The Capitalist’s Crusade Part II
Most people don’t have curly, dirty-blond hair. Most people who major in English didn’t score in the 700s on the math section of their SATs. Most people haven’t climbed the Sydney Bridge, and most people don’t win money when they go to Las Vegas.
I am not most people.
When I was 16, two friends and I ventured to the newly built New York New York Hotel and Casino for a weekend getaway. Very late that first night, I went to the arcade, cashed five bucks at the change machine and headed for the slots. Slot machines are stupid. Anyone who expects to win money playing slots is also stupid. I didn’t expect to win anything; I just wanted to gamble.
The first few quarters, I remember, disappeared quickly. Undaunted, I kept playing. Moments later, after inserting my 25 cents, I pulled the lever and waited. One cherry came, then two and, ah yes, a third cherry. Jubilee! The siren roared. The quarters splashed. I had hit a mini-jackpot, winning 800 quarters.
As I stood there, riding high, stuffing change into my pockets, I felt a tap on my shoulder. “Sir, do you have any identification?” said a menacing, broad-shouldered man wearing an uniform.
Long story short, a few minutes later I was sitting on the floor of the New York New York Hotel and Casino holding cell. Dimly lit and without windows, the room saddened me.
So did the gaming official wearing a suit so cheap that I could see my reflection in it. He informed me that because I was underage, all the money that I had won, including the change in my pocket, would be garnisheed. In the classic comedy “Fletch,” Chevy Chase’s character said, “I can’t have my wages garnisheed.”
With that spirit in mind, I headed back to Vegas last weekend, which you may have read in last week’s column. Some people go to Sin City for the shows, some to gamble, others for marriage. I went for revenge.
The first night my accomplices and I visited The Rio, The MGM Grand and The Bellagio. I played blackjack and craps, ending the night dead even. But if you count the plane ticket, the cab rides and the dinner buffet, I was way down.
Waking up at the traditional time in Vegas – the late afternoon – we ate lunch/dinner and headed to Caesar’s Palace to watch game six of the world series. Being that I’m from Los Angeles, I am a Dodger fan, but when the boys in blue are on fishing trips and the Halos are in the series, I become an Angel fan.
A parable, then. Anaheim was down five runs. They came back to win 6-5 in one of the most memorable comebacks in world series history.
Spirited, readied, and destined for success, I headed to the tables. I shot craps with the guy who played Al Borlen on Home Improvement. He was a jerk, but I won money betting with him. Afterwards, my group and I hit the blackjack tables, where we met a Sioux Indian chief. It must have been a sign, because thereafter, I couldn’t loose; I didn’t. Blackjacks and twenties filled my run. When I doubled down, I hit twenty-one. When I stayed on fourteen, the dealer busted. When the pit boss finally kicked us out for foul language, my stack of colored chips stood higher than Shaq on a ladder.
It was four in the morning, so we decided to head back to The Rio, our hotel. Sauntering toward the elevator, I asked if anyone cared to play a few more hands. Everyone did.
The laws of Vegas state that these last few hands should clean out a player that had heretofore won. I had ten dollars more than a nice, even amount, so I bet it. I won. I let my twenty ride. I hit blackjack. Fifty dollars. And then I quit.
With my total winnings, I covered the cost of my plane ticket, all my meals, several cabs rides, a shoe shining at the airport, plus a little more.
Most people don’t beat Vegas? Pshaw and phooey. I beat Vegas. Whipped it. Destroyed it.
