When the gambling riverboats (a weird Midwest law: casinos were allowed in Missouri, but only if they were on the water. Go figure. I suppose the lawmakers thought the water would wash away our sins. Welcome to the Midwest!) came to town, those friends of mine who were bachelors at the time had nothing better to do than to squander our paychecks every weekend at the boats.
Oh, it didn't begin like that. When we first started going, I was on a streak. Every time I'd walk in there, plop down five bucks on the blackjack or roulette tables (I never played craps; I didn't understand it and besides--sniff--what an incredibly crass and vulgar name), and in a manner of minutes, I'd turn five into fifty to one hundred bucks. Easy!
Of course this didn't last. My luck fizzled out. Lady Gambling had found a new sucker to tantalize and tease and lead on, only to abandon me by the side of the road like a sneaker (and where DO those roadside shoes come from anyway?). My increasingly desperate motto became: "Surely, my luck can't be this bad all night, right? Right? For the love of Pete, right?"
One night I got extremely cocky. Hoping to recoup some of my losses at the Blackjack table, I put fifty bucks down on a King . I mean, come on, the dealer was showing a six, a notorious bust card! The dealer hit me. Another King!
"Split 'em," yelled my buddy.
I did the only wise thing , split them, dropped another fifty bucks.
"Hit me," I declared, my senses absolutely a-tingle. Lady Luck had wandered back into my life.
Another King! What were the chances? After purchasing more chips from the dealer, I split them again. $150 down, couldn't possibly lose, a sure bet.
My friend agreed. He started "churning the butter" and singing, "We're going to Sizzler, we're going to Sizzler, we're going to..."
The dealer hit me with a Queen, a nine, and a Jack. Sweet! Looking pretty at 20, 19, and 20. Until of course the dealer turned over a four. Then an Ace.
21!
The world went out from beneath my feet. A cartoon trombone mocked me: wah, wah, wah, wahhhhhh. The dealer smirked, scraped up my chips, said, "Guess you're not going to Sizzler."
No. Sizzler was off the table. In fact, that month I got used to Ramen noodles again, just like in college.
As we left the Infinite Palace of Despair (which it shall now always be referred to), shoulders down, and wallets light, I vowed to break up with Lady Gambling. After next weekend, of course...
While we're on the subject of unlucky people, take a gander at my characters in Twisted Tales from Tornado Alley, my short story collection of horror and humor. All of these folks have the unfortunate luck to reside in God-forsaken Kansas, or at least a haunted version of it (which isn't too far off the mark). Read it and gasp! (And thank your lucky stars you don't live here!)
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