A Montana Banana

All roads come to an end. After eight years working as a reporter on the Phoenix Gazette, I decided it was time to move on. (My timing was perfect as a short time after I left, the newspaper discontinued publication and its circulation was absorbed by its sister publication, the Arizona Republic, owned by Eugene Pulliam, Dan Quayle's grandfather).

Anyhow, there I was, a married man with two children, jobless, and basically looking for work. After conferring with my then wife, we decided to take a month off and basically tour parts of the United States that we had never visited before.

A writing position was open in Seattle, WA. with the Republican Majority. After a couple of phone calls, I was invited to Seattle to apply for the job. We decided to pack up all our possessions, including the family dog, and follow California's Highway 1 up the coast into the Pacific Northwest.

Returning to California where I had spent four great years reporting for the Los Angeles Herald-Examiner was a pure delight. We left Phoenix early on a Monday morning and after a day's driving found ourselves on the scenic highway that the Beach Boys and musicians like Bobby Troup made famous in song.

With the Pacific Ocean to our left, we passed Big Sur and climbed higher into mountains that made the Arizona ranges look like hills in comparison. California has plenty of card rooms and at night after we checked into a motel, I could find all the action I wanted simply by asking the desk clerk where the best poker games were.

The interview with the Republican Majority went well, but I wasn't hired. No problem. I had already found an opening for an editor in my home state of Pennsylvania about 25 miles from where my family lived. The publisher told me if I showed up by a certain date, the job was mine. In poker terminology, that's known as a free roll. We decided to just have some fun enjoying this great country called America.

Nan wanted to visit Yellowstone National Park and the kids were excited about that, so on we drove. The mountains grew more majestic until you had to look straight up to see the top of them.

We found a quaint motel owned by a World War 2 seaman who was colorful and entertaining with his tales. He was also a poker player and told me about a bar that had a poker room about a mile down the road.

'You'll enjoy the place,' he promised. 'They play poker for fun. They'd rather drink and tell stories than win money, I think. Just don't come out betting with a Montana Banana.'

I had never heard the term before. 'Montana Banana? What's that?'

'Nine-deuce,' he said, grinning. 'One of the worst hands in poker. We call it a Montana Banana because....well, it resembles a certain part of the human anatomy if you know what I mean.'

My wife and I laughed. We knew what he meant.

That night, I played poker in a rousing atmosphere made up off cowboys, lumberjacks, and a former showgirl from Las Vegas who kept the drinks coming. Nan and the kids had visited Yellowstone earlier in the day, so the vacation was taking a perfect turn.

I won over $600 which covered the cost of the trip, and when I left the card room, I shook hands with all the other players. The cocktail waitress, whose name was Amy and who looked like Dolly Parton, gave me a bone-crunching handshake and said, 'Now don't blow the money you won here on a poker game. Use it for your family.'

I blew her a kiss and headed for the car where my wife and kids were waiting and drove off into the sunset.

Author: Geno Lawrenzi Jr.

(Geno Lawrenzi Jr. is an international journalist, magazine author and ghostwriter and poker player who lives in Phoenx, AZ. He has published 2,000 articles in 50 magazines and 125 newspapers. If you want to share a gambling story or book idea with him, send an email to glawrenzi@gmail.com ).