"SKITZO" AL

Schizophrenia even for professionals, is often misunderstood or misdiagnosed.  For laymen, especially the less sophisticated, these guesses create real and unnecessary problems 

This article contains excerpts from my July 15, 2013 blog, "THE MANY SIDES OF SKITZO AL."

The New York School of Gambling had a random conglomeration of students. I gravitated to easy-going, Las Vegas bound guys around my age. Such as: Ciro the Hero, (way before he became a Ciro the Zero), BB, John Heaverlo and JLUPY.

Another student who sometimes hung with us was thirty-two year old Alberto Muñoz.  But within the context of the school, Al was a man without a country.  He had an independent nature and made no effort to fit in with any group.  At times he was so likable and other times, people were put off by his aloofness and mood swings.

Al's accent was strictly from the Bronx.  He was of Puerto Rican descent but both his parents were born in Yonkers.  The morning craps class already had three other Als, so most people called him "Spanish" Al.

Al was also short, so some people called him "Little" Al.  But because he wore a distinctive well-trimmed beard and mustache, the wannabe wiseguys called him Toulouse.  Al was a graduate of Lehman College and was more worldly than most us.  So he was able to understand the Toulouse reference and mature enough to not give his taunters any satisfaction.

HENRI de TOULOUSE LAUTREC, (1864-1901), WAS A POST-IMPRESSIONIST PAINTER.  HE SUFFERED FROM NUMEROUS AILMENTS INCLUDING ONE THAT PREVENTED HIS LEGS FROM GROWING PROPERLY.

The underlying problem with Al was an inconsistent personality. One moment he’d be funny, articulate or caring about someone and seconds later, he’d be cold and ignorant to someone else. There were even times that I witnessed Al helping someone and simultaneously being a jerk to another with the same problem…then in the blink of an eye, he’d neglect the person he was helping and bend over backwards to the person he was being rude to.

Maybe it was Al's power play?  To the untrained eye, most of us thought he suffered from a Napoleonic complex.

FIVE FOOT SIX NAPOLEON BONAPARTE, (1769-1821), WAS EMPEROR OF FRANCE.  THE INFORMAL PSYCHOLOGICAL TERM "NAPOLEONIC COMPLEX" SUGGESTS THAT SOME SHORT MEN OVER-COMPENSATE FOR BEING VERTICALLY CHALLENGED WITH AGGRESSIVE OR DOMINEERING SOCIAL BEHAVIOR.

Due to the severity of these attitude peaks and valleys, Al's most enduring nickname was, "Skitzo" Al.  Today, someone in Al's shoes might be misdiagnosed by idiots like us, as being bi-polar?

Just before one of our 10:00AM, forty-minute breaks, Al was telling BB, JLUPY and me about the discotheques in the Bronx.  He wanted us to come up. I thought it would be fun. After all, I already had the official disco uniform in my closet; an off-white, polyester three-piece suit, a selection of qiana shirts by Huckapoo and platform shoes.

DESPITE A BLEAK SCRIPT AND BEING TERRIBLY DATED, THE 1977, TWO-STAR MOVIE, "SATURDAY NIGHT FEVER," HAS LEFT AN IMPACT ON SOCIETY AND POP-CULTURE.

I was seriously considering taking the trip as BB cracked, “I don’t want to go. Even the police are afraid to leave the station house up there.”

Al said, “I’m not sending you to the South Bronx, I live in Riverdale.”

JLUPY said, “I live in Connecticut, would I be able to crash at your place.”

Al didn’t even acknowledge him.

While we were talking, Willi, a sexy blackjack student from the Dominican Republic walked by. Al went into a full-blown flirtation with her in Spanish. Al rattled off the same names of the discos he mentioned to us. Somewhere along the line, he asked her out for that Friday. In English with a heavy accent, she enthusiastically agreed.

After she left I said, "How did you win her over so fast?"

"It loses something in the translation but, I asked her what her real name was.  When she said Awilda, I said I liked it.  She was flattered when I said Awilda is more girlie...and that she's all woman."

JLUPY said, “I thought you couldn’t speak Spanish?”

Dead silence. Al wouldn’t even look at him. JLUPY got pissed off. He got in Al’s face and repeated the question.

Al as if nothing strange happened smiled, “I pick my spots. As you can see, it comes in handy for picking up Latina chicks.”

JLUPY was confused and insulted...and slithered away.

Al was still encouraging us to come when Awilda breezed by holding a slip of paper and said in English, "Here's my number."

Al concentrated on me and BB. She didn't appreciated being shunted aside.  But he wasn’t even phased when the tempestuous beauty exploded into a rant.  In frustration she switched from Spanish to English.  He still didn't acknowledge her, so she punctuated her displeasure with a loud, “Fuck you!”

For me, witnessing this level of ignorance made me think, Al was out of his mind.  I guess he thought he was being cool because as she stormed off, he pretended not to notice.

My clique usually went to the coffee shop near Eighth Avenue on our breaks.

John Heaverlo and Ciro had already left so I asked Al, “You wanna get something to eat with us?”

BB interjected, “Include me out, I’ll be at the Ireland’s Eye, drinking my breakfast.”

Al said, “No, I’m gonna play hearts. Do you play?”

I said, “No.”

He said, “C’mon and watch.  Do something different, it’ll be fun.”

In a tight space rimmed with vending machines, the open-ended break area had two round tables. The closer table had a furious card game going with four guys from the jet-set clique. In a loud, hyper whisper, Al described the rules and the finer points of hearts. I was fascinated by the action and impressed by Al's disregard for the player's shushing and harsh barbs.

I think because of our age difference, Al never developed into friend material. But because of the articulate, nurturing side of his personality, his mentoring made me feel like I had an older brother.

This was especially true at my first hearts game.

Al said,  “Don’t sit-in with these vultures until you know what’s, what. They’ll reel you in for a penny a point.  And if they think you're a sucker, they'll jump it up to dime...don't be fooled, even chump change adds up."

A player growled, "Shut up Toulouse!" Al kept talking.

A few months later, I moved to Las Vegas, (January 1979). Ciro got there two months earlier so I looked him up. He was living downtown with BB, in a cheap, rundown two-bedroom apartment. JLUPY was already free-loading on their sofa so I was offered the living room floor, (all to myself), until I got situated.

When I arrived, it was the filthiest dump I ever saw. I dreaded sleeping on their nauseating trash strewn floor. But it became a moot point because that same day, BB was rushed to the hospital with acute alcohol poisoning. The situation was so dire that his mom and sister were flying out because BB might die.

JLUPY was upgraded to BB’s bed and I got the couch. It was good timing because John Heaverlo drove in from Poughkeepsie (NY) the next day and took my spot in the floor's squalor.

All casinos had fifty-cent drinks. I could see how someone with a liquor dependency like BB could get caught in Vegas’ web of vice. I understand this because my first five days in town are a drunken kaleidoscope of broken images and partial memories.

During a lucid moment Ciro took me aside, “Dimi, (his nickname for me), you can stay here forever…no charge. But for your own good, don’t you think it’s time to go to work.”

He was right. I had gotten wet feet from watching live craps games and felt that I could never make it as a dealer. But Ciro’s little chat straightened me out. I was determined to go to the audition that the New York School of Gambling arranged, at the Slots-A-Fun Casino.

The next morning, it was bright, sunny and 70°. I was standing in a white dress shirt and black slacks at the bus stop, shivering from nerves. Across the street, a billboard advertising a heating and refrigeration school caught my eye. Their two slogans were; YOUR CORE OF $UCCE$$ and TAKE CHARGE OF YOUR FUTURE.

I was admiring the sign and how the word “charge” had two lightning bolts running through it when I heard Ciro’s voice in my head saying, “It’s time to shit or get off the pot.” Suddenly, my daydream was shattered by an annoying, squeaky, beep, beep. It was someone on a Vespa scooter. The mysterious driver pulled to the curb and took off his goggles.  It was a clean-shaven Al Muñoz.

VESPA SCOOTERS BECAME AN INEXPENSIVE MODE OF TRANSPORTATION IN POST-WAR ITALY.  THE MOTOR'S BEE-LIKE BUZZ WAS THE INSPIRATION FOR CALLING THE BIKE THE ITALIAN WORD FOR WASP..

I told Al my situation and he congratulated me for taking the plunge.

He added, “I’m dealing craps at the Lady Luck. It sucks but I’m ready to apply for a better job. I live in a shack on Ogden. If you can avoid it, you don’t want to live downtown.”

I pointed beyond Las Vegas High School and said, "I'm staying on South Tenth with Ciro."

He said, “It’s just as bad there…like the wild friggin’ west.  So don't stray from Fremont Street and never go through alleys, especially at night” Al surprised me by adding, “Forget all that negativity, first, let’s get you working. Screw the bus. Hop on. I’ll take you up there before you change your mind or shit yourself.”

Al and I wouldn't cross paths for four months. By that time, I had left Slots-A-Fun and got hired at a slightly better job, the Western Casino. Al came in to take an audition and passed. Later, during my break, he told me he was fired from the Lady Luck.

I told him, “One of our craps dealers, Debbie Dotson used to work there.”

When I added that the Western fired her after one shift Al shook his head, “Debbie, Debbie, Debbie. She couldn’t get out of Oregon fast enough. But she had no plan...”

He became philosophical about life in Las Vegas. During his ensuing sermon about the transients, petty criminals, runaways, lowlifes and the deadbeats that he has met, I was distracted about Al's appearance. I knew his facial hair was missing but I couldn’t figure out the difference.

Al was right. Misguided people visit Vegas and perceive that dealers lead luxurious lives, at the top casinos.  Far worse, some move to town and think they too can live a rich, vacation lifestyle every day.

I saw it immediately when BB nearly drank himself to death. And the town might have chewed me up and spit me out too, if Ciro didn’t give me my reality check.

Before the Western Casino processed Al, he said, “Remember this, Vegas is like the French Foreign Legion. Most people uproot themselves here out of a romantic fantasy that it’s shangra-fuckin’-la. A lot of the other morons are just desperate. So always watch yourself and be weary of the *Debbie Dotsons of the world...because Vegas is a sanctuary for the lunatic fringe.

*Debbie Dotson was a main character in my short story, "SANCTUARY FOR THE LUNATIC FRINGE."

Al started at the Western the next day. He got off to a great start with my coworkers and never gave-off that "Skitzo" vibe.  Still, I was having trouble putting my finger on the difference in him, so I gave up and asked.

Al answered in a conversational tone and calm pace, “Getting fired from the Lady Luck changed my life!”

He took off his glasses with great exaggeration and cleaned off the lenses.

I said, “That’s it!  You’re wearing glasses!”

He smiled, “But I don’t need glasses.”

I was perplexed.

He said, “Listen my brother. They fired me.  They thought I was a prick because on second base, I could hear the boxman’s instructions. But on third base, he were speaking into my deaf ear.”

“You’re deaf in one ear?”

Al said, “Yeah. You knew that...everyone at school knew.”

I said, “Trust me, nobody knew.”

“Anyway," Al shrugged.  “So when I get the ax, I tell the dude about my ear. He suddenly becomes human and clues me in that Beltone has an office around the corner. And if they hook me up with a hearing aid, he’ll give me my job back. I tell him, I was born this way.  There’s nothing that can be done. He said, 'you should still go. Things change…you never know.'”

Al said, “These non-prescription glasses are the latest technology. They have a tiny microphone in the frame and wires carry the sounds from the bad side, to my good ear. I’m a new man!” As excited as he was to show me, his quieter, slower pace never faltered as he showed me a photo of his girlfriend.

Two days later, I left the Western for a better job, (the Holiday International Casino). I never saw Al again. But down through the years, I found out that he was a pit boss in Puerto Rico...and I'm guessing, he's not driving a Vespa through the streets of San Juan.

From this experience, I promised myself I would never rag on anyone because of a physical handicap or a mental defect.  I know I did a good job but the idealism I sought isn't always perfect.

NEVER SHIT WHERE YOU EAT

I always thought people illegally changing their name was a convenient plot twist in crumby spy movies.  But my "friend" Nick Tucker wasn't who he said he was.  His life was so shrouded in mystery that now, I can't tell if I was his friend, a strong acquaintance or he even an insignificant background person.

In 1982, I introduced Nick, to Sue (my future wife) as one of the few gentlemen I met in the casino business.  Years later, I found out how acutely wrong I was about him. Hell, his name wasn't even Nick Tucker.



                                            *



I met Nick Tucker at the New York School of Gambling.  In early October 1978,  we had our first one-on-one meeting.  Our craps dealing class been dismissed but I decided to practice my latest skills after everyone left.  At the casino-like classroom's entrance, Phyllis the receptionist seemed to be guarding the door.

I passed her and she stopped cracking her gum to call out, "Nicky, I gotta run."

Tucker had a guilty look on his face as he stood next to the wide open seventh floor window.

I said, "That's dangerous, you could push a piano out that window."

He shushed and gestured me closer.  At his feet, there were many stacks of the school's practice chips that he was emptying into two burlap bank bags.

He stuffed Styrofoam packing peanuts and crumpled newspaper on top and said, "Go lay chickie for me."

I said, "Heh?"

Nick bound these bundles with plastic pull ties and said as he added thick rubber bands, "Go to the door and let me know if someone is coming." 

I wasn't smart enough to realize that I was witnessing the craziest, stupidest, most unnecessary theft ever!

I was paralyzed by indecision until Nick snapped, "You gonna help or are you posing for Animal Crackers?"

ANIMAL CRACKERS ORIGINATED (1890's) IN ENGLAND.  THEY CAME IN A GIANT BARREL AND WERE SOLD INDIVIDUALLY.  IN 1902, AN AMERICAN COMPANY, (STAUFFER'S),  SOLD THEIR OWN VERSION, IN FIVE-CENT, SINGLE SERVING BOXES.  THE TERM, "POSING FOR ANIMAL CRACKERS," SUGGESTS THAT SOMEBODY ISN'T PAYING ATTENTION TO THE TASK AT HAND. 

Nick leaned out the window and made a military salute to someone at street level. 

I was confused.  Ten seconds later, he stuck his head out again and said, "Bombs away," as he released to the soon-to-be missiles.

OUCH!  THOSE BAGS HAD TO BE A COUPLE OF POUNDS EACH.  AND, I CAN'T IMAGINE THE UNDERTAKING CROWD CONTROL WOULD BE WITH THE CONSTANT FLOW OF INNOCENT PEOPLE COMING INTO THE TARGET AREA FROM ALL ANGLES.

Nick smiled, "Mission accomplished, I owe you."

I said, "Owe me for what...what just happened?"

He said, "John Crotty and Artie Cisco are downstairs holding everyone back and will retrieve the bags."

John Crotty never acknowledged me at school.  But several years later, he filled in the gaps that allow this story to be told.

AT MIDDAY, WEST 32nd STREET OFF BROADWAY, (the school's locale), WAS MUCH BUSIER THAN THIS PHOTO.  EVEN IF CROTTY AND CISCO USED YELLOW EMERGENCY TAPE TO CORDON OFF THE DROP ZONE, I CAN'T CONCEIVE HOW THIS IDIOCY (REPEATED SEVERAL TIMES BEFORE AND AFTER), DIDN'T GET THEM ARRESTED.

Nick brandished a switchblade.  If he intended on intimidating me from ratting him out, he succeeded.  He saw the blank expression on my face and used the knife to clean under his fingernails as he bragged, "Johnny built a craps table for us to practice on...and we're almost done filling the bank up with chips."

I said, "They're worthless...you can buy'em for a dime."

Nick sighed, "Yeah genius, but we need a thousand of them...you do the math."

I said, "Aren't you afraid the school will notice that many missing?"

He said, "Hell no!  Sif, (Phyllis the whore receptionist was nicknamed Sif-Phyllis), wants to get back into Artie's pants.  So he got her to steal them out of a storage closet.  These money-grubbing bastards never use 'em and won't know they're gone for years."

I said, "Those flying bags could kill someone down there.  Besides, won't it be safer and easier to stick the chips in your pockets or a lunch pail...and walk out like gentlemen?"


Nick shook his head, "Who are you, a front man for the friggin' Pope? And, what fun would easier be?"

Nick remained cordial to me.  Twice, he invited me to breakfast.  I never went because he, John and Artie Cisco drank their morning meals, at the Ireland's Eye Bar.

Nick and I traveled in different circles.  I didn't realized he graduated in early November.  I finished on January 3, 1979 and flew to Las Vegas the next day.

Vegas compared to New York City was a small town.  But even with tons of relocated schoolmates, it was surprising that I didn't bump into Nick until the following September, at a knock-off of the San Gennaro Feast.

THE ANNUAL ITALIAN-AMERICAN FEAST IN LAS VEGAS BOASTS ALL MY FAVORITE FOODS.  THEY LOOK AUTHENTIC BUT IF YOU KNOW YOUR SCUNGILLI FROM A HOLE IN THE WALL, YOU KNOW SOMETHING AIN'T KOSHER.

At the faux-feast, like ships passing in the night, Nick, (along side John Crotty) and I exchanged silent nods as I scarfed down a mediocre sausage and pepper sub. 

But I did overhear Crotty say, "The first thing they should teach new dealers is, never shit where you eat." 

His statement seemed random but years later, his prophecy came true.



                                                                  *



In 1982, (two years later), I got hired at the Las Vegas Gold Nugget.  What a great coincidence, Nick Tucker was already dealing craps there on my shift, (8PM-4AM).  He took me under his wing, introduced me to close circle of coworkers and made me feel at home.  Nick was quick to mention that the Nugget was unique in that it had no help's hall.  That meant two things; the casino didn't provide meals and it encouraged the staff to leave the building, (all other casinos penalize employees leaving during their shift).


On a tour of downtown, Nick showed me the best places to eat, drink and get in trouble.

Once I got to know him, I considered Nick Tucker to be the nicest person I ever met in the gaming business.  He showed great compassion for people and took a personal interest in coworkers.

A craps dealer named Scott had a gambling problem.  Nick brought this kid literature about Gamblers Anonymous, helped him in enroll in the program and drove him to the first meeting.  Scott wanted to take Nick for dinner but he didn't accept.

Lelani Campbell, a gorgeous Amer-Asian blackjack dealer was as dumb as a stump.  But she was smart enough to know she'd be better off home in Hawaii than in a dead end job, dealing cards.  To encourage her to follow through, Nick tutored her, a few days a week for over a month.  She passed her GED on her first try.  To thank him, she made overt sexual advances...but he turned her down.

A pit boss' personal life was spiraling out of control.  Nick gave him new direction by suggesting that he follow his passion.  Together the searched the classified ads until they found a small fixer-upper cabin cruiser, for fishing Lake Meade.  On several occasions, in the stifling heat of Southern Nevada, Nick went to this man's house, scraped, sanded, cleaned and polished that boat until it was seaworthy.  When the boss' dream was realized, he offered Nick money, special scheduling considerations and an outing on the boat. Nick said no thanks, to every offer.

Nick also organized parties for our clique.  On Labor Day, he put together a barbecue, at a park on East Tropicana Avenue.

Later in September, he used up favors to get the Horseshoe Casino's coffee shop to reserve its backroom, (at 2:AM) and provide free, hot hors d'oeuvres (as long as we paid for our drinks), for a boxman's retirement.

He also convinced us to wear costumes after our shift, at a Halloween bash he put together at Mickey's Appetizer, (a bar).  Oddly, other than brief token appearances at the events he arranged, Nick usually never came.

A month later, Lelani invited our group, to her apartment for an afternoon Thanksgiving.  On the Sunday before, Nick brought her extra folding chairs.  When he pulled up, she was outside, barefoot and in a giant white tee-shirt that she wore like a muumuu dress.

Nick had trouble untying strap that secured his car's trunk.  Rather than get frustrated, he whipped out his switchblade and sliced the cord.

Lelani joked, "Besides knives, you got any other surprises in your pants?"

Nick avoided the innuendo, "My neighborhood was so bad, even the Monsignor was good with a knife..."

She said, "Wait.  I thought you were an army brat..."

He ignored her prying and brought in the chairs.

Inside Nick said, "I gotta go but I want to tell you something."

She climbed up a three-rung step-ladder and said, "Okay.  You can tell me as I put up these turkey day decorations."

Nick spotted for her in case she lost her balance.  To protect her modesty, he pretended to be pre-occupied and looked away.  At the same time, Lelani kept glancing down hoping that he'd sneak a peek up her dress.

Lelani was losing her patience with Nick as she tried to figure out whether he was a saint or if he didn't like girls.  She went up and down the ladder several times and each time she was finished hanging a strand of crepe paper or attaching a pilgrim placard to the wall she asked, "How does it look."

Nick always grunted, "It looks great."

The last decoration was a HAPPY THANKSGIVING banner than stretched across the living room.  When Lelani was done, with Nick looking the other way, she hiked-up her shirt and said, "How does it look, now?"

He turned and found her clean-shaven vagina, inches from his face.

Nick smiled with interest, "It looks great."  He stepped back and shook his head, "I just can't."  He added, "Also, I wanted to tell you, I won't be coming here Thursday."

Lelani was used to having her advances refused.  She was hurt, embarrassed and confused as tears streamed down her face.

Nick consoled her, lightly pecked her cheek and whispered, "Please believe me.  I liked you for a long time but I can't complicate my life now..."  She interrupted, "Yeah but..."  Nick cut her off, "Remember, I never come to group functions.  He broke the brief awkward silence and said, "I gotta run but take this."

He handed her an airport locker key.

Lelani stared at it and read aloud in a murmured stammer, "N-n-number 2577?"

Nick firmly held her upper arms, looked deeply into her misty, hazel eyes and said, "If you don't hear from me in a couple of weeks, everything inside is yours."

She cried, "I don't want..."

"Don't worry," he said, "I'll be back for YOU...but...well...if not, we can say I helped you get back home."

Lelani sobbed, "You should come back to Maui with me.  You're so smart, you made my GED easy. I bet you could go to school and become a real teacher."

Nick was nodding as he muttered, "Maybe a man could lose himself out there..."

At work, Nick had requested the night before off, as well as that night.  He also didn't tell anyone that his vacation was starting the following day.  I never saw or heard from Nick Tucker again.

A couple of days later, before anyone realized that Nick vanished, I ran into John Crotty.  I tried to duck him but shockingly, he called out my name and hustled over to me. 

We exchanged Vegas histories until I said, "I deal craps at the Nugget."

He said, "Nicky works there, you ever see him?"

I said, "Yeah.  All the time.  What a great guy."

Crotty snapped, "Great guy, eh?"

I shrugged, "Yeah, of course.  Why?"

"You his friend?"

I said, "Yeah."

He said, "Where does your friend live?"

I said, "I dunno."

"What's his phone number?"

"Well, he leads a hermit's life.  You know private...I can respect that...besides, no one at work knows."

I knew John Crotty only as a narcissistic, unemotional, too cool for his own good, zero.

So I was caught off guard when his voice cracked, "I-I-I thought Nick was my brother and would be my best friend forever.  But somethin' about him ain't right.  The first thing he did out here was dump Trish.  Remember her from school?  You couldn't get anything better than her.  But Nick kept getting weirder...like every few days, he wouldn't come back to the apartment.  I asked but he never gave a straight answer.  Geez, we weren't out here more than a month and he disappeared the whole week of Thanksgiving."

I said, "That's funny, a real knockout at work who has the hots for Nick, is throwing a Thanksgiving party and he told her, he wasn't coming."

John said, "See.  I told you.  I thought I knew him..."  He sighed, " But once we left Jersey, he became a stranger..  One hell of a nice guy but a lost soul...if you know what I mean."

A week later, in the days after Nick's vacation, John's description of the lost soul came true.  Nick was a "no-call, no-show," at work and was fired for job abandonment.


I ran into John Crotty in December 1983, at the Meadows Mall.  He filled me in on details that he hadn't felt right about sharing the first time.  Primarily, after not seeing each other for months, he spotted Nick driving up Ogden Street.  Under the pretense of being owed a small amount of money and an explanation about Nick's peccadilloes, John followed him.  At a crumby apartment in North Las Vegas, Crotty knocked on the door.  Nick opened it a crack and John forced his way into the tiny efficiency.

Crotty said, "It was so messed-up, every inch of the walls, cabinets and refrigerator were filled with bent-up, yellowed, faded, candid pictures of his ex-wife."

I said, "Nick was married?"

He said, "Hey, I didn't know either.  And a lot of those photos included guys...new boyfriends I guess...but they were cut out of the shot or had their faces blacked out by magic marker."  John said, "Nick gave me the bum's rush.  Out in the street he said, 'I gotta be somewhere.'"  In a serious tone he added, "I never saw him again.  Then a couple of months ago, I got a disturbing letter from him."

"Disturbing?"  I said.  Then I perked up, "What happened?  Where is he?"

"Hell if I know," John said.

"What did he say?"

John Crotty said, "Nick claimed his real name is Lonny Orlando and that he had been a typing teacher at a vocational school in Newark.  Soon after both his elderly parents suddenly died in 1977, his wife shocked him by demanding a divorce, during Thanksgiving dessert.  A few months after the separation, he quit his job.

I said, "Wow."

His voiced tailed off, "It gets worse.  Before starting dealer school, Nick said he already was planning how to 'harm' his ex."

I gulped, What?"

Crotty said, "The wacko didn't explain.  But he did say, he went to dealer school under a false name and moved to Vegas under that new identity, to help get off the grid..."

I said, "What's off the grid?"

"Hey, I thought it was screwy too.  But our golden boy wanted to go 'underground' so his demented shit could get set in motion without looking over his shoulder."

TODAY, JOHN'S DESCRIPTION REMINDS ME OF TED "THE UNABOMBER" KACZYNSKI, (1942-PRESENT) WHO WAS A MATHEMATICIAN TURNED SERIAL KILLER.  AFTER HE PSYCHOLOGICALLY SNAPPED, HE WENT OFF THE GRID.  THEN FROM A REMOTE CABIN NEAR LINCOLN MONTANA, KACZYNSKI MAILED SIXTEEN LETTER BOMBS BETWEEN 1978-1995, KILLING THREE AND INJURING TWENTY-THREE.

John continued, "Nick claimed when every November rolled around, he couldn't get his ex out of his mind.  He went back to New Jersey under a different alias, Terry Something-or-other, to just 'harass' her.  But last year, the house he grew up in was bulldozed and far worse: his ex-wife was remarried.

I said, "Jeez."

He continued, " So this last time, Nick stalked her the whole day before Thanksgiving and followed her back to her new house.  Like a stake-out, he watched the place for hours until a Mercedes with "IDOC2" vanity plates drove up. The driver honked and she came out.  They were doing some heavy-duty necking before driving off.  Nick followed them to Pathmark.  While they were shopping, he punctured their tire with his switchblade.  Then drove back to the house and broke in.  Nick had walked through mud and dragged footprints all over before smashing fancy framed photos from their wedding and peed on them." 

I said, "No way!"

"The next morning, Nick hid in the woods outside his ex in-laws.  When they went to church, he broke in. Nick bragged about crapping on the kitchen floor and vandalizing their place. But this time, the cops were hiding in the basement, attic and closets."

I said, "That's crazy."

John said, "Hell yeah it sounded crazy  But even though I have no idea where this letter came from, I'm guessing, it was from a loony bin."  My mouth was gaping as Crotty finished, "Nick closed by saying, remember when you told me, 'never shit where you eat,' well get this, that's what the cop said when he cuffed me."

Thirty-five years later, whether John Crotty was right about Nick being institutionalized or not, we'll never never know.  But that possibility does add another variable to the incredible puzzle now known as, Nick Tucker.

JERK-OFFS DON'T LAST LONG IN THE CASINO RACKET

For my casino training, (September 1978-January 1979), I attended the New York School of Gambling. The key to that statement is: New York. You see, at a time when New Jersey had just joined Nevada as the only states with legalized casinos there was about a 50-50 split on where my school's graduates sought employment. It was a tremendous shock to those heading to Atlantic City that the school conveniently forgot to mention that New Jersey DID NOT recognize dealer training facilities in other states.

Luckily, I went to Las Vegas and the school's job placement service had a position waiting for me when I got there.  The poor schmoes who came to Atlantic City were required to start from scratch, put in as much as eight months schooling and pay again, in some cases over $1,500.00.

For years, I received invitations from law firms who represented the class action suit against the school.  I was too lazy to write a positive testimonial so I just tore up all those letters.



                                                                  *




The New York School of Gambling was filled with oddballs.  The strangest was, fellow craps student, Barney Kush.  In 1978, few people were knowledgeable about mental imperfections like: Asbergers, ADHD, OCD and adult ADD.  So, I hate admit that whatever Kush's condition was, I found his antics to be hysterical.

Barney was a bright, tall, slender, good looking kid. But he was hyper, had uncontrollable facial tics and other unusual mannerisms. He was also a selfish, (self-centered) chatterbox with an innate need to advertise that he was a know-it-all.  Did I mention he had a gambling problem too?  Well, he did.

The school had several cliques but friendless Barney Kush was shunned by them all.  Even Tish, a hippie, love everyone-type, made it clear that he made her skin crawl, (Tish was dating Nick Tucker but he's another story).

Kush's biggest problem was another student, "Party" Artie Cisco.  Artie who lived in Chelsea, (walking distance from school) was the king of the jet-setters.  At six-foot three, this enormous gym rat worked as a nightclub bouncer and liked to boast that he had been a collector for the mob.

WAY BEFORE I HEARD OF STEROIDS OR HUMAN GROWTH HORMONES, PARTY ARTIE (stock photo above, not him) WAS THE BIGGEST GUY I KNEW.  THE ULTIMATE CONTRADICTION, ARTIE WAS A DOPEY, WORK-OUT JUNKIE WHO EPITOMIZED THE "JERSEY SHORE" MENTALITY.  HE SPOKE OF THE HEALTHY BENEFITS OF DIET AND EXERCISE WHILE PREACHING ABOUT VITAMINS AND NUTRITIONAL SUPPLEMENTS.  YET HE SMOKED UNFILTERED PALL MALLS LIKE A FIEND, BRAGGED ABOUT "RECREATIONAL" DRUG USE AND DRANK LIKE A FISH.

Artie, in a strange off and on relationship, dated the school's receptionist, Phyllis.  He was her cocaine connection and she proved she'd do anything to keep the nose-candy pipeline open.  So when he got bored with her, to keep on his good side, he encouraged her to "do" several of his cronies and some school officials.  The regularity of her random partners earned her Artie's nickname, "Sif-Phyllis" or simply Sif, (which Artie freely called her and she never objected to).

The last thing Barney Kush needed was something else to obsess over.  But when he heard that this hottie was getting "tapped" by so many guys...he wanted "in" too.

Phyllis, like everyone else couldn't stand Barney.  Far worse, she was nauseated by his pushy advances.  She didn't complain to school administrators, she took her grievances to Artie.  To show how messed-up Barney was...even with his new black eye and bloody lip, he still coveted Phyllis and never stopped being condescending towards Artie and anyone who stood in his way.

IS IT GOOD MEDICINE?  TODAY, OVER SIX MILLION AMERICAN CHILDREN (EVEN TWO-YEAR OLDS) ARE BEING FORCE-FED CONTROVERSIAL, POWERFUL, TOXIC, PSYCHIATRIC MEDS, LIKE RITALIN.  LORD KNOWS WHAT WAS WRONG (IF ANYTHING), WITH BARNEY KUSH BUT IF RITALIN WOULD HAVE HELPED HIM, THEY SHOULD HAVE PRESCRIBED HIM A DAILY BUCKET FULL.

Artie, like most students, took the longest, most expensive package of all four casino games.  He saved the most difficult, craps, for last.  Learning to deal craps DID NOT come naturally to me.  But in my defense, only a few such such as Barney Kush stood-out as talented.  For the vast majority, getting the knack was a slow process. Additionally, a small amount of others, gave the impression that they weren't bright enough to ever "get it."

It was apparent that "Party" Artie Cisco despite his humor and enough charisma for the rest of the school, would never "get it."  This hulk lacked the mental agility to quickly solve simple craps arithmetic and lacked the fine motor skills to handle casino chips, (I can't imagine him getting through roulette on swagger alone).

The only time I saw Artie's cocksure personality go flaccid was during his daily twenty-minute turn as the dealer, in our mock craps games.  He always failed miserably as he fumbled with the chips and math. The rest of the class patiently waited when Artie was stuck, (they were afraid to trigger his intense temper).  But Barney was quick to criticize.  For it, he earned many bruises.

To me, it was funnier to watch Barney while the big fella experienced vapor-lock.  He had learned the hard way to not embarrass Artie.  So as Kush struggled to resist making corrections, I watched his face twitch and body contort while every fiber of his being wanted to spring over the table to "help."

Once Barney suggested that Artie would be better served by giving up his cherished dealing time, to him.  That way, Artie could learn more by watching a pro.  This insulted Mitch the instructor but he didn't intercede.

Cisco who had cause to punch this weasel every day would have been justified to break Barney's jaw.  Instead, he took pause to indecisively think it over.

Barney sensed he was getting away with murder and crowed, "The class would learn more about dealing craps by watching me...especially Artie."

IF NOT FOR KUSH'S ECCENTRIC BEHAVIOR AND PECULIAR  PERSONALITY, IT WAS INDEED BENEFICIAL TO WATCH HIM DEAL.  THE JERK THRIVED IN THE PRESSURIZED , FRENETIC PACE AND EASILY MADE SENSE OF INCREDIBLE CHAOS.  MANY CLASSMATES WERE MESMERIZED TOO AND FANTASIZED ABOUT BEING AS GOOD AS HIM.

Artie was still waffling over the proposition and whimpered, "I should concentrate more on blackjack.  So, it would be better for me to watch."  Barney hustled to take over.  Kush had no internal shut-off switch and shoved the dumb lummox when he didn't step aside.  Reflexively, Artie shot both palms into Barney's shoulders.  You could see the whiplash-effect as Barney's neck snapped back before being sent crashing to the ground.

In a sincere voice Barney to his feet and said, "If you're serious about learning, during the break on Monday, I'll give you some real craps drills and a one-on-one 'ultra workout.'  Which is more than this 'gentleman' would ever do, (as he pointed to Mitch)."

Barney Kush knew Artie Cisco better than Artie did.  These promised work-outs never happened because during most breaks, Artie was addicted to the dime-a-point Hearts game that was played in the break room.

HEARTS IS BEST SUITED FOR FOUR PLAYERS. AT FIVE MINUTES PER HAND, THIS EVASION-TYPE, TRICK TAKING GAME IS IDEAL FOR KILLING SHORT PERIODS OF TIME. THE OBJECT IS TO AVOID THE HEARTS (ONE POINT EACH AND THE QUEEN OF SPADES, THIRTEEN POINTS).

This break room was an open-ended alcove that overlooked the casino-like classroom. Crammed into this space was an el-shaped formation of four vending machines, two round tables with chairs and a counter with five bar stools.

Artie and his jet-set crew played their Hearts game on the table closer to classroom.  Like a minor league, the other table also played hearts but not for money.

Before I enrolled, Barney Kush was excluded from the cash game.  In addition to never shutting up, the regularity of his tics, shudders and suppressed fits ruined the concentration of the players. Plus, the quirkiness of his OCD? required him to stack his nickels and dimes in precise formations...that were never quite precise enough to satisfy his problem.  More importantly, he was always broke due to a sports betting problem.  By this time, everyone knew Barney was a bad risk.  He tried to play on credit but had welshed on some petty debts, (he could have played for free at the other table but he was driven by a fear that Phyllis wouldn't associate him with the elite).

Kush was relegated to watching the game. Once, he positioned himself behind Cisco.  His constant movement unnerved Artie who squawked, "Damn cockroach, scram!"  Barney drifted behind other players.  They shooed him when they couldn't take his kibbitzing.

"KIBBITZING," IS UNSOLICITED OR WANTED OR UNHELPFUL ADVICE FROM SPECTATORS, ESPECIALLY DURING CARD GAMES.


Kush returned to Artie and noodged him about his poor strategy.

Cisco generally ignored such badgering but he was on a long losing streak and growled, "Beat it skidmark."

Kush countered, "At least I have a clue how to play cards.  You're a friggin' whale.  If this was real money, these bozos would rent a limo to make sure you got to the games on time."

A "WHALE" IS CASINO SLANG FOR A BIG MONEY GAMBLER WHO CONSISTENTLY LOSES DUE TO POOR STRATEGY, POOR DISCIPLINE OR WOULD RATHER BE SEEN PLAYING BIG MONEY THAN WINNING BIG MONEY.

Artie Cisco said, "You musta gotten beat-up a lot as a kid...whether you needed it or not." 

The other players were all smiles as Barney scoffed, "Yeah right."

Artie shot up out of his seat, grabbed a bar stool and swung it at Barney's head.

Kush laughed as he scurried into the classroom.  But he made a quick u-turn after crossing paths with Phyllis the receptionist.

Under the pretense of wanting a candy bar, Phyllis came to hang-out with Artie and the jet-setters.  Barney followed and was obnoxious as he bobbed and weaved between people so she would notice him. During the building drama of the next hand, Phyllis wasn't getting the attention she was craving and said to another player, "I want uh Almond Joy but I ain't got no change..."  The game continued and nobody, (including penniless Kush), responded.  Seconds later, Artie got stuck with the queen, (he was the big loser, again).  Out of frustration, he emptied his arsenal of profanity.  The room went mute, to avoid adding gas to this fiery rant.

Phyllis broke the temporary calm by holding out a five-dollar bill and carping, "Ar-dee, I doan want it fuh nuthin', I jus' need change."

Artie had an odd smile as he raised up out of his seat and sneered, "You want a friggin' Almond Joy?"

She perked up, "Uh-huh.  The one with the nuts."

The Goliath reached around the candy machine.  With a Herculean grunt, he pinned the over-sized dead weight against the wall and lifted it off the ground. Pulsating veins were protruding from Cisco's neck and forehead as he heavily dropped the machine. Artie repeated the process.  Others from the classroom and office hurried over to see what the loud commotion was all about.  On the third try, like hitting a slot machine, a jackpot of candies fell into the hopper as a flood of quarters spit onto the floor.

Cisco bragged, "They don't call me Party Artie for nuthin'," as he pulled out two Hershey bars, a bag of chips and a roll of Life-Savers.  He laughed, "Sorry Sif, we're all out of Almond Joys."  He gave the bounty to Phyllis, put his arm around her waist and led her away as his hand slid down to her butt.

The second Artie's back was turned, Barney dove on the floor and started picking up coins.

Cisco looked back and yelled, "You low-life scum! This is for G. P."  Artie grabbed the back of Kush's collar, lifted him up, pushed him against the soda machine and smashed his face with one colossal punch.

The next day, the vending machines were bolted to the wall.  Plus, Barney had two shiners and a huge bandage over his broken nose...but he never spoke of the incident.

At the end of October, Artie graduated and presumably kept working locally until his New Jersey gaming license was approved. So the daily sideshow between he and Barney ended.

Barney Kush's last day came just before Christmas. He was whining because Billy Ayzarian, (the school's director and job placement officer), refused to recommend Barney to any casino in Las Vegas.

The re-telling of this saga got old fast as each person coming in was verbally harassed until it ended with, "Billy called me a liability to his reputation.  That putting his name on me would make the school look bad.  Hell, I'm the best craps dealer to EVER come  out of this dump. And now, that dick is avoiding me."

Suddenly, the door from the reception area burst open.

Kevin, a former student, (a stranger to me), charged into the classroom waving a sheet of paper and ranted, "Where's Billy?"

The craps instructor said, "Did you ask Phyllis?"

Kevin kicked over a trashcan and screamed, "There's nobody out there!"

Billy Ayzarian rushed in with Phyllis, (her blouse misbuttoned and her hair a mess), a few steps behind.

Ayzarian was a plump, sixty-plus, balding, cigar chomper and supreme ruler of the school.  His doughy, pale face was fixed on the irate graduate until he arched his thick black uni-brow above his left eye and demanded, "Get out!"

The victim kept shouting, "Where the fuck do you get off telling people that this shit-house is recognized by the State of New Jersey? "He pointed to his paper and announced to the students who now encircled him, "I have a copy of the Jersey Casino Control Commission regs right here."

Billy said, "I never said that!  It isn't written in any of our literature and no enrollment counselor ever made such a claim."

"No you didn't, you goddamned thief, but you implied it.  That's deceptive trade practice.  I'll sue you and the school..."

The supreme ruler interrupted, "Shut-up!"  He snapped his fingers and told Mitch, "Call security, have this ass-hole thrown...I mean...have this gentleman, escorted out."

The students were buzzing after everything settled down but no one was happier than Barney Kush.

He confronted Phyllis and said, "Your boyfriend is gonna have to start all over, redo all the classes...and PAY again!"

Phyllis phoned Artie right in front of Barney but she lied, "Ar-Dee that fuckin' skeeve Barney Kush just copped a feel off my boobs."

Kush couldn't hear Artie slam the phone and laughed, "Your bluffing.  Yeah right, that imbecile is coming up here to kick my ass."

Phyllis did not remind Barney that Artie lived two city-blocks and five short blocks away.  Kush was still laughing when he spotted Ayzarian and hustled to confront him.

Barney used grating persuasion during the ten-minute negotiation.

 Billy lashed out at Barney's screwy personality and said, "Jerk-offs like you don't last long in this racket."

Beaten-down, Billy eventually relented and agreed to write him a letter of introduction to the El Cortez Casino in Vegas.

Maybe Billy softened because if there was a lawsuit, he would need as much positive notoriety for the school's job placement service as he could get.

Barney remained calm and said, "I'll wait right here until you write the letter and Phyllis types it up."

A half hour later, in the reception area Kush was pacing in front of Phyllis.  That's when the elevator door opened and Artie charged through the open door of the school.  Barney raced into the classroom but there wasn't a back door.  Trapped, he tried to hide between vending machines but Artie tracked him down.

"She's full of shit, I never touched her."

"You fuckin' moron, get ready to say good-bye to your head."

Artie was seething as he inched closer until Barney said, "Moron?  Look whose calling who a moron.  The real reason Phyllis called you, was to kick the crap out of Billy.  Remember Kevin from Hoboken, well he came in and said this school isn't accredited..."

Phyllis cried, "It's true..."

The behemoth pushed Barney Kush against the wall, jammed his huge, left forearm under Kush's chin and began lifting him off the ground.  Barney was choking as Artie cocked his right fist.

Phyllis grabbed Artie arm, "Don't you'll go to fuckin' jail.  You want Billy and he just ran outta here."

Artie Cisco relaxed his grip and released Barney Kush.  Barney's was gasping for air as he crumpled to the ground. Artie and Phyllis embraced and both began to cry.  Kush's whole body was quivering as he was helped up by Nick Tucker and Tish.  On his own, he staggered a few feet before slithering through the sea of onlookers.

Phyllis pulled away and said, "Barney, Mr. Ayzarian signed your letter, it's on my desk."



                                                                     *



I never saw Artie Cisco again or heard whatever happened to him.  My guess is, if he really had been an underworld collector, when he caught-up with Billy Ayzarian, his tuition, if not more (for pain and suffering) would have been reimbursed...even if it meant Billy paying from his own pocket.

Further, if those ties to criminality had the slightest loose ends, his chance of getting a casino license in New Jersey would have been greatly diminished whether he retook all those classes or not.

Barney Kush's story continued in Las Vegas.  My January 27, 2014 blog, "THE COCKAMAMIE KID," does examine how spot-on Billy Ayzarian was when he said, "Jerk-offs like you don't last long in this racket."

THE FORTY-YEAR CASINO CAREER THAT ALMOST WASN'T

The term; Command Performance, is defined as the presentation of a play, concert, opera or other show, at the request of royalty.  In my youth and into my twenties, my mom used Command Performance whenever she required that my sister and I attend something she thought we might try to weasel-out of.

                                                                        *



On the day following Labor Day 1978, I was scheduled to start a casino dealing class, at the now defunct, New York School of Gambling.  Unfortunately, there had been a death of a loved one and the Tuesday September 5th funeral, conflicted with the first day of my craps dealing course.  That's when my mom cleverly invoked her no questions asked, Command Performance demand.

The New York School of Gambling was located in Manhattan, on West 32nd just off Broadway.  From my hometown community, Canarsie, in Brooklyn, the ninety-minute commute for a 9:AM start included a seven-block walk, a short bus ride to the subway and switching to a second train.

Oh the sad faces of commuters.  On that first hot and humid Wednesday morning, I likened the beaten-down look of my fellow passengers to those at the funeral from the day before.  Many men buried their sweaty faces in the sports page or financial news while women gravitated to steamy romance novels.  But the bulk of these drones either closed their eyes or stared aimless at the floor, out the window or into back of the lost souls in front of them.

To cope with the boredom, I did the math.  My guess was that a lot of these silent zombies wasted ten maybe twenty hours of their lives, weekly, perhaps for decades, in this god awful ritual to be unmotivated, under appreciated at their otherwise unfulfilling position.  

By the time I switched trains at Manhattan's Fourteenth Street, I felt good knowing that my four-month investment in craps training would lead me to a glamorous life working in Las Vegas.

WHILE ATLANTIC CITY HAD JUST OPENED ITS FIRST CASINO, A FRIEND, THE FABULOUS MR. K, INSPIRED ME TO GO WEST.  ODDLY, MR. K HAD ALREADY PULLED UP STAKES FROM VEGAS AND MOVED TO RENO. 

My path to the connecting train would take me down two stairways to the uptown Broadway Line.  I was unfamiliar how to navigate through the labyrinth the tunnel-like corridors but I managed to find my way. When I reached my destination, (one more flight down), I faced an option, at a two-pronged split in the staircase, I ended up heading to the farthest end of the platform.

My eyes hadn't adjusted from the well-lit stairs to the darkening, dismal platform.  So before I realized there were no people around, in the near distance, as I got down to the last five steps, I saw a line of two dozen burnt, metal trashcans.  These cans were old, dented and broken but there was something distracting about the garbage inside.  Curiosity led me astray, towards this dead end.

I was fifteen feet away when my brain figured out what my eyes were seeing...RATS!  Hundreds of filthy, wet, rabies infested, ravenous vermin were undulating inside the cans competing for commuter refuse.  It was so disgusting that I made a u-turn and hustled away with my hand over my mouth in case I lost my breakfast.

WHAT'S MORE REPULSIVE THAT SEWER RATS?  SUBWAY RATS!  NO INTERNET PHOTO CAME CLOSE TO THE NAUSEATING PICTURE THAT FORTY YEARS LATER, STILL STAINS MY BRAIN.

Twenty minutes later, on the seventh floor of an office building, I was seated in front of the school's receptionist (Phyllis). I apologized for missing the first day.  In a harsh Brooklyn accent she twirled her hair and cracked her gum while saying, "It don't mattah.  Everyone's friendly here. You'll do 240 hours...whenevuh."  She didn't seem especially bright and in a disorganized way, presented me with the contracts that the enrollment officer (salesman) had prepared after my visit two weeks earlier.

Phyllis was a hottie despite a deep, straight-line scar across her broken nose and some facial splotches.  She may have dressed appropriately for the weather but professionally too much of her incredible body was left exposed.  Every time she looked away, my eyes wondered off the paperwork to gape at her ample cleavage until the enrollment officer came by.

This superficial prick shook my hand after Phyllis said, "He's payin' half his tuition up front."  His enthusiastic facade vanished after a brief yaddy-yadda welcome to the school.  He then parked himself aside Phyllis, rubbed her bare upper back and neck, leaned in, pushed her hair back and brushed his nose on her ear.  Maybe they were dating because she smiled when he breathlessly whispered, "I bet you taste even better than you smell."

I finished signing the contracts, made my payment and Phyllis led me into the classroom.  Fifty students were scattered in this huge space.  Many of which stopped what they were doing to whistle or make risque remarks to Phyllis.  She smiled, "Told ya, everybody's friendly here."

The owners must have gutted several offices because this enormous classroom looked like a casino.  There were six blackjack tables, two craps, and one each roulette and baccarat. Plus desks for instructors, a walk-in coat room, a big area for breaks that had two large circular tables with chairs and vending machines.

A cluster of students surrounded two blackjack tables.  One craps table had fifteen people working on it and the roulette and baccarat tables seemed full too.  Phyllis introduced me to Mitch, the craps instructor.  He was focused on her chest as I apologized for missing the first day.  She said, "Cutie, when ya ready tuh look up, yuh new guy wants tuh know what he missed yesterday."

Mitch stared at her shapely bottom as she wiggled back towards the office.  When she was gone from sight he scoffed, "Yeah, yeah yesterday.  I got you covered."

It worried me that he didn't introduce me to the class.  Instead I was led to an unoccupied blackjack table and told, "Dealing craps is fun.  But, nothing is more important than developing a good set of hands." He demonstrated how to handle a stack of twenty chips.

Mitch looked like a magician as he neatly made four sub-stacks of five, followed by smoothly setting down, one, two, three, four chips in a row.  Then without hesitation, he reversed the order with the remaining ten chips: four, three, two, one.  Like watching a 3-Card Monte street hustler, in disbelief my eyes were bulging out of my head until he said, "Of course you'll learn how to do it with your left hand too."  If that wasn't intimidating enough Mitch used a second stack of chips and repeated the exercise simultaneously with both hands.

I WAS ALWAYS TAUGHT TO AVOID GETTING HUSTLED SO HAVING THIS IMAGE IN MY HEAD DIDN'T BODE WELL FOR THE $1,200 I WAS PAYING.

Mitch said, "Practice while I get back to the class."
Practice?  What he just did was a blur.  Still, I tried.  Some of my problems were; a full stack did not fit in my hand. Mitch had shown me what to do...NOT how to do it.  Far worse, my class was running an actual craps game.  They seemed like veterans as they fluently spoke in a language between dice rolls that was as foreign to me as Hungarian.  The students laughed and had side conversations as the constant clank of the chips sounded like rapid-fire clams getting shucked.

A lot of their chatter was locker room talk and it centered on someone named "Sif."  Soon I realized they called Phyllis "Sif" as in Sif-Phyllis.  She was romantically chasing someone named "Party" Artie Cisco, (he's another story).  Cisco was apparently an absent student. I gathered that he not only cast her aside but encouraged her to "do" his friends and school officials to keep on his good side.

In the longest half hour of my life, I felt ostracized. Like a condemned, plague-ridden prisoner on an island, I imagined everyone staring at me. I never looked up, stood true my task and fiddled with these plastic circles, and made zero progress.

I felt like a spastic as my fingers went into spasms.  When I flexed my hands, I saw the budding blisters in my palms, I thought Jesus H. Christ, I can't hold a stack of chips, let alone manipulate them. How did the others learn all this shit, in the one friggin' day I missed?

I was disheartened and feeling worse as each minute felt like an eternity.  Finally, I summoned the courage to peer over at the craps group.  Mitch wasn't even there!  I found him bullshitting with the roulette instructor.  "Holy shit," I mumbled these guys were running their own game without supervision.  It got worse when Mitch returned to answer one of their questions.  He then sat at his desk opened the newspaper and started reading the comics.  I wondered what Charlie Brown was doing then it dawned on me, I was Charlie Brown.

CHARLES SCHULZ'S ICONIC COMIC STRIP "PEANUTS" FEATURING LOVABLE LOSER CHARLIE BROWN RAN FROM 1950-2000

I've gotten the short end of the stick plenty of times in my life but I never looked at myself as a loser.  But as my craps predicament worsened, I did look to see if there was a zigzag pattern on my shirt.

A thousand reasons crossed my mind to rationalize why I couldn't do this. I couldn't handle the all-important chips and I was eons behind the class after missing just one day.  But I just made a non-refundable $600 payment that I couldn't afford to piss away.

If I left, what were my alternatives...miserably commuting into the city in a subway overrun by rats for the next few decades.  Going to a different tech school?  Living home and working for my dad?  I pressed unhappily along.

A normal person, stuck in the grim reality of an acutely awful idea would just pull his own head off, but not me.  I fixated out the tall windows that looked across West 32nd Street at Macy's and thought, from seven stories up, straight down was my fastest way out.

I was thinking about my family attending another funeral as Mitch drifted over.  "How's it going?"
I said, "Tough."
He said, "Show me what you can do."
I put on an embarrassing horror show and whined, "I'll never be able to do it."

Mitch demonstrated at a much slower speed and explained how crashing the chips into an existing pile will leave you the same amount.  He also showed me how to twist my wrist to set down a desired amount of chips.

He laughed, "This is a learned skill.  It takes practice here and at home.  It's rare that a natural walks in.  If you look at the class, almost all of them started like you...and many of them haven't improved...and they've been here for weeks."
"Weeks," I said, "I thought yesterday was the first day.  I thought they all learned..."
He cut me off, "No.  Didn't Sif, I mean Phyllis explain that we have a rolling enrollment."
I recalled being pleasantly distracted when she bend over the file cabinet and said, "Maybe?"
"Ha, ha you were too busy looking at her tits. Rolling enrollment means each week new people start as others graduate. See that tall guy?  He's finishing next week and two newbies are starting Monday.  And by the end of tomorrow, you'll be with the rest of the class."

I was too much of a coward to tell him that five minutes ago, I was so frustrated that I wanted quit and even jokingly considered jumping out the window.  I took on a greater urgency as I crashed the chips together.  I still sucked at it.  But I was inspired to go on by the fantasy of sweeping Phyllis off her feet, at my Command Performance graduation.

Oddly, forty years later, I never really excelled at handling the chips.