Busted

I wouldn’t say I have a gambling “problem” so much as a gambling “solution”.

SIDEBAR: Semantics Make Character Flaws Perfectly Acceptable
Let’s look at this objectively: interventions and 12-step programs are time consuming and embarrassing. Reclassification, on the other hand, makes it such that (I’ll go ahead and use myself as an example… you know, so as not to have to call others out) (by “others”, of course, I mean the rest of you) I can continue upsetting my parents, priest, employers, girlfriends, extended family, close friends and mere acquaintances all while making aforementioned individuals feel guilty for judging (or, more appropriately, misjudging) me. All that being said, I’ve compiled a list of harsh accusations and their corresponding, totally defensible, entirely more accurate reclassifications.
Alcoholism – Expanding horizons
Laziness – Exploring options
Being inconsiderate – Promoting self-reliance
Rudeness – Sharing objective thoughts
Financial irresponsibility – Macroeconomic investments
Debauchery – Research for stories like this one
Consistent lateness – Experimenting with “metric time”
Mediocrity – Team player
Smoking – Keepin’ it real

So I’ve squandered a… couple… few thousand dollars gambling; realistically, it’s more of a short term investment with inconsistent (read “unlikely”) dividends. No. Better yet: let’s approach it like a really, really expensive hobby. I mean, those who enjoy treasure hunting or midget collecting dish out oodles of money too, right? Right?

Aside from the occasional bets on football games (having no real idea if the Dolphins were actually better than the Vikings, Steelers or Golden State Warriors), I’d never really been terribly interested in any kind of betting. In fact, I wasn’t a particularly big fan of that flavor of gambling. I simply couldn’t justify the thought of surrendering perfectly good martini money in a show of support for people who didn’t know that my ability to expand horizons, keep it real and research stories depended on their “hustle” and “heart”. Moreover, it’s fair to assume that these same athletes (with their millions of dollars and stripper girlfriends) would feel absolutely no obligation to pay me reparations for not having their head in the game. Stupid, greedy athletes!

Similarly, poker and other such card games never really took hold either. The pots were never large enough to warrant my focus on learning the game. After a series of what I can only guess were bad hands, I started to assume that everyone else got equally bad hands and I’d have to win by concentrating on appearing to know precisely what I was doing. I’d start looking for ticks in the other players: “Jimmy just touched his nose again; he has nothing. Oooh, Mike blinked twice; I KNOW he has nothing. Dude! Sneezing is a sign of weakness; John definitely has nothing… All in!” No movement went unnoticed, no noise unregistered. For a little while, I thought I could hear pulses increasing and brow-sweat forming (yeah… I was that good… I thought). Needless to say, if ever my indicators were correct, it was by freak coincidence exclusively. My poker face, on the other hand, was exceptional. I was so thoroughly confused by each combination of cards that my face maintained an expression of concerned constipation. At the end of night, when I’d been wiped clean of my five or ten dollars, I only really regretted not having such astute powers of reading people ALL the time. Watch out, ladies.

The adventure really began on my first visit to Vegas. More accurately, my first visit in which I could actually gamble and drink instead of following my parents around Circus, Circus with pockets full of quarters and designs on winning the wicked cool Batman sunglasses on the second shelf of the prize corner. Notwithstanding the fact that my horizons were so far expanded that I could scarcely walk, I was timid about losing money. Each five dollar bill that went into the nickel slots was cursed and threatened with hopes of intimidating it into recovering for the faults of its slacker brethren. I played intently and watched the old ladies around me play two machines at a time. I’d see them win what I considered jackpots of ten dollars and get excited for them when they landed bonus rounds. They’d stoically smoke their cigarettes and explain to me their finely developed theories on slot selection. These were the casino warriors… some of these women were at the same machine for so long that I started using them as landmarks while navigating the slot labyrinth.

I moved on to the tables only after I came to the conclusion that I’d never be a Frank Sinatra/Dean Martin type Vegas swinger hanging out with the Frank Sinatra/Dean Martin aged women of the nickel slot pits. The first Blackjack table I went to was in Imperial Palace. I sat down knowing only that I had to get closer to 21 than the surly, older gentleman in the cheesy red vest holding lots of other peoples’ money. I also knew that getting an ace and a king was supposed to be a sign from the gambling gods that I was, indeed, blessed.

I traded him a beautiful $20 bill for four meager red chips. One of my lonely chips went into the circle and he began to deal his cards. The first card flew at me face down; the second—face up—was a king. Okay, so far things seemed to be going well. I leaned back in my chair, smoothly lit a cigarette and took a sip from my martini. I couldn’t have been cooler.

“Well?”
“Well, what?” I answered from behind my glass.
“Are you gonna check your card?”
“Oh. Umm… I didn’t know I was allowed to touch them now.” I checked my card (it was a very disappointing three) and pulled another drag of smoke. Couldn’t have been cooler.
“WELL?”
“Yes?” It’s a proven fact that all swingers answer questions with questions.
“Do you want to hit or don’t you?”
“Oh,” I checked my card again to make sure it was still a three… smoothly, “Yes; hit me.”
“Sir,” I’ve noticed when older people call me “sir” it’s normally out of restraint, rather than respect, “you’re going to have to make the hand signal.”
“Which one might that be?” Deep down, I was hoping he meant the hand signal Hispanic Catholics do in church, when passing churches or when their soccer team is up for a penalty kick. That’s the hand signal I wanted to do.
“You have to scratch the table if you want another card or wave your hand over your cards if you want to stay.” He sighed, I scratched and he tossed me a nine.
“Yes!” Hand wave, martini sip, cigarette drag. The steps to success.

I’d been so focused on looking like a (five dollar) winner that I hadn’t noticed that he’d given himself a jack. He exposed a two, hit a four, then a five and said “21”. I showed him my cards and was disappointedly satisfied with our tie. The dealer rolled his eyes, took my chip and cards, and upon noticing the horror and confusion in my face (he must have played a lot of poker) explained, “You had 22; you busted.”

Those five little words clued me in to a couple of things: 1) somewhere in the world, there was a third-grader laughing at me and 2) if I were alive in the 60’s, Frank and Dean would never have invited me to hang out with them.

Within the next couple of minutes, I essentially handed him my remaining $15 before retreating to the white haired, smoky haze of the nickel slot machines.

The rest of the weekend went okay; I won a bunch of money on the slots, back at Blackjack and playing Casino War. Needless to say, I lost every last penny of it on my last night in town in a drunken, greedy 45 minutes. I left Las Vegas having spent only the $200 I allotted myself and with the knowledge that I’d have to find some other way to be cool.

It would be another six or seven months before I braved another casino visit. Southern California has proliferated what is known as “Indian Gaming”.

SIDEBAR: Common Misunderstandings Concerning the Term “Indian Gaming”
--Bows and arrows are involved
--You’ll actually get to see Indians
--You can bring your own rifle
--You can rent one when you get to the reservation
--It’s okay to call them Indians
--Taxidermists willing to stuff and mount your Indian game are affordable and easy to find
--Jokes about hunting Native Americans on their own land are funny
--Jokes about hunting Native Americans anywhere are funny
--I’m proud of this SIDEBAR

Indian casinos feel a lot less intimidating than Vegas casinos. The lights are fewer and not as bright, a good majority of the patrons are retirees waiting for bingo to start and the dealers do all that complicated arithmetic for you because all the cards are dealt face up. Even better, the dealers are perfectly willing to teach you the statistically prudent moves to make. If the dealer shows a nine and you have 16, it’s probably better to hit. If the dealer shows a six and you have a pair of fours, you should split. Always double-down on 11 and always split eights. While they have no real vested interest in the house winning or losing, the one piece of advice they’ll never give you is: “You’re already down the equivalent of your rent, utilities, car payment and insurance bill… maybe you should rack this one up in the ‘God hates you’ column and call it a night.” Nope; those thieving bastards will just go ahead and let you lose every last dime you have.

At first, I tried to shame myself into not losing too much by going with my roommate or friends, keeping them around me and leaving when the thought of them thinking I had a problem prevented me from visiting the ATM. When I finally got over that, it became easier to withdraw only a couple hundred more with the hopes of merely recovering the money I’d lost. A couple weeks went by and I managed my losses and winnings such that I was essentially breaking even. What was abundantly wasted, however, was hours and hours as I found myself leaving the casino at daybreak… noon… Thursday.

After hours of sitting at one table, I’d grow to like the other gamblers (a camaraderie built on shared adversity) and watch as they lost everything. The dealers—both faultless and incapable of doing anything—would act sorry as the cards dwindled their stacks of chips and their faces grew less enthusiastic. Along with the dealer, I’d say “better luck” as they walked away dejectedly, beaten and pathetic.

But, those people had gambling problems. They had self-control issues. I was quickly becoming a pro; not only did I pick up what the statistically better bet was, I would keep track of how many losses and wins I’d had. I knew when to increase my bet to improve the chances of recovering my money. I knew when to leave a sour table and I knew when inexperienced gamblers were screwing my chances of winning.

However, I loved getting screwed by some inexperienced gamblers. Nothing made me happier than when a cute girl who had no idea what she was doing would sit at my table, exclaim that she didn’t know what to do and look to me for answers. Never in my life has a phallic symbol (such as a stack of chips) meant so very much. I’d win them some money with my statistical knowledge and they’d hang around after they’d won their huge, $30 pot; marveling and gasping as I started to make $100, $200 and $500 bets… until my large stack eventually went flaccid (by the way, any hardcore gambler would read this and scoff at my meager losses).

Soon enough, a couple hundred each withdraw became a few hundred. A few hundred became… well, that 25 minute drive home is the loneliest imaginable when you have nothing to think about but all the points at which you could have left up 3,000, up 500, even, down 100, down 500; anything down but 1,800. I’d console myself by driving recklessly and cursing the reservation on my way out. Anything and everything became responsible for my losses: if that stupid Acura in front of me would have gone a little faster, this never would have happened; if all those old people would have played bingo some other day, I wouldn’t have had to wait to win my millions; Jesus, if my roommate had just taken out the trash, that wouldn’t have given me such a bad Blackjack vibe. It was all fair game.

I began to have suspicions about my gambling hobby when the dealers would greet me by name and remember how much I’d won or lost the last time they saw me. Other minor indicators included becoming familiar with the dealers’ shifts such that I would know who I’d find on what day at what time (I even knew when certain bingo players would be there). I started to feel like a crack addict; if only I could get one more hit, I could go home. If I could just win my money back, I’d never ever gamble again. Sometimes, I’d actually manage to win my money back, but I’d say to myself “Jesus, I’m on a roll. I may as well walk out of here with all of these casino’s money. That can happen, right? Right? Anybody?”

For a few brief moments at my lowest point, I even considered cheating; happily, I gave up when I realized that my most reliable plan involved finding a master thief, an explosives expert, a hacker and seven other lovable criminals.

And then all my savings were gone. I still managed to pay my bills (mostly) on time and eat occasionally. My best meals were actually at the casino; after 13 hours of straight Blackjack, having only consumed cigarettes and Diet Cokes (this particular casino didn’t serve alcohol), the pit managers would comp my meals at the casino restaurant. This sounds really generous of them, but it was really just their evil ploy to keep me there. And it worked… really well, sometimes.

I finally decided never to go back to that casino when, in a fit of desperation, I broke down and visited my old friend: the nickel slot. The first one I sat down at was called “The American Dream” and within fifteen minutes $20 turned into $1800. Suddenly, I had old ladies marveling at me. The tables had turned; now, all the Martha’s, Betty’s and Doris’s would congratulate me from behind their Winstons. I politely thanked them and gently accepted their high-fives… and two hours later walked out of the casino with nothing.

I wouldn’t say I have a gambling problem… but, I’m willing to bet I’ll never get those Batman sunglasses now.

That’s all.