Novelist Colson Whitehead is covering -- and playing in -- the World Series of Poker for Grantland. Amid the wonky poker talk are some nice lines about life beyond the table, too. Another parachutist's take, for sure, but one more literarily inflected, anyway:

The hotel's nightclub was called Marquee, up on the terrace. It was quite splendid. I wanted to stay, I wanted to live there. I'd scoop the hairballs and condoms from the drains in the pool, whatever. But since the disco was grafted onto a residential structure, access came by way of drab fire stairwells, which at peak traffic were filled with wobbly bachelorettes on stilettos, Jager-mad groomsmen, and leather-skinned jet-setters creaking in crisp designer duds who passed each other up and down the stairs with a delirious urgency. A scene from the inferior American remake of The Discreet Charm of the Bourgeoisie, or lost footage from The Towering Inferno.