Couple weeks ago, I forgot how to deal.  I made two table-halting mistakes in a single night and was not all that surprised to get a txt the next week saying, “you’re off tonight, talk to you tomorrow.”  Luckily, I wasn’t fired, more of a one-game suspension arrangement.  Give the players a week to forget that they’re mad at me.

This didn’t stop me from making bad decisions last week.  I talked to Gene, told him I had the night off, and I’d like to come ship it at his game.  The catch: I could only pay him by dealing off the debt on the following Sunday.  He was more than happy to have me come out to play.

Shocker:  I hadn’t played in weeks, was playing $2/$5 NL on some level between scared money and free money… and I shipped it, in enough time to get to the bar before Midnight.

Fast forward to Sunday.  Around Noon, Gene tells me the game starts at 4pm.  I show up around 3:45.  Some time around 4:10, people start asking questions like, “are you here to deal, or play?”  Uh, I thought I was here to deal… because didn’t I prove on Tuesday night that I don’t know how to play this game?

Gene and I got our signals crossed.  He admits that it was a total brain-fart on his part, sends me home.  I drive home, the whole way thinking about whether I want to go to the bar, or just sit at home and watch TV, or worst decision possible:  load some money on PStars and play on there.

A pessimist would argue that I drove all the way home for nothing.  An optimist would suggest that I was saved by the bell.  Gene sends me a txt, “Do you want to come back [to deal]?”

I don’t live two minutes down the street.  It’s a good 35-40 minute ride, complete with a toll booth and all.  “Sure, I just got home, I’ll be right there.”

Took the drive.  Did the work.  Now I got a job on Sundays again – for a short while.