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A new job and a new town, not
to mention a new casino, were attractive. The plan was to kill two birds
with one stone. Do the interview and win enough money to get these accounts
under control. That was my goal at Casino Windsor: $1,200 and some hot
luck. Then I'd be free to do whatever I wanted, even move to Windsor.
Casino Windsor, the Government
of Ontario's first casino, opened in 1994. By all accounts I'd heard,
it was a raving success. Downtown Windsor was looking to share in the
benefits and wanted a new manager. I was asked to come to Windsor for
an interview. It was a five-hour trip and although I was driving a van,
it seemed like I flew.
One thing that puzzled me was
the lack of billboards or road signs announcing Casino Windsor along Highway
401 from Toronto. Even within the city, directional signs were lacking.
I guessed I was coming from the wrong direction to catch the casino's
target marketing. It must have all been aimed across the river at Detroit,
from which, I bet, the directions were exact. Attracting American gamblers
and U.S. dollars was a key rationale for establishing this first casino
in the border city of Windsor. Money in. Problems out. Orillia was being
sold its casino on a similar basis: increasing tourism by attracting Toronto
and other southern Ontario residents who would come to gamble, but also
stay and shop. Less than five per cent of Casino Rama's revenue would
come from the local market. Money in. Problems out. I just happened to
be part of the local percentage that couldn't wait.
I tried doubling back from
the U.S. border and found my way past the casino's twinkling front lights
with ease. While my heart raced at the sight, I was stoic in my patience.
I had two hours. First, I wanted to find the location of the agency where
the interview was to take place at two o'clock. This way I would know
exactly where I had to go, how long it would take from the casino and
exactly how long I had to gamble. Surprisingly I was able to park right
next to the casino.
Where were the thousands of
cars and jammed parking lots we kept hearing about in Orillia? It reminded
me of the other big casino I'd been to in April, in Sault Ste. Marie,
Michigan. There, we had to take the worst, most convoluted back roads
into the middle of nowhere. The Sault casino was made up of a menagerie
of buildings built like a mining town, in both haste and hesitation, not
spending much money just in case it didn't last. Only the flashy Kewadin
Vegas sign met my expectations of gambling paradise. However, you could
park at the door, at least during the April weekends when I was there
every night for four nights during that Festivals Ontario conference.
And there were no traffic jams.
Casino Windsor was also stuffed
into an unimpressive building, its temporary site in an old art gallery.
However, its flashy, lighted facade was more reminiscent of the Las Vegas
from movies I had seen, and the heat of my excitement climbed as I walked
through the doors. Inside it was a palace, three floors of glitter and
neon — all the bells and whistles to literally set my heart fluttering.
There was even a non-smoking floor. Two hours, I reminded myself, as I
dashed around the building like the proverbial kid in a candy store with
a pocketful of money from his mother's purse.
I had been learning blackjack
on the computer and working on a system for roulette, my first love in
gambling. But just like my first casino visit at Kewadin, I couldn't get
past the slot machines. The ding-ding-ding and clink-clink-clink of winning
coins dropping, the spinning reels, the siren sounds and flashing lights
of jackpot winners enthralled me as I wandered up and down the aisles
looking for my machine. From my April visit in Kewadin I knew my favourites:
the ones with Haywire icons and crazy action, where the reels go erratic,
spinning out of control, racking up bonus winning credits. I couldn't
find any as I sped around the casino looking from side to side, floor
to floor. Maybe it was an American thing. I also couldn't waste any more
precious gambling time.
I settled on the non-smoking
floor, a nod to the sensitivity of my nose. Before I even started I was
flushed, sweating and hyperactive. I could feel my blood boiling. I passed
the next hour and forty-five minutes among these rows of slots.
I bought five $20 rolls of
dollar tokens and five $10 quarter rolls from the coin change cart as
soon as I hit the floor. Clang! I whacked a roll of tokens against the
side of the coin tray at the bottom of the slot machine and flipped the
tokens out of the paper wrapper into the coin tray. With a crescendo of
clinks and clanks, they bounced around and then settled. I deftly swooped
a handful from the tray and dropped three coins in rapid succession. Click!
Click! Click! If they went too fast one coin fell all the way through
and I had to swoop down again, grab another token and reload. It was a
precision I learned at Kewadin, and now, it seemed like second nature.
The next move was to push the maximum button to play the three-coin maximum.
Then I pulled the lever on the right side to crank it down and start the
wheels spinning.
Whirl, whirl, whirl. Ka-chunk.
One wheel stopped. Bar. Ka-chunk. Second wheel. Two bars. My heart raced,
my mind blurred. Ka-chunk. Three bars. I won. I tried to keep myself cool,
to keep from dancing in the aisles and making a fool out of myself. Clink,
clink, clink, the coins dropped into the waiting tray, clinking on my
coins that were already there.
I looked quickly to the top
of the slot machine at the payout menu. Three single bars: $20. Three
double bars: $40. Three triple bars: $60. I couldn't figure what I'd won
until the clinking stopped and the flashing LED showed $20.
Swoop. Three more coins in.
I cranked the arm and stopped breathing again as the reels spun hypnotically
before my eyes. I glanced up to the menu to try to catch the various payouts
without having to focus, not daring to take my concentration off the spinning
wheels.
I was convinced that you have
to see the reel stop in order to make it stop where you want. Ka-chunk.
Right wheel. Three bars. My heart beat faster. My hand massaged the sides
of the machine. "Come on," I whispered. Ka-chunk. Left wheel. Three bars.
My heart was in my throat. I held my breath. "Come on baby." Ka-chunk.
Three bars. "Yes!" I hollered. No. It was on the line. No clink, clink,
clink. I looked over the winning menu. Close, but no cigar. Close. Next
time. I could feel it. This machine was hot. It wanted to pay.
Swoop. Click. Click. Click.
Whack the maximum button and crank the lever. No, you should have tried
the button, just to change things. The reels spun. I needed to calm down.
You can't expect to win every pull. Relax. I looked over at an elderly
woman leaning from her stool in front of one machine to slap the buttons
on the adjacent machine. Wow! She was playing two machines at once. She
reminded me of the women at bingo who could play 24 cards on the regular
games and then 36 for the jackpot game.
Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk. Ka-chunk.
Nothing, except a "Wild" symbol almost in the middle window. Breathing
in deeply and blowing out like a sigh, I checked out the payout for three
Wilds – $2,400. Wow!
Swoop. Click. Click. Click.
Whack. Crank. Whirl. Ka-chunk. One double bar. Ka-chunk. Two double bars.
Ka-chunk. Wild. Clink, clink, clink … The machine started spitting
out dollar tokens as I searched the menu for what two double bars and
a wild symbol meant. Eighty dollars. The tray was going to be full. While
the coins were dropping, I gathered up three tokens and leaned over to
the next machine. Clink, clink, clink. Whack and whack. I hit the maximum
and spin buttons. Cranking the one-armed bandit had lost its novelty.
The reels of the second slot spun. It was a "blazing sevens" icon, three
sevens rising out of what looks like the fires of Mel Brooks' Blazing
Saddles logo. One seven. Two more blazing sevens. Two more sevens. Nothing.
Back at Wild Bars my winnings
were scattered all over the tray, although not nearly filling it as I
had imagined. I remembered a button that I pushed in Sault Ste. Marie
that retained your winnings as credits so you didn't have to keep feeding
in the coins each play. No swoop. No click, click, click. I whacked the
button and fed a handful of tokens down the coin slot.
Maximum, whack. Spin, whack.
Whirl. Ka-chunk. Triple bar. Ka-chunk. Wild. My eyes darted up, two triple
bars and a wild pay $120. Eyes back. Ka-chunk. Wild on the line. "Shit,"
I said under my breath. Two wilds and a triple bar: $240.
"It wants to pay," I said out
loud to myself as I whacked the buttons and set the reels whirling once
again. Concentrate, keep your eyes on the wheels. Ka-chunk. Wild. I felt
my heat rise. Bar. Double bar on the line. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding. Ding.
Ding. The new sound confused me. Did I win? I looked up to the menu as
the slot recorded six electronic credits to the four I still had left.
There it was. One wild: six dollars.
Back to the buttons. Whack.
Whack. Another two wilds and a third one on the line. Oh, so close. Twenty-four-hundred
dollars. Instead I won 12 bucks. So the machine teased me, enticed me
with the occasional win and lured me to add more coins. I went back to
the change cart three times for another $300 in tokens.
My faith in Wild Bars faltered
after the second trip back to the cart and I started to roam the slot
corridors, pumping three dollars in each machine as I passed, staying
to play out the ones that let me win a few credits. I was over the clink-clink-clink
infatuation. The lucky machines eluded me as I looked from machine to
machine for the one that was calling my name. The light on the top of
the Wild Cherry machine was flashing. I answered its call.
Clang! I broke my last roll
of tokens into the coin tray and swooped a handful of ammunition into
the coin slot with one fluid motion. Click. Click. Click. Whap. Whap.
Whirl., whirl, whirl. Ka-chunk. Cherry. Ka-chunk. Bar. Ka-chunk. Bar.
Fifteen credits.
The only reality able to penetrate
my absorption with the one-armed bandits was the two o'clock appointment,
likely because it was connected to gambling, to my being able to get back
here again. I checked my watch hundreds of times while I played hundreds
of games, over and over, winning and losing, winning and losing. As much
as I wanted to win, I didn't mind losing as long as I could stay there.
I hadn't won a big jackpot, the kind where they came and gave you the
money in cash and reset your machine. I was up considerably at one point
but I continued to gamble until all the credits were gone and then all
of the special slot coins were gone.
One forty-five. Time to go
to the interview.
I got in my van and raced along
my predetermined beeline to the agency in time for my two o'clock appointment
with the job recruiter and her assistant. No Windsor committee. It was
just a screening interview. My ego was in full bloom, bolstered by two
hours of gambling action. I could do this job standing on my head. I was
the former president of Ontario Downtowns, four years as president of
Festivals Ontario, vice-president of the Canadian Association … blah,
blah, blah. I didn't care about the job, I just wanted to gamble.
My blood pressure was still
through the roof throughout the interview and I fidgeted in my chair like
a schoolboy needing to pee, or worse. Let's get the questions over and
get back to the real task at hand, winning back my $500, along with piles
more of Casino Windsor's money. Funny, I didn't even expect I'd get a
callback. Too bad. Poor Windsor. It didn't know what it would be missing.
I didn't care. I came to gamble.
Another beeline back to the
casino. This time it would be different. I could concentrate on the game
now that the stupid interview was out of the way. The nerve of them, dragging
me all the way down here and not even a member of the board there.
* * *
In June of 1996 I was at the
apex of my gambling frenzy. I was $20,000 in the hole to eight different
bank accounts. Anxiety and panic attacks swept over me with regularity
and my concentration at work and everywhere else was shot. Sweating in
bed at night I worried about getting caught, going to jail and having
my life defined by the fact that I was a gambler and a thief.
I wondered if I would even
make it to the opening of Casino Rama in Orillia. On those late-night
drives back home from gambling in Barrie, I worried that I would get caught
first, or worse. Desperation weighed me down after three nights of losing
at the charity casino, giving me the notion of ramming my van into one
of the grey concrete overpasses on Highway 400 during my 23-kilometre
ride home at 4:30 in the morning.
All the way back I would talk
to myself, cursing my stupidity, my bad luck. Why didn't I quit when I
was up? If only I hadn't run out of time. If only they hadn't changed
dealers. I was on a roll, then everything changed. Oh, why didn't I quit,
take my chips and go home?
The charity casinos closed
at 4:00 a.m. Whether I was winning or losing, they closed. The last half-hour
was pure insanity, a kind of reverse, bleak "happy hour," where instead
of drinking twice as much, you bet with even greater hysteria. If I was
down, I needed to get even. If I was up, it was never high enough to cover
off all I had previously lost, all that I owed, all that I had stolen.
"Why didn't I go home at two
o'clock?" I thought to myself as Sherrie shuffled the deck for the next
shoe of cards. If I had, I would have been up a thousand on the night
and only $3,000 in the hole this week. Now I was down $5,000. How the
hell was I going to pay that back by Friday? Those bank deposits had to
be made within a week or else there would be no plausible excuse.
How I hated the shuffle in
a charity casino. That break in the action allowed the real world to come
reeling into my mind. I'm here to gamble, not think. In a bona fide casino
there are lots of distractions during a shuffle; drop a couple of green
quarters on number 17 in roulette, slip $50 into a five-dollar slot machine
on the way to the washroom, watch the Asian guys bet $20,000 a hand in
the VIP Baccarat Room, playing a game that amounts to little more than
high stakes card-cutting. Here, all I could do was wait.
Michael, the pit boss, knew
I was down. Could he see the desperation in my face or did he just do
the math? In charity casinos, the action is small enough that the house
knows who is winning or losing at all times. Especially VIP players like
me.
VIP blackjack: I bet all seven
spots on the table, me against the dealer. It was the only way I played
now, ever since partnering with Arnold went sour a few months earlier.
Nothing really happened, I just couldn't win with him anymore. We'd either
both lose or I'd lose alone. Earlier, he saw me at the table and came
over.
"Want to play together?" he
asked, gesturing at my seven spots, searching for his three. "No," I said,
avoiding his eyes. "I'm down. I gotta stay on my own. I haven't been winning
lately." "It's okay, it's okay. I'll play over here. Go get 'em." He walked
away. I knew he felt bad. Maybe it was recreation to him; maybe he could
afford to be nice, but I couldn't. Shit. He taught me the game.
Arnold owned a local golf course
and was a regular at the charity casinos when I started playing at them
last year. On many nights we were a team, dominating the table, playing
like we could do no wrong, stacking up the chips, breaking the house!
"You're on fire," one of the guys standing around said. "It's like you
can read the cards." Recalling those heady days, it's hard to understand
how I could be so down, how I could owe so much money.
"Are you almost ready, Sherrie?"
I asked, annoyed with my own angst. "Almost, darling, and I feel a good
shoe coming on." Most of the dealers, including Sherrie, liked me. For
one thing, they knew me because I sponsored the Stephen Leacock charity
casino nights that their company operated. Also, I tipped. On the surface,
I was a good loser. I never blamed anyone else, never got mad, swore or
threw things like some of the guys. I thought that was an invitation to
bad luck, negative vibes and bad karma, that sort of thing. Inside I was
screaming. Did they genuinely feel sorry when I lost? I thought so, but
that's how they got paid.
Having been on the other side
of the table as a sponsor, I knew one hot VIP gambler like me could mean
a losing night for the charity casino operators. Sure, that meant the
sponsor didn't make any money either, but it really meant the operator
lost because he still had to pay the staff and overhead. In Toronto, and
even in Barrie, at the other casino company, they hated to lose and tried
all kinds of tricks to stop a player on a roll; some of them I'd have
bet were "illegal." Once, at Huronia Casino, a regular player and I were
having a good night controlling a table, each of us up several hundred
dollars. Then the owner of the company asked if we minded if he dealt
for a while. I don't know whether she cared but I sure as hell did. I
didn't want to play against the damn owner, but my gambler's ego wouldn't
let me say it. I finally quit when I had about $200 left. I never went
back to Huronia's events. These were the types of shenanigans that gave
the government the excuse it needed to take over control of all gambling.
Finally, Sherrie was ready
for me. I felt tired during the break, but now I was animated, bobbing
and weaving, standing in front of the green felt table, my chips lined
up along the padded sides. Watching her bury the hole card, I was wide-awake,
ready for another round. Ready for redemption.
"Okay, let's do it," I said,
and all the worry of the outside world, everything but Sherrie darling,
and me and the cards disappeared.
I had two five-dollar chips
in each of the seven circles; the maximum $10 bet allowed in charity casinos.
I was really making a $70 bet per hand but let's not quibble on the fine
points. I had 10 piles of five-dollar chips in front of me, $500, and
a pocketful of green quarters, $25 each. Twenty. I always knew how many.
It was another thing I did during the shuffle to keep my mind occupied.
They were the remainder from earlier in the evening when I was up a grand.
Snap, snap, snap, snap, snap,
snap and snap. Sherrie whacked my first cards beside the circles. My eyes
were on her card. Snap. A seven. Good, I had a chance. I feared an ace,
of course. Blackjack is an ace and ten; it didn't have to be a jack. I
also feared any face card or ten. Now I could watch what she was giving
me and the battle was underway.
A king on a queen. "Good,"
I said, as I waved her off.
"Don't want to split those
tens," Sherrie joked as she gave me a three on a four on the next square.
"Yuck."
"Hit me," I said, scratching
on the green felt with the middle finger on my right hand, the one with
the tell-tale Band-Aid covering the dried, cracked skin from too much
of this very scratching.
Eight. Fifteen. "Hit me," I
scratched.
Queen. Bust. "Oops, sorry,"
Sherrie feigned as she swooped up those cards with her right hand and
slammed them in the crib, deftly sliding my $10 from that circle into
her tray.
Next came an eight on a face
card. "Eighteen." I waved Sherrie off.
Snap. Another three on an eight.
Eleven. "Double down," I said as I placed another $10 at the back of that
circle. Another card. Ten. "Yes! That's better, Sherrie, keep it up."
A six on a six. Shit, what
do I do? I searched my brain for the computer prompt or the book instruction
or Arnold's voice. Always split sixes or is it never split sixes? I couldn't
remember.
Sixes against a seven: I split
them. It's another all or nothing night. I moved $10 more to the side
of the circle. Another six. "Split," I said and moved another $10 out.
Nine. Fifteen. "Hit me." Scratch.
Four. "Stay." A hand wave on the next hand.
Ten. Sixteen. "Hit." Scratch.
Ten. "Too hard." Swoop cards, discard, money slides into Sherrie's tray.
Five. Eleven. "Double down."
Another $10 from my tray.
Jack. Twenty-one. "That's one
you're not going to get, missy," I said as I exhaled some anxiety and
twisted out a kink in my neck. I could feel the heat in my blood. My throat
was dry.
"Don't get cocky," Sherrie
said as she slapped a five on my eleven. I paused, knowing what was next
as soon as I thought it. Shit. Sixteen, I have no choice. "Hit me."
Seven. Bust. Swoosh, slam,
swoop, clink into her tray. I toyed with a cyst on the back of my neck,
twisting my back against my other hand. I looked, I am sure, like a straitjacket
contortionist.
The sixth spot. A two. A three.
Three small cards, it'll be a face.
"Hit," I said and scratched
the table. Close, a nine. "Now a face," I said with resignation, regretting
the prediction as soon as it passed my lips. Positive, you idiot. Ace.
"I could have used that next,
Sherrie," I chided. "Hit me," I scratched.
Ten. Bust. "They're always
together, eh?" Sherrie sympathized as she swooped up the cards, and my
money, from the table.
My last spot. Another ten.
Three. "Ten and three, thirteen," Sherrie said. I looked at her seven,
thinking about what she needed, what I wanted her to have. A ten —
she has to stay on seventeen. "Lucky 17," I murmured out loud, prompting
Sherrie to repeat, somewhat sarcastically, "Thirteen!"
The object here was for me
not to take the card I wanted her to have. This was the players' advantage
in the charity casinos; you could influence the dealer's second card by
taking or not taking a card on the anchor spot. When you have several
experienced people playing at a table, sometimes the person at the end
in the anchor seat would "take one for the table." In the big casinos,
the play is different with the dealer getting both his cards off the mark,
taking away this players' edge.
I didn't want a ten. I scratched,
"Hit me."
Six. Another nineteen. Six
would have been good for her, giving her thirteen, I thought, second-guessing
myself. No, I've seen too many thirteens topped with eights.
"What's it going to be, Dougie?"
Sherrie taunted me.
I waved my hand to pass and
returned the jab, "Ten, come on, Sherrie, you can do it."
She turned a four. "Eleven,"
my mouth said, but my mind cringed as I took the first shot of the inevitable
one-two combination. I looked back at the cards already on the table,
grimacing, trying to see but not wanting to think the worst, to forecast
the worst. To make it happen. What would have happened if I had given
her the six? Seven, six and four. Seventeen. Damn. Now we've had four,
six, three. Damn, my mind moaned. Don't say it, don't even think it. But,
it was too late: tens are due.
Ten. "Dealer has 21," Sherrie
said succinctly, knowing I was on the ropes.
We "pushed," or tied, on three
hands of 21, meaning I got to keep three $10 bets. I lost $70 more.
So it went for the remainder
of the shoe and I was down another $500. My brain couldn't take the torture
of watching and waiting for another shuffle so I went over to next table
where there were a couple of empty spots and plopped my $10 chips on each.
I was now literally running from my thoughts. I won. I lost. I won. On
and on.
Finally Sherrie was ready for
me. As we took our positions, aggressor and defender, or the illusion
thereof, Michael stepped over and announced "Last shoe." Closing time.
I couldn't win. I'd had near-perfect
shoes before. You can only win about eight hundred dollars. I was already
down $1500 for the night and $5,500 for the three days. Despair washed
over me. My concentration was gone. Not even the action could keep my
wretched feelings at bay. I played a couple of hands on autopilot, hardly
knowing what I was saying.
'That's it for me, Sherrie.
I'm beat," I said, as I picked up the last of my red chips to head for
the cashier's booth before the four o'clock poker crowds. The last thing
I needed was a whole bunch of "How much did you win, Little?" questions
from those guys.
I had $240 left. Enough to
leave Roberta $100 on the kitchen table when I went to work, pretending
I won, and some money for lottery tickets and Nevada to tide me over until
the next weekend's charity casino in Orillia. But what was I going to
do about the missing $6,000 from the bank deposit?
"Maybe I've already won the
lottery," I told myself, bolstering my courage for the long, concrete-pillared
drive home to Orillia.
Submitted: October 28,
2001
This account was not peer-reviewed.
Doug Little now lives
and works in Ottawa where he is the Marketing and Communications Manager
of the Canadian Tulip Festival. October 22, 2001, marked five years
since he last gambled. Losing
Mariposa will be
published in 2002 by ECW Press.
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