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