It was a chatty $2/5 game in Vegas. Good vibe. Good action. The waitress came by and several players ordered adult beverages. She was standing behind seat six, and I was in seat one, so when it came my turn to order, everybody heard it. “I’d like a glass of milk please.”
The player next to me was gone from the table when we ordered drinks. When my milk arrived, he asked me what it was.
“Milk,” I said.
“Oh,” he said, “I thought maybe it was some sort of coconut cocktail concoction.”
“Nope, just milk.”
I saw some listeners grinning.
On the next hand, I had 7-5 on the button. One player limped, I limped, the small blind completed, and the big blind checked. Four players. I had the smallest stack with $500.
The flop was 9-5-5 rainbow. The three of them checked, and somewhere in my mind maybe I was thinking about the verb definition of my drink, so I checked too.
The turn was a queen, putting two hearts on board. The small blind bet $25. The next two players folded. I milked, I mean, I called. Headsup now.
The river was the king of hearts. Final board: 9-5-5, Q, K, with three hearts.
The small blind bet $40. I called.
“I have top two,” he said, and he showed king-queen.
I had that beat, so I turned over my hand.
One of the chatty players had payed close attention to this hand and the showdown, and he took a sudden interest in me.
“What’s your name friend?”
“Milk,” I said, deadpan.
Everybody laughed, and my name was Milk for the night.
