Fat Old Woman in Las Vegas: Gambling, Dieting and Wicked Fun
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Authors: Pat Dennis
Fat Old Woman
in Las Vegas
Gambling, Dieting and Wicked Fun
This is a work of questionable memory.
Copyright ® 2016 Pat Dennis
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Dennis, Pat
Fat Old Woman in Las Vegas:
Gambling, Dieting & Wicked Fun
Summary: Memoir Travel
Cover Photograph: Donna Seline (Copyright ® 2014)
Cover Design: Pat Dennis/Marilyn Victor
To my dad
Contents
My love affair with Las Vegas began twenty plus years ago, starting with a quickly arranged wedding and a silent protest. The nuptials were not mine, but the protest certainly belonged to me. The tacky city I envisioned Vegas to be held little interest. I’d long tired of hearing about it from relatives and friends.
No other city like it in the world!
All you can eat for $2.99
The women are topless but it’s classy! It’s really classy, no matter what my wife says!
For years, the glittering metropolis lured my family members like lemmings wearing sunglasses. Of my four siblings, only one was not interested in taking a chance with Lady Luck. He’d experienced firsthand the effects of my father’s failed efforts at the track in Chicago. To this day that one sibling remains the smartest of us all to ever walk this earth. My other three siblings were born gamblers, just like Dad and me. The only difference was I hadn’t yet come to that realization. Not even my ten-minute encounter with a card-playing con artist on the streets of New York City in the ’70s proved that gambling and easy money could easily become a problem for me.
I was thirty-one, broke and living in the Big Apple attempting to gain fame and fortune as a playwright. My only income came from working as a temp for six bucks an hour. I barely covered my rent, much less food, transportation or my massive student loan debt. Most weekdays, I found myself hoofing to and from my job, no matter where it was located on the island. I couldn’t afford the subway fare.
Every Friday I hurriedly cashed my payroll check at the nearest currency exchange. If there were bills to pay, I’d buy a money order or two. Like most poor folk, I didn’t bother with a bank account. The money I received for my labor disappeared almost as quickly as it hit my palms. It was little wonder that the opportunity to double a week’s pay looked like a gift from God, instead of a prank by the devil.
I remember it clearly. At 5:00 p.m., the temperature hovered in the high eighties. The city was sweltering and angry. It took me only a few minutes to get from my temp assignment in an air-conditioned office building to the jam-packed sidewalk outside. With each step, I inhaled a mixture of grit, cab exhaust and the smell of a dozen Chinese takeouts. Living in NYC meant my mouth always tasted like metallic dust particles. In the tote bag I carried the cork soled platform high heels I wore at work. My feet were encased in sneakers for the long walk home. I’d taken off the padded-shoulder black polyester pantsuit jacket and carried it over my arm instead. My ratted, overly hairsprayed bouffant melted down my face and stuck to my cheap pancake makeup. I dreaded going back to my lonely studio apartment with its lack of air conditioning or a window fan.
As I turned the street corner, I saw a small crowd of half a dozen people gathered around a large cardboard box. On top were three playing cards, laid out in a horizontal row. Standing over the box was a sloppily dressed man. His smudged navy and white nylon tracksuit hung on his wiry frame. His opened jacket revealed a dirty white t-shirt. Two thick gold neck chains hung around his neck.
Sidling up next to me was an older gentleman in a threadbare suit. His face was the definition of a hangdog. The scent of mothballs tangoed with the smell of Old Spice aftershave. Hangdog became immersed at the spectacle that played out in front of us.
In Tracksuit’s hand balanced a stack of currency. Tracksuit riffled through it, making one bill snap loudly against the next. He yelled, “Who’s in? Ain’t got all day. You’re gonna win anyway. Might as well double your money sooner rather than later. Who’s in?”
A few onlookers scuffled away. Others stayed and giggled. Hangdog reached into his pocket and pulled out three twenty-dollar bills.
Tracksuit looked skeptical. “You sure, Grandpa? Can you even see the cards?” His hand gestured at the box top.
What Hangdog said next surprised me, but I assumed he’d been embarrassed by the punk. He barked back, “Fuck you, asshole. Don’t give me any lip. I’m in.”
He handed Tracksuit the sixty bucks.
I still had no idea what was going to actually happen. During the months I had been in the city, I’d occasionally walked by card games being played on the streets. I never stopped to watch. They held no interest for me. I’d yet to write mysteries or research con artists for plot elements. Somehow, I had avoided seeing Paul Newman in
The Sting
.
I was the perfect, innocent mark, just ripe for the taking.
Tracksuit flipped the three crimped cards face up. There were two black cards, one a five of spades and the other a five of clubs. In the middle was a red card, the Queen of Diamonds.
He turned the cards over and started switching them back and forth between his hands. He instructed in a firm voice, “Remember to look for the red queen. Always look for the red queen. Keep your eyes on the red.” After seven or eight switches of the cards he laid the cards in a horizontal row, next to each other.
The old guy pointed his veiny finger at the card in the middle and said, “That one.”
Tracksuit turned it over. His mouth fell open. “Damn it,” he replied before regaining his composure. “You’re good, old man.”
Hangdog had chosen correctly. He’d doubled his money. But instead of walking away, he let it ride. He won again. I quickly calculated his earnings. Hangdog was $240.00 richer.
When asked if he wanted to try a third time, Hangdog shook his head. “I’m not an idiot,” he responded walking away, stuffing his newly earned fortune into his pocket.
The next participant, a busty young gum-chewing bimbo, waved a few bucks in the air.
“You sure sweetie?” Tracksuit asked as he took her money from her hand. Bimbo quickly lost the ten bucks. She pouted and then used the F word three times before swaying away.
It hadn’t surprised me Bimbo lost. She hadn’t paid close enough attention to the cards. It was obvious which was the red queen, the one she should have chosen. If she’d been using her eyes to focus, rather than to check out her manicure, she would have known it was the card on the right.
I had no choice but to play the game. I only hesitated for the briefest of moments. What was I planning on doing? I needed every single cent in my pocketbook. A demonic impulse reminded me … I wanted more. In every area of my life, I wanted more. I needed more.
I knew I was smart like Hangdog. I could do what he did. More importantly, I wasn’t as stupid as Bimbo. I could win at this. For the first time since I’d come to New York three months earlier, I’d have money to spare. I could put the money on my already overdue phone bill. I could go out to dinner. I missed dinner. I subsisted on breakfast food served at any time of the day. I devoured cereal like a frat boy.
I rummaged around in my purse. I wasn’t foolish enough to pull out my hunk of cash on the street, just part of it. I carefully counted out one hundred dollars. True, that amount was scheduled to go into my rent jar back at my apartment. But if I could put two hundred dollars in the empty Jiffy Peanut Butter jar instead, my future would be so much brighter. Maybe I could win three hundred bucks from this sucker.
But what happens, if I lose?
I stopped that thought from going any further. I wouldn’t lose. It was time for my luck to change. I needed to believe in myself again. My entire life I’d been told I was too negative. Living in New York had only increased my pessimism. I needed to try something new and rather alien to me … the power of positive thinking.
“Who’s next? Who wants to double their …” Tracksuit stopped mid-sentence as I waved a bit of greenery. He grabbed the money from my hand, not bothering to ask if I was sure I wanted to play.
He switched the cards back and forth on the box top as he yelped, “Keep your eyes on the red card. Keep your eyes on the red queen of diamonds. Always look for the red. Remember the red ...,”
He was wasting his breath. I didn’t need to be reminded.
My brow furrowed as I concentrated on every movement of his hands. When he’d finished laying the last card down, I smiled a tiny smile. It was all too easy. Just like taking candy from a baby-faced thug.
I pointed at the three cards lying side by side and then carefully pointed at the one on the far side with my index finger. I announced, “The one on the left.”
Tracksuit flipped over the card. I had chosen the five of spades.
My mouth dropped open. My throat turned into sand. I managed to garble out loud, “No way. No fucking way. I couldn’t have lost. It couldn’t have been …”
“Shut the fuck up,” Tracksuit sneered. “You lost fair and square. Get outta here.”
Tracksuit’s neck muscles tightened. The look of being a perpetual dope transformed into that of an angry, vengeful man.
I started again. “I want my money… I couldn’t have lost … You tricked me … You . . .”
The small crowd encircling tittered at my desperation. I continued to stammer to the point of hyperventilation. The crowd grew even larger and more pleased. There’s nothing a New Yorker likes more than waiting for someone to jump off the edge of a building.
“I, I, I . . .” I said, not able to put a coherent sentence together.
“Lady, shut the fuck up. The cops will hear you,” a gravelly voice from behind whispered in my ear.
I recognized the scent. I turned my head. It was Hangdog. He nodded at Tracksuit who quickly gathered up his cards. Tracksuit kicked over the cardboard box and fled to the East. So did Hangdog. Immediately, I knew they were running off to meet The Bimbo, who was smarter than I was after all.
I had been had. Tricked. Conned. Screwed. There was absolutely no way I could replace the money I’d just lost. I’d long since tapped out any possibilities of future loans from family or friends.
Standing on that street corner, feeling like the Greenwich Village Idiot, I vowed to never gamble again. Ever. And except for a few lottery tickets here and there, I didn’t. Not until I hit Las Vegas, decades later and my dormant gambling gene became activated.
∞
It wasn’t surprising that one of my brothers chose Nevada to be his home. The day he retired as a railroad switchman in the Midwest, he drove to the desert. His thick, winter gloves and thicker coat were discarded for a security guard uniform at The Showboat on Boulder Highway. He’d never been happier or more content. Another brother would visit Vegas three or four times a year. He’d brag about cheap food and amazing shows. Translation? All-you-can-eat buffets and all-you-can-stare-at boobs. It didn’t get better than that for a guy from the South Side of Chicago. Even my sister seemed to love Sin City.
The few times my siblings and I gathered together as adults, if Mom wasn’t around, the only stories shared were about their latest gambling junket.
I’d sit there judgmentally clinching my jaw and rolling my eyes. Why would any one choose the exact same place to visit, year after year? Didn’t they realize there were more exciting places to visit? Exotic locales? Like Paris? Or London? Even Greenland would be more interesting than a smoke filled casino and a cheesy hotel room decorated to look like Paris on a bad day.
I’d try to block out their stories of inexpensive breakfasts or Sammy Davis Jr. sightings. My male siblings would marvel how classy the shows were, even if the women were half naked. There was nothing scandalous about the shows at all. Nothing. Why
Nudes on Ice
could easily be considered family entertainment, something you could proudly have your wife attend. The wives would look embarrassed and hide behind giggles and blushes.
Meanwhile, I sat there silently vowing to never, ever travel to Las Vegas. If I wanted to see a woman’s breasts, I’d just look in a mirror. And if I wanted to see a female with feathers resting on her head, I’d buy a parrot.
It wasn’t until I was past the age of forty that I caught the Vegas virus.
A beloved family member’s call to duty presented very few options for a spur of the moment wedding venue. The reception, held at Caesar’s Palace in Las Vegas, was an elegant occasion. The bride and groom paraded through the casino under a moving military processional of crossed swords. A few rounds of applause could be heard from bystanders, but mostly there were the sounds of coins slapping into metal trays.
The wedding reception was in an elaborate private dining room serviced by stiff waiters in tuxedos. Their hands, donned in starched, white gloves, carefully placed china plates in front of us. At an appropriate time during the first course, the stained glass domed ceiling slid open to reveal a black, star-filled Nevada sky. Perhaps it was this experience … so far beyond my sibling’s description of $3.99 buffets … that awakened the gambling DNA in me.
Oh, and the fact that I almost won a thousand dollars the day after the wedding, may have contributed to my reawakened yearnings as well.
As any seasoned gambler will tell you, it’s the almost wins that get you hooked every single time.
∞
The day after the wedding I had a few hours to kill before my husband and I were to check out of our hotel. I strolled around the casino with a large paper bucket partially filled with quarters. Ticket-in, ticket-out slot machines had yet to be invented.
My fingertips were black with coin grime. I slid quarters one at time into one machine after another. I walked down the aisle and dropped one quarter into a slot, pulled the lever, and moved onto the next. If I heard any dinging I turned swiftly around to see what I’d won. Usually, it was a quarter, which I’d lose on the very next pull of the lever.
