My sweetie, as usual, was playing poker online when she got an emergency phone call.   “It’s me, Jerry, Ann Bloom’s husband!” shrieked a voice at the other end. “Ann’s been locked in her room playing poker on the Internet for eight months now. It’s all your fault, Barbara. You got her started. You have to do something or she’ll die very soon!”  Concerned and sympathetic, Barbara responded just how I expected she would:   “I’ll have to call you back, Jerry. I’m in a hand right now.”

Ann Bloom, apart from an addiction to penny Keno machines in Las Vegas, used to be a reasonably normal person -- or at least as normal as poker players ever get. Her main eccentricity was the little old ladies hat she habitually wore, the kind with a big flower on the brim. It was all the rage the year that Charles Lindbergh flew the Atlantic and landed in Paris. Ann said it was her “good luck” hat. Some luck. Legend has it that it was worn by Bonnie Parker the day that she and Clyde Barrow were gunned down in a police ambush. At least that would account for the bullet hole in the chapeau. Ann Brown was just an average player until she met Dirty Wally. He convinced her to take poker lessons from him, and after that she never booked a winning session. Naturally, she was wearing the lucky hat the day she met Wally. 

She would play a few times a week at local poker parlors until the fateful day when Barbara taught her how to use a computer and introduced her to online poker. Ann was immediately hooked and lost contact with the outside world. Barbara’s intentions were quite honorable, of course. She was merely trying to earn a little rake-back by having Ann use her bonus code on an online site.

“Barbara,” I urged my sweetie, pull yourself away from the computer and let’s go and try to help poor Ann. This sounds like a life or death situation.”
“OK, soon as I get even.”  

Fortunately, my sweetie eventually got even, and we drove down to the Bloom residence. A distraught Jerry took us in and led us to the closed and bolted bedroom where Ann was holed up. From inside we could hear muted, computer-generated sounds of cards and chips moving about, sounds that were regularly drowned out by loud curses whenever Ann lost a hand.  

“This is terrible, Jerry,” I said. “Haven’t you been able to do anything?”  “Nope. The only time I’ve laid eyes on her in the past eight months was once for an hour when there was a neighborhood power outage.”  We began pounding on the door, pleading for Ann to open it.  “Not now,” Ann called out. “I’m in a hand.” (Where did I hear that before?.)  “She sounds kind of weak, Jerry,” Barbara said. “No wonder,” he replied. “All she’s had to eat in eight months are pancakes.”  “Why only pancakes?” I asked. “I have to slip her food under the door, and that’s the only thing that will fit,” he explained.  “I have an idea,” I said. “Wait here.” I drove down to a fast food place and came back with a steaming platter of fried chicken and chitlins which I placed by the door. As I had hoped, the aroma proved irresistible. As Ann opened the door to retrieve the food, we stared at the room in dismay.

The drapes were drawn, and the room was dim and dank. There were three computers going with games from PikerPoker, PovertyPoker and Pathetic Poker on each monitor. Dust several inches high coated everything but the three computer mouses and one live one, who was staring in disbelief at the hands Ann was playing. Spider webs hung down from the ceiling. Under the computer table was the body of the pet cat that Ann had forgotten to feed. In one corner a swarm of ants was feeding off a mass of paper plates laced with pancake syrup. In another corner lay a huge pile of unopened mail that Jerry had slid under the door, including birthday cards and greeting cards for Easter, Christmas, Halloween, and the festival of Kwanza. The only diversion was a television set, but it was tuned to a poker tournament. I’m pretty sure it was poker because it showed Phil Hellmuth lying prone on the ground, wailing and kicking his feet.  

Because of too many pancakes and too little exercise, Ann Bloom had packed on about 50 pounds. Her hands were shaking. Even the flower on her hat had wilted.

“Ann,” Barbara said gently, “this is no way to live.”  “What’s the harm?” Ann responded. “I’m only playing for very small stakes, no more than 10 and 20 cents.” 
“So how have you done overall?”  “Not too bad. I’m stuck just a little over $180,000.”   We argued fruitlessly with her, until I had another idea. “You’ve heard of Alcoholics Anonymous, Ann,” I said. “Well, now there’s an organization called “Interholics Anonymous” to counsel and offer support to people addicted to online poker. There’s a meeting tonight and they can help you. Why don’t we take you down there?”  “OK, as soon as I get even.”

Ann wouldn’t budge until Jerry threatened to cut off the electricity again, after which she reluctantly agreed to accompany us.

We drove to the Interholics Anonymous location and walked into the meeting hall. At the entrance was a box for donations. “We accept Neteller and PayPal,” a sign on the box read. There were also sheets listing the warning signs of online poker addiction: I began reading:

   1. Has it been more than a month since you’ve seen your spouse and children?
   2. Have you recently developed eye cataracts from staring at the screen and carpal    
        tunnel syndrome from working the mouse?
   3. Have you absentmindedly begun signing letters and checks with your screen name    
       (such as “EmptySeat003”)?
   4. Do you find yourself transferring money more often than a Brink’s truck?

The warnings were starting to hit a little too close to home. I looked at the stage where an IA member was starting to speak. “My name is Bob and I’m a recovering Interholic,” he said.  “It’s been six weeks since I played online. I had my wife hide my computer, but I still find myself getting up at night sometimes to look for it.”    His fellow recovering IAs in the audience nodded their heads in recognition and sympathy. All except those that were still busy playing poker on their wireless laptops or cell phones, that is.

The speaker seemed to get Ann’s attention. We were then relieved to see her begin talking to and asking questions of other recovering addicts. And soon after, she began driving down to meetings herself several times a week. Ann, we thought, was on the road to recovery. Not exactly. It turned out that she was talking to other members just to get advice on how to play better online. Once she picked up a couple of key tips, such as not to play 9-3 in a raised pot unless the hand was suited, she quit going to meetings and re-bolted herself in her room where she now has four computers going and spends more time than ever on the Internet. And just the other night she discovered online Keno. Oh, well. At least we don’t have to look at that hat anymore.