second. It was over in less than ninety seconds. I used mostly Paper and Scissors. He was defaulting big-time to Rock. I was through to Round Two.
(4â1.)
âDammit!â he said, looking at his phone. Turns out he was a lawyer named Matt Miller, and he had a strategy all ready to go, but the phone call screwed up his mind and he was playing before he could remember what his plan was. Who was on the other end? âMy stupid friend telling me to get him a T-shirt. Threw me all off!â
But Miller still went over and bought him a T-shirt, throwing the $20 down disgustedly. Thatâs a friend.
The woman impossible not to notice in the hall wore a giant pink beehive hairdo. It looked like a swath of cotton candy on top of her head and tangled up in it was a pair of scissors and a few pieces of paper. No rocks, though. Perhaps rocks sink in finely spun confectionary. Her name was Cody Bennett and her boyfriend finished fourth the year before. âHeâs been training me for thirteen months out of a book,â said Cody, who was already half schnoozled. âIf I win, Iâm going to buy him a pair of cowboy boots.â And if her boyfriend wins, maybe heâd buy her a 100-gallon hat.
Round Two
RPS bravado is wonderful to watch. One time, a guy skinny as a parking meter was about to face off against a rather buff opponent when he called âtime outâ and made a big deal of taking off his sweater, then rolling up the sleeve on his right arm. I mean, it was done with panache. Painstakingly, as we all watched, he got every wrinkle out. Finally, he was ready to go again and thenâwait for itâthrew with his left! And won! Do you love it?
One scruffy-faced guy had his right arm in a sling. Around him, teammates kept patting him on the back and saying, âItâs OK. We understand. An injury is an injury, and if you have to withdraw, then thatâs the way it goes.â The guy looked depressed and mopey, until suddenly he spun around toward his opponent, pulled his arm out of the sling, and pronounced, âScrew it! Iâm going to play!â It was like the New York Knicksâ Willis Reed coming out forGame 7 of the 1970 NBA Finals despite brutal injury, except, of course, this guy was faking. Still, it energized his teamâuntil he lost two out of three.
On the floor, I made the mistake of playing some street wars games and immediately lost both of them, cutting my ten bucks down to four. (Personal record 4â3.) That was bad ju-ju. I made my way to my next table to find seven more people intent on taking my $10,000. This time, my opponent was a tatted-up, pierced-out, stringy-haired twenty-five-year-old cook named Jessica, who didnât want to give her last name. Perhaps she was on the lam. âIâve been practicing with my boyfriend for three months,â she said. âBut tonight, Iâm really nervous and my legs start shaking and I canât remember what Iâm supposed to throw. But everything has been working, so â¦â
I was thinking of using mostly Rock against her because she seemed pretty high and high women tend to default to Scissors. Unless, of course, she was playing the rube with me just as Iâd played it against the poor guy in the wheelchair. But thatâs when a frizzy-haired young guy with a âBa-Rock OâBombersâ T-shirt sidled up to me and whispered, âDude, our buddy lost to her, she throws nothing but Rock! She mustâve thrown rock eighty percent of the time! Sheâs terrible, dude. Throw Paper!â
Inside information! I decided to use it. My first throw was Paper. Hers was Scissors. I was already down one throw. I glared at Frizzy Guy. He winked an itâs-gonna-work! My second throw was again Paper. Hers was again Scissors. Down one game already. I grabbed my haircut. What an idiot! The second game I threw Rock on the first throw and we tied. Then I threw Scissors, figuring it was
(4â1.)
âDammit!â he said, looking at his phone. Turns out he was a lawyer named Matt Miller, and he had a strategy all ready to go, but the phone call screwed up his mind and he was playing before he could remember what his plan was. Who was on the other end? âMy stupid friend telling me to get him a T-shirt. Threw me all off!â
But Miller still went over and bought him a T-shirt, throwing the $20 down disgustedly. Thatâs a friend.
The woman impossible not to notice in the hall wore a giant pink beehive hairdo. It looked like a swath of cotton candy on top of her head and tangled up in it was a pair of scissors and a few pieces of paper. No rocks, though. Perhaps rocks sink in finely spun confectionary. Her name was Cody Bennett and her boyfriend finished fourth the year before. âHeâs been training me for thirteen months out of a book,â said Cody, who was already half schnoozled. âIf I win, Iâm going to buy him a pair of cowboy boots.â And if her boyfriend wins, maybe heâd buy her a 100-gallon hat.
Round Two
RPS bravado is wonderful to watch. One time, a guy skinny as a parking meter was about to face off against a rather buff opponent when he called âtime outâ and made a big deal of taking off his sweater, then rolling up the sleeve on his right arm. I mean, it was done with panache. Painstakingly, as we all watched, he got every wrinkle out. Finally, he was ready to go again and thenâwait for itâthrew with his left! And won! Do you love it?
One scruffy-faced guy had his right arm in a sling. Around him, teammates kept patting him on the back and saying, âItâs OK. We understand. An injury is an injury, and if you have to withdraw, then thatâs the way it goes.â The guy looked depressed and mopey, until suddenly he spun around toward his opponent, pulled his arm out of the sling, and pronounced, âScrew it! Iâm going to play!â It was like the New York Knicksâ Willis Reed coming out forGame 7 of the 1970 NBA Finals despite brutal injury, except, of course, this guy was faking. Still, it energized his teamâuntil he lost two out of three.
On the floor, I made the mistake of playing some street wars games and immediately lost both of them, cutting my ten bucks down to four. (Personal record 4â3.) That was bad ju-ju. I made my way to my next table to find seven more people intent on taking my $10,000. This time, my opponent was a tatted-up, pierced-out, stringy-haired twenty-five-year-old cook named Jessica, who didnât want to give her last name. Perhaps she was on the lam. âIâve been practicing with my boyfriend for three months,â she said. âBut tonight, Iâm really nervous and my legs start shaking and I canât remember what Iâm supposed to throw. But everything has been working, so â¦â
I was thinking of using mostly Rock against her because she seemed pretty high and high women tend to default to Scissors. Unless, of course, she was playing the rube with me just as Iâd played it against the poor guy in the wheelchair. But thatâs when a frizzy-haired young guy with a âBa-Rock OâBombersâ T-shirt sidled up to me and whispered, âDude, our buddy lost to her, she throws nothing but Rock! She mustâve thrown rock eighty percent of the time! Sheâs terrible, dude. Throw Paper!â
Inside information! I decided to use it. My first throw was Paper. Hers was Scissors. I was already down one throw. I glared at Frizzy Guy. He winked an itâs-gonna-work! My second throw was again Paper. Hers was again Scissors. Down one game already. I grabbed my haircut. What an idiot! The second game I threw Rock on the first throw and we tied. Then I threw Scissors, figuring it was
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