It’s a fact that any establishment displaying a sign declaring NO GAMBLING is where the action’s at. Opposite side of the coin, any joint that actually enforces the restriction will not last long. Of the few who actually come to play for fun, dabbling in video poker, pool, and what not, the only people who return regularly are the ones earning something.
Folks make the mistake of thinking this only applies to bars. However, that’s the beauty of gambling. It can happen anywhere, at anytime, on most anything. That said, most joints restrict themselves to whatever is easiest for them to get away with.
There used to be a diner on Lawrence and Elston called the Snacky Shack. Patrons could go in the backroom where rows of video poker machines hummed nonstop. The room glowed, neon lit every second of the twenty-four hours the place stayed open, while several regulars hung from the machines like gravity might suddenly reverse itself. Now, once upon a time, before the laws got relaxed gambling technically was illegal. As such players played for points, their totals printed out on receipts spit out by the machines which they’d hand over to the manager, who would take them into the office before emerging with cash. Thing is this rule was unspoken, and my buddy Sid and I went there for greasy double cheeseburgers – two thin patties guaranteed to total a half pound and an eventual heart attack – we went there for weeks before overhearing a conversation informing us: You dumbasses been pissing away cash.
See we were the idiots playing for fun. All that time we’d been wondering why the old timers printed their totals. The whole while Sid figured they did it for pride, probably competing with one another, and I saw no reason to say otherwise; but once we knew better we started printing our totals too. First time we handed the manager a slip he chuckled.
“Normally I worry about new guys, but you two.” Shakes his head, “You ain’t cops.”
We took a certain pride in that statement, and collected our money happily little realizing the rabbit hole we’d started down. See, gambling is more fun than actually working. That's part of what makes it addictive. Seems folks prefer playing what amounts to a video game that pays instead of breaking their backs for shit pay. In one day, between bites of cheesy artery assault, we made enough to cover rent for the month. So naturally, we quit our jobs.
Best worst move of our lives… well, top ten for sure.
First six months things went swimmingly. Sid and I pooled our cash. We went to the Snack Shack, split the stake fifty-fifty, and went to work. Our primary tactic involved making sure to cash out when we got ahead, no matter how small, especially if things didn’t seem to be paying off. Making twenty bucks meant doing better than losing twenty. So some days, yeah, we walked away with hundreds falling out our pockets, and others we walked home instead of hailing a cab with Midas fingers, but we always left with more than we went in. Not many gamblers get to claim as much.
The trick to gambling is knowing when to quit. Yes, the odds are in the houses’ favor, but that’s based on a long enough timeline. They have the money to keep playing. A player with an equally infinite wallet actually gets the same odds with the advantage the house never gets to stop. The problem is most gamblers don’t have an infinite wallet. The reasons tend to vary; however, one truth is absolute: degenerate gamblers are trying to beat the game not the house.
Sid and I saw guys regularly rack up enough points to leave ten grand ahead, but they hung in waiting for some kind of video poker full tilt. The money only mattered because it allowed them to keep playing. They wanted to see the machine reach a kill screen.
This got to be quite the distraction for me. There’s something about seeing a man, bowed back like his spine’s grown into a curve perfectly suited for the machine, staring straight into the screen cursing the device for not knowing it’s been beaten; angrily collecting six thousand dollars like it’s a sign of failure. Rows of men and women aggressively winning, and thinking the whole time the real victory hasn't happened yet. They jab the touch screen, expecting to poke the machine into submission.
After a particularly successful run we went out for drinks. Following several whiskeys Sid said, “You watch those guys too much. I think we’d’ve done better if you were playing more… and it’s fuckin’ weird.”
I shrugged, signaled for another round of whiskey, “Can’t help I find them fascinating. I don’t know how they can win.”
Sid replied, “They don’t want to, and that’s why we’re better than them. We’re playing for the right reason, so we do it the right way.”
“I suppose.”
“Just keep your eyes on the game. If they complain to the manager, ‘Hey this fucker keeps staring at us.’ We might get kicked out.”
A fair point, especially considering what happened.
#
He went by Chalky. I always saw him in a wheelchair, though I’m certain he didn’t need it. I base that on the fact I would occasionally see him stand up, stretch, and walk out back for a cigarette. Chalky smelled like muscle cream, and cat piss, but he pumped almost ten grand a month into the Snacky Shack’s poker machines. And he hated me.
I base that on the fact he once looked me in the eye and said, “I fucking hate you.”
He chain-smoked expensive cigarettes, but complained about the price of bus fare. He mumbled the whole time he played, a steady buzz like a gnat, yet yelled at anyone he considered to be talking too loud. His breath smelled like milk chocolate, and so, this all combined, unfortunately, into an insatiable curiosity regarding the man. I felt compelled to watch him, spying for any sign of what made him. I can’t really say what I expected to see, but bits crossed my eye.
The X shaped scar carved into the back of his hand, the green checkered waist coat he always wore, his missing left ear lobe, a faded indecipherable tattoo on his wrist, the various lobster images on his smartphone he regarded, perhaps for luck – none of it told me anything. Yet, it all fueled me to observe him every chance I got.
Then one afternoon he punched the machine in front of him. Teeth grinding, spittle flying out of the corners of his huffing mouth, Chalking turned his glare on me.
“You.” He pointed.
“Me?”
“You always staring at me, ya cunt. It’s a fuckin’ distraction.”
Sid interjected, “I’ve been warning him about that.”
Chalky spat, “Well, you’ve done a shit job. Always staring – what are you looking at ya bloody cunt?”
I opened my mouth.
“Shut it. Fucking… fucker!” Chalky stood up. He kicked his wheelchair, and stormed off. We heard the backdoor open and slam.
I turned to Sid, “Perhaps now is a good time to cash out.”
“Agreed.”
We printed our receipts. From the sound of the door Chalky probably went out the back to smoke. We figured we’d be able to cash out while he tried to fog the whole city. However, on the way to the manager's office Chalky came back inside. He glared at me, and before I could say anything he whipped out a switchblade. A sixty year old man charging you, armed with a flick knife, may not seem like the worst nightmare in the world, but that’s only until the blade is firmly deposited in your stomach; and said senior citizen is trying to use the blade as a handle to lift you off the ground while screaming:
“You fucked my game!”
In the narrow hall Sid couldn’t get around me. Chalky obviously knew this because he kept jerking the blade, forcing me to shift and block the path. Sid sighed, and took the only route left. He grabbed me by the shoulders, and yanked me back, throwing down the hall. I didn’t feel the knife come out. I only felt the sudden warm flood spilling across my stomach. A waitress screamed. I nodded. Glancing over I saw Sid holding Chalky’s wrist, to keep the knife out of play, while he punched the old man.
Waving at the waitress I pointed at my stomach, “Can I get a towel? For the bleeding?”
She fainted.
Laying on the cool tile floor I thought, “Perhaps gambling is not the career for me.”
Folks make the mistake of thinking this only applies to bars. However, that’s the beauty of gambling. It can happen anywhere, at anytime, on most anything. That said, most joints restrict themselves to whatever is easiest for them to get away with.
There used to be a diner on Lawrence and Elston called the Snacky Shack. Patrons could go in the backroom where rows of video poker machines hummed nonstop. The room glowed, neon lit every second of the twenty-four hours the place stayed open, while several regulars hung from the machines like gravity might suddenly reverse itself. Now, once upon a time, before the laws got relaxed gambling technically was illegal. As such players played for points, their totals printed out on receipts spit out by the machines which they’d hand over to the manager, who would take them into the office before emerging with cash. Thing is this rule was unspoken, and my buddy Sid and I went there for greasy double cheeseburgers – two thin patties guaranteed to total a half pound and an eventual heart attack – we went there for weeks before overhearing a conversation informing us: You dumbasses been pissing away cash.
See we were the idiots playing for fun. All that time we’d been wondering why the old timers printed their totals. The whole while Sid figured they did it for pride, probably competing with one another, and I saw no reason to say otherwise; but once we knew better we started printing our totals too. First time we handed the manager a slip he chuckled.
“Normally I worry about new guys, but you two.” Shakes his head, “You ain’t cops.”
We took a certain pride in that statement, and collected our money happily little realizing the rabbit hole we’d started down. See, gambling is more fun than actually working. That's part of what makes it addictive. Seems folks prefer playing what amounts to a video game that pays instead of breaking their backs for shit pay. In one day, between bites of cheesy artery assault, we made enough to cover rent for the month. So naturally, we quit our jobs.
Best worst move of our lives… well, top ten for sure.
First six months things went swimmingly. Sid and I pooled our cash. We went to the Snack Shack, split the stake fifty-fifty, and went to work. Our primary tactic involved making sure to cash out when we got ahead, no matter how small, especially if things didn’t seem to be paying off. Making twenty bucks meant doing better than losing twenty. So some days, yeah, we walked away with hundreds falling out our pockets, and others we walked home instead of hailing a cab with Midas fingers, but we always left with more than we went in. Not many gamblers get to claim as much.
The trick to gambling is knowing when to quit. Yes, the odds are in the houses’ favor, but that’s based on a long enough timeline. They have the money to keep playing. A player with an equally infinite wallet actually gets the same odds with the advantage the house never gets to stop. The problem is most gamblers don’t have an infinite wallet. The reasons tend to vary; however, one truth is absolute: degenerate gamblers are trying to beat the game not the house.
Sid and I saw guys regularly rack up enough points to leave ten grand ahead, but they hung in waiting for some kind of video poker full tilt. The money only mattered because it allowed them to keep playing. They wanted to see the machine reach a kill screen.
This got to be quite the distraction for me. There’s something about seeing a man, bowed back like his spine’s grown into a curve perfectly suited for the machine, staring straight into the screen cursing the device for not knowing it’s been beaten; angrily collecting six thousand dollars like it’s a sign of failure. Rows of men and women aggressively winning, and thinking the whole time the real victory hasn't happened yet. They jab the touch screen, expecting to poke the machine into submission.
After a particularly successful run we went out for drinks. Following several whiskeys Sid said, “You watch those guys too much. I think we’d’ve done better if you were playing more… and it’s fuckin’ weird.”
I shrugged, signaled for another round of whiskey, “Can’t help I find them fascinating. I don’t know how they can win.”
Sid replied, “They don’t want to, and that’s why we’re better than them. We’re playing for the right reason, so we do it the right way.”
“I suppose.”
“Just keep your eyes on the game. If they complain to the manager, ‘Hey this fucker keeps staring at us.’ We might get kicked out.”
A fair point, especially considering what happened.
#
He went by Chalky. I always saw him in a wheelchair, though I’m certain he didn’t need it. I base that on the fact I would occasionally see him stand up, stretch, and walk out back for a cigarette. Chalky smelled like muscle cream, and cat piss, but he pumped almost ten grand a month into the Snacky Shack’s poker machines. And he hated me.
I base that on the fact he once looked me in the eye and said, “I fucking hate you.”
He chain-smoked expensive cigarettes, but complained about the price of bus fare. He mumbled the whole time he played, a steady buzz like a gnat, yet yelled at anyone he considered to be talking too loud. His breath smelled like milk chocolate, and so, this all combined, unfortunately, into an insatiable curiosity regarding the man. I felt compelled to watch him, spying for any sign of what made him. I can’t really say what I expected to see, but bits crossed my eye.
The X shaped scar carved into the back of his hand, the green checkered waist coat he always wore, his missing left ear lobe, a faded indecipherable tattoo on his wrist, the various lobster images on his smartphone he regarded, perhaps for luck – none of it told me anything. Yet, it all fueled me to observe him every chance I got.
Then one afternoon he punched the machine in front of him. Teeth grinding, spittle flying out of the corners of his huffing mouth, Chalking turned his glare on me.
“You.” He pointed.
“Me?”
“You always staring at me, ya cunt. It’s a fuckin’ distraction.”
Sid interjected, “I’ve been warning him about that.”
Chalky spat, “Well, you’ve done a shit job. Always staring – what are you looking at ya bloody cunt?”
I opened my mouth.
“Shut it. Fucking… fucker!” Chalky stood up. He kicked his wheelchair, and stormed off. We heard the backdoor open and slam.
I turned to Sid, “Perhaps now is a good time to cash out.”
“Agreed.”
We printed our receipts. From the sound of the door Chalky probably went out the back to smoke. We figured we’d be able to cash out while he tried to fog the whole city. However, on the way to the manager's office Chalky came back inside. He glared at me, and before I could say anything he whipped out a switchblade. A sixty year old man charging you, armed with a flick knife, may not seem like the worst nightmare in the world, but that’s only until the blade is firmly deposited in your stomach; and said senior citizen is trying to use the blade as a handle to lift you off the ground while screaming:
“You fucked my game!”
In the narrow hall Sid couldn’t get around me. Chalky obviously knew this because he kept jerking the blade, forcing me to shift and block the path. Sid sighed, and took the only route left. He grabbed me by the shoulders, and yanked me back, throwing down the hall. I didn’t feel the knife come out. I only felt the sudden warm flood spilling across my stomach. A waitress screamed. I nodded. Glancing over I saw Sid holding Chalky’s wrist, to keep the knife out of play, while he punched the old man.
Waving at the waitress I pointed at my stomach, “Can I get a towel? For the bleeding?”
She fainted.
Laying on the cool tile floor I thought, “Perhaps gambling is not the career for me.”
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