Lady Luck is a bitch

You’ll notice I haven’t said anything about doing any gambling so far (other than throwing away a few nickels down at Mermaids). The fact of the matter is that the whole idea makes me kind of queasy. Unlike my father, I’m not really a gambler. It makes me nervous. The truth is I’ve forgotten every thing my father ever taught me about blackjack. Do you always double down on eights or do you split them? Stand on 13 if the dealer shows a four, five, or six or take a hit? How could I forget this stuff?

But yesterday after walking past all the $10 minimum tables about a dozen times, I finally picked a table where the lady dealer was smiling (“Always pick a table with a woman dealer,” my dad said) and the players seemed to be winning.

Hands sweating, I put a hundred bucks on the table and Joyce—my dealer—calls out something like “Taking one hundred” to the pit boss so everybody knows I’m in there. I’m a player.

I take it easy, putting up a single chip at a time. Still the hundred is gone in, what, maybe ten minutes. I reach into my pocket and pull out another hundred. I win a couple hands, get cocky, throw up five or six chips at a time to try and get my money back in a hurry and, of course, lose it all. Bamm. Just like that.

I give Joyce a sickly smile and stand up. “Better luck next time,” she says without looking at me, already dealing the next hand.

Well let me just say this Joyce: There will be no next time. I have learned my lesson. I am not my father. I will not be back. I have, at this very moment, sworn off gambling. Forever. Till death do I part. You’ll not get the last of my stash. So forget about it. I mean it. Remember Lesson One: Vegas giveth and taketh—but mostly it taketh.