Molly's Game

It was as if being rich filtered out the inconveniences of life and left you with only the best parts.

My fifth Halloween I couldn’t choose between a duck and a fairy. I told my mother I wanted to be a duck-fairy. My mother kept a straight face.
“Well then, duck-fairy you shall be.” She stayed up all night constructing the costume. I, of course, looked ridiculous but her nonjudgmental support of individuality inspired my brothers and me to live outside the box and forge our own paths

And although I had been told my whole life that money couldn’t buy you happiness, it was certainly clear to me that it could provide some desirable upgrades

In New York there seemed to be a never-ending supply of Russians with fancy cars, fancy shoes, and fancy watches who wanted to play. They all seemed to have bottomless pockets. They didn’t complain, they paid promptly, they didn’t ask for deals, and they wanted to play every day of the week

We were at another insane game, and I was watching Guy Laliberté convince another player to fold a winning hand. Guy was a huge gambler, aggressive and ruthless at a table. He had started his life as a scrappy street performer, literally doing tricks for his dinner, until he had the idea to start a circus-themed live performance and now his little company, Cirque du Soleil, made him a billion dollars a year.

Arthur called me over in between hands.

“I’m going to start playing on a weekly basis,” he said. “Please let me know when the games will be.”

“You got it,” I said, as if nothing major had just happened. Arthur had dropped in and out. Now I would have him at the table week after week. He was the dream recruit: a guy who had an endless bankroll, an endless ego, and, as far as I could tell, extremely limited skills.

“I am sorry, Miss Bloom, but we need to close out the accounts and you need to empty out your safety deposit box.” He enunciated his words carefully.

“I don’t understand.”

“We just don’t want your kind of business.”

Jesus, I was running a poker game, not a brothel.

Meanwhile, the game at hand beckoned. Joe was yelling at me again, this time for inviting Kenneth. I chose not to remind Joe that I had invited Kenneth, but not him; that he had in fact aggressively invited himself. When you know you’re about to collect a million dollars from a losing player, you check your ego at the door.

The action was unlike any I had ever seen. It was being driven by my new recruits, and I realized that the stakes would never be high enough for these guys. They would keep pushing the envelope, trying to feel that adrenaline. Win or lose. All they wanted was to feel alive.

I watched him walk across the pool from behind my shades, not acknowledging him until he was standing in front of me, blocking the sun.

“Molly?” he said,

“Jamie! Hi! I recognize you from television,” I said, stroking his ego. I would have never said that to a true celebrity, but I knew it would make Jamie want to live up to my implied perception.