I become a different person when I enter a casino. During the bus ride to Atlantic City I’m James Bond or Brett Maverick, but as I strut past the slots and the tables the sweating begins and I become Barney Fife.
I try to be the devil-may-care type that Clark Gable and Paul Newman have portrayed so convincingly on the screen, but the croupiers, the dealers, the dice table crew and even the slot machines see right through me. They can sense my fear and see my perspiration. And I often forget to pocket my rabbit’s foot. I’m sure the Cincinnati Kid always remembered to hide his good luck piece.
“Ha, ha! Easy come, easy go!” I’ll say as the dealer rakes in my chips. But too often he replies, “Please sir, let go! You’re hurting my arm!”
There was the rare time I’d made three straight passes at the dice table. “Let it ride! I (James Bond) snarled nonchalantly, trying not to think about the thirty dollars (three lunches) at stake. I blew on the dice, tossed ’em, and as they tumbled down to the far cushion, my stomach complained loudly about the risked meals.
“Snake eyes. You lose!” the stick man called, but then, seeing my surprised expression, he added, “Sorry sir, but those are the rules of the game. Here, please take this tissue.” So much for my James Bond act.
The fact is, the world loves a winner, a favorite of the gods, and we losers are just anonymous casualties lying along the casino’s dangerous highway. So when I’m waiting for the next card or for the wheel or the dice to stop moving, I’m not only thinking about the rent or lunch money, but also about my delicate ego.
Even when I’m winning, I can get discombobulated. While trying to fake the calm confidence of the Mississippi riverboat gambler, I too often come off as Bozo the Clown. The croupiers and pit bosses are constantly revealing me as an absent minded old fogey. (“Excuse me ladies and gentlemen. Which one of you is betting two Rolaids on number seven?”)
I’ve seen gamblers behind huge stacks of chips referring to a notebook between bets. Google sources once helped me develop a fairly successful system, but it was quite awkward. “I must ask you to simplify your strategy, sir,” the croupier said. “It distracts the other players. It would be appreciated if you could do without the computer and the large blackboard.”
I once felt I had a big seven-card stud pot practically won, but later as the fellow next to me swept in five pounds of chips, he noticed my sad demeanor and said, “Sorry, pal , but you’ll have to sharpen your game. I almost folded after your sixth raise, but what in the world made you think deuces were wild?”
My dear wife never enjoyed watching me bluff my way towards poverty. Standing behind me during a blackjack game one night, she smiled knowingly at my 19-point hand, while the dealer was showing 16, a near fatal situation for him and the house, I thought with the odds greatly in my favor for once, I was on the verge of a very big win. Unfortunately, a voice within me whispered, “It could be even bigger!” I looked up at my wife and suavely called, “Hit me!” And she did.
Imagine That 