The Capitalist’s CrusadePart I

I was up 2,000, he says, spitting. But I swear, the stinking dealer was against me. They tricked me. They cheated. Now I don’t even have a nickel for the slot machine.

Such are the words of a defeated gambler.

For the past six weeks, I’ve been saving money like an eighth-grade babysitter. No meals out. Only 87 octane gasoline. No Palm Beach Tan. I’ve been cutting coupons. Luckily, there was a great deal on turkey in Tom Thumb. Fifty cents saved here, four bucks there.

I built myself a bankroll, baby.

Las Vegas is like the uncle that poured you glasses of wine at Thanksgiving dinner when you were 16. I mean, come on: Any city where Elvis Presley and Frank Sinatra could be elected mayor is bound to be saturated with merriment and memories. All the lights and bells and double-downs and betting the come line and splitting aces, I love it all.

Bright light city gonna set your soul, gonna set your soul on fire…

Damn right, King.

Years ago, some friends and I vouched that when the last of us turned 21, we’d all go to Vegas. And unlike many of the adolescent pacts I made, this one is coming true.

For those of you who have never visited Sin City, you’re neglecting one of the purest hedonistic pleasures in existence.

It’s always nighttime in Vegas, somehow. You see, the casinos pump excess oxygen into the gambling area. Excess oxygen keeps you more alert, hence awake. Bedtime in Vegas comes with the rising sun. Wake up call? 4 p.m.

Cabs advertise strip clubs. Siegfried and Roy play the Mirage. Carrot Top headlines the Tropicana. There are more races of Elvis impersonators than casinos. Last year, I met a Shiite Elvis, a hallowing experience.

You can get a steak, eggs and lobster dinner in Vegas at scores of different places 24 hours a day-and it costs $4.95. You can walk around the street holding a bottle of beer.

Drinks are free, as long as you gamble; and gambling, my friends, is exactly what you’re going to do.

You’re going to play blackjack. You plan on playing smart, by the book. Your bet level remains even; you make your money on splits and double-downs. You get to know your dealer. You make jokes, you harass her when you’re not getting the cards and tip her five bucks when you get blackjack.

You ask for advice; you take it if you’re smart, or, if you’re feeling cautious, you decide to stay on 16 against the dealer’s eight.

Then you feel ludicrous when she turns over a face card. You promise to never again ignore the wisdom of your dealer. You say that you would follow her to the pits of hell. The next hand, you’re looking at 15 to her nine, so you hit and gain a king, busting. She flips her down card, a six, and you curse her very existence. That’s blackjack, baby. Vegas style.

I love Vegas.

You always go with large, trouble-hunting groups of idiotic acquaintances. They could talk you into anything. It may be 5:00 a.m., and though you may have had nine too many drinks, your cohort hits you on the back of the head with the rules to Pai Gow poker, so you hop on the elevator, skimming the rules.

You have no choice but to accompany your wing man; after all, you’re there for an adventure.

But there is always a big loser. Usually a he, this unlucky soul always thinks the next 100 he extracts from his thinning checking account will eventually equal his losses.

Yeah, right. At every gas station in Nevada, a sign lists the number to a gambling addiction hotline.

Me? I’m not worried. Tonight, when I get to the finest city on the planet, I’m going to take my hard-saved loot and I’m going to bet it. I’m going to double down. I’ll split aces. When necessary, I’ll weather the storm. That’s a promise.

And next week, I’m going to tell you how the dealer was against me and the casino cheated.