason. A short while later, I headed out to the casino to play poker.

I was sitting there at the poker table, just sitting there, just playing, and I noticed a fellow looking at me with a frequency and intensity that told me there was something about me on his mind. I soon learned that the thing on his mind was not so much about me as it was above me. It was my hat. He looked at me with a cautious smile, and he said, “Okay. I’ll bite. Go ahead and tell me about music lessons.”

Instantly I remembered the text on my hat, and I replied, “I think they’re a really good idea.”

I was in the big blind in the $10-10-20 game. The player under-the-gun opened the pot for the minimum, $40. He had about $7,000. Everyone folded to the button, who called the $40. He had about $6,000. The small blind folded. It was my turn. My stack was $5,000, and my hand was Q-9 suited. If I wanted to see the flop, it would cost me $20. (Click here for an explanation of the Bay Area’s three blind structure for no-limit.)

Many times in this situation, I have folded. And many times in this situation, I have called. And sometimes in this situation, I have raised.

This time, I folded. Why? I have no idea. Just as I wouldn’t know why if I had called.

What I did know is that whichever option I chose would remain forever unquestioned. Why do I play one note on the piano instead of any other? What is most beneficial to me? What is most enjoyable? To question the notes, or just play them?

The flop came J-10-8 rainbow. My Q-9 lay in the muck, so I didn’t check, and I didn’t bet. The UTG player bet $60 into the $110 pot. The button made it $200. The UTG player raised again, the button raised again, and even though I would have flopped the nuts, I didn’t regretfully imagine myself putting lots of +EV chips into this pot, as the UTG raised the rest of his stack, and the button called.

Both players turned over their cards. The UTG player had pocket jacks. He flopped top set. The button showed 9-7. He flopped a straight. I didn’t see any way that this hand would be settled soon, and I did think I would be able to figure out what happened, so I didn’t resist my urge to go fill my coffee cup.

When I returned to the table, the dealer was shuffling. That was fast, I thought, and my poker sleuther told me the reason, which a glance around the table confirmed. The player who had flopped top set had a $7,000 stack, and the player who had flopped a straight had $6,000, which meant that the turn and river must have been a queen and a nine, putting a queen-high straight on board, making it a split pot. The player who had JJ was shaking his head in gratefulness. The player who had 9-7 was shaking his head in disgust. The chit chat revealed that the 9-7 player now had some tiltiness fluttering around inside, just below the surface.

There but for the grace of folding go I, I thought.