DEBBIE DOTSON

"Skitzo" Al Muñoz once told me that Las Vegas is a sanctuary for the lunatic fringe.  I found his point to be spot-on and it became a familiar theme in my writings. 

He felt tons of lost souls move to Vegas for the wrong reasons like; a quick fix to escape an undesirable situation back home or expect to lead a permanent vacation lifestyle.  When these dreams don't materialize and their money runs out, desperation sets in.

Taken from excerpts in my short story, "SANCTUARY FOR THE LUNATIC FRINGE," this blog is set at the Western Hotel, (my second craps dealing job).  It's dedicated to the first person I met who fell into the trap of coming to town with high hopes but without a plan.

                           *

The thrill of being a Las Vegas craps dealer loses its luster when you gross a hundred-seventy dollars a week. So working in a hell hole like Slots-A-Fun makes you want out, at any cost.     

                            *



I ran the last half-block back to my apartment. I wanted to call my friend from dealer school Ciro the Hero, (well before he became Ciro the Zero), and tell him about my first day at the Western Casino.  

.

THE WESTERN WAS THE LOWEST RUNG OF THE JACKIE GAUGHAN LOW-ROLLER EMPIRE AND ONCE BOASTED THE WORLD'S BIGGEST (1,020 SEAT) BINGO HALL.  IT WAS LOCATED AT 899 FREMONT STREET, ON A STRETCH OF DESPAIR THAT TOURISTS SELDOM SAW BECAUSE THIS BUG-ZAPPER-LIKE BEACON ONLY ATTRACTED THE BROKE AND NEARLY BROKE.

    

     I said to Ciro, “The Western is much better than Slots-A-Fun.”

I had escaped my three-month prison sentence there but Ciro was still stuck, going on five months.

     “What’s the tokes?”

     “They had a forty-one dollar day yesterday.”

     “Forty-one!  Are they still hiring?”

     “There’s only one way to find out.”  After a short pause I added, “But they average eighteen...”

     “Not much of a difference.  Are they at least nice to you?”

     “Oh, yeah everyone is great to work with...”

     Ciro said, “Even the bosses?”

     “They’re great. Compared to Mr. O'Boyle, working for Charles Manson would be a plus. But check this out, we stood dead almost all day.  They get so little action there, that they keep track of the cash drop in five dollar increments.”

     “That sucks.”

     “Maybe it perks up at night.  But with all that down time, we socialized nearly the whole shift.”

     “Any nice lookin’ women there?”

     “There’s a few in blackjack, but I dealt with one...”

     “A broad dealin’ craps?”

     “Ciro, it's 1979; get your mind out of the Stone Age...women in craps are the wave of the future.”

     Ciro yawned, "Sounds exciting."

     I said, “Speaking of excitement, on my way in, I bumped in to Spanish Al...”

     “You mean Skitzo-Al...”  

     I said, “Al, congratulated me on the new job.  He deals craps at the Lady Luck and he made it sound just as bad as Slots-A-Fun.  He also said, 'Downtown is like the friggin' wild, wild west.'" 

     “Bullshit! Skitzo-Al is from the South Bronx. Vegas should be a goddamned paradise to him."  

     I said, "Al is perceptive.  And he's from Riverdale not the South Bronx."

     "Whatever.  Anyway, why are you so scared of downtown?  That asshole Willard was murdered on the strip and you're still worried that the cops will interrogate you...”

     I interrupted, “Al told me that there was a shooting at the El Cortez last night...”

     “You want to change the subject, eh. Well that little bastard was right, a drunken old man in a wheelchair tried to squeeze into a craps table and when no one let him in; he pulled a gun.  He got off three rounds; one lodged in the ceiling above the bar, another hit slot machine and the last one hit the far wall. Luckily nobody got hit.”

     “Why didn’t you tell me?”

     “It’s no big deal.  Shit, in January at the 'Shoe,' (Binion's Horseshoe), a pissed off loser threw a brick through their keno parlor's new stained glass window.  Two security guards came outside, held the drunk down and a third guard shot him through the head.”

     “Dead?”

     “Dead!”

     “Weren't there witnesses?”

     “Probably a few. But it was four in the morning.”

     “No way!”

     “It made the papers but Vegas don’t like to tarnish it’s image...it was buried on page twenty-something and forgotten.”

     I said, "Wow."  

     Ciro said, At Sluts-R-Fun, (his pet name for Slots-A-Fun),  we’re all break-ins but now you’ll be around sharpies...”

“Sharpies?”

“Yeah, retreads."

I said, "Heh?"

"Back-stabbers...savvy pricks who have been around.  Guys that get stuck in shit jobs until they find something better. They'll take advantage of raw recruits...like us.”

“Really?”

“It don’t matter.  Just watch your ass or somebody’ll take it or kick it.”

     “Oh?”

     “Anyhoo, I’ll drop by after your shift on Friday.  This way I can scope-out the joint and then we’ll hang-out.”

*  

On Friday, at the end of my shift Ciro came into the Western.  I introduced him to my new coworkers and a bunch of us advanced to the casino bar.  At the end of every shift, the employees were given two free drink chits.  In so doing, upper management hoped the staff would loosen up and gamble. 

The bar was crowded with local businessmen on their way home, so we were forced to stand.

 I called out to the bartender, “Yo Rock, a Budweiser for my friend and a Tom Collins for me.” 

Rocky pretended to look through the all-male clientele and growled, “A Bud and a cunt-drink?”  He scratched his head and squawked as if thinking aloud, “But there ain’t no cunts here.” 

Everyone was laughing so I added, “No, I said two Buds.”

The bar roared again when Rocky twisted his pinkie in his ear and croaked, “Oh, I must have shit in my ear!” 

We were leaving as Ciro said, “I can’t believe you weren’t embarrassed back there.” 

“I was, but after Slots-A-Fun and Mr. O'Boyle, I can handle anything.” 

He punched my shoulder as we walked along Fremont Street and said, “You’re all right.”

Up the road from Las Vegas High School, we entered Choo-Choo's, a fast-food dive.
Ciro said, "There were more guys at the bar than players in your whole casino."
"Yeah it sucks.  The Western is so hard-up that they give out 'fun booklets.'  And there's a coupon for five free nickels.  All day, the scum of the earth come in to collect."
He said, "Those are hobos, like in the movies.  Behind the Union Plaza (casino), there's a hobo Shantytown.  I bet there's ten times the bums there than on the fuckin' Bowery."

Ciro bit into his hard shell taco and it disintegrated.  The table was a crumby, gooey mess. I laughed.

He muttered obscenities and then spat, “Graveyard is killing me. I gotta get out of Slots-A-Fun.  At least you get to stand dead at a decent hour, plus you’re making as much tokes as me and Skitzo-Al put together.”

     I waved my “murder-burger” at him and said, “Trust me, there’s no future at the Western.” 

     When the greasy cheese patty and salads slipped through the bun onto my lap Ciro crowed, “He who laughs last...”

I was scraping ketchup off my slacks as we commiserated our stifled casino careers and vowed to take auditions for better jobs.

*

The next day at the Western, we were standing dead when a pretty blond took an audition.  Debbie Dotson was so personable and perky that despite an empty table, Buzzy our white-haired, senior citizen pit boss volunteered to place bets for her. 

     Up close, I saw that Debbie was unadorned by make-up. I was impressed because her complexion was so pure that it reminded me of a Dresden doll. 

DRESDEN GERMANY  HAS BEEN FAMOUS FOR MAKING DOLL FIGURINES SINCE THE 1700's

I was so enamored by her natural beauty that I didn’t notice her scrawny body or her baggy pants.

     
Debbie’s audition didn’t go well.  She claimed three months experience at the Lady Luck Casino, but was “buried.”  
     Debbie's lame excuse was, "I'm not used to the quarter game(twenty-five cent chips)."  

In reality, she had no concept of game procedure, couldn’t handle the chips and didn’t know anything beyond the simplest payoffs.  Even worse, she couldn’t follow the most basic instruction; she was as dumb as a stump.

The next day, I was shocked that they had hired her. Debbie stood out because she wore an off-white cowgirl shirt.  This custom tailored blouse was skin-tight. And even though there were two breast pockets, her unharnessed erect nipples sharply protruded through both plies of the tight, thin material. Despite being flat-chested, everyone transfixed on Debbie’s chest. 

Hours later, Buzzy the pit boss was gawking at her as the casino manager advised Debbie, "Wear a brassiere in the future. Our dress code also calls for a simple white dress shirt.” 

Instead of a standard "okay," she moaned, “Geez, it’s the Western Casino isn’t it...western shirt, get it...duh.” 

     Debbie further riled him, by suggesting vests for the male dealers and beaded Indian shirts for the females.

     
During one of our prolonged lulls, Debbie told us her life story.  She was twenty-three and had an eight year-old son living with her mother back in Roseberg, Oregon.  Debbie listed the Christmas gifts she sent but confessed that she hadn’t seen her family in a while.

Later, we were playing twenty questions when Debbie baffled us with Jellystone Park, from the Yogi Bear cartoons.  We all agreed it was funny that she “got” us with a pretend place.   But she got offended, insisting it was real. The disagreement ended when Buzzy came by to flirt with her.  
She retold her history including her parental résumé.  This time, Debbie added that she was unattached.  
He said, "Maybe we can continue our conversation over a cozy lunch."
She smiled, "I have to warn you, I eat a lot."
Buzzy craned his neck to check-out her posterior and said, "You don't look like you eat much..."
Debbie said she was four months pregnant.  Then cringed when she realized that it wasn’t a good idea to mention it.  Buzzy took that information and made a hasty retreat to blackjack.

*

                                                        
Towards the end of Debbie's uneventful first shift, a reeking hobo sauntered over to her end of the table.

He stacked five; five-cent pieces on the pass line and through a toothless grin barked, “Gimme da dice.” 

From across the near-empty casino Buzzy said, “It’s like getting a free shill...let him to shoot.” 

The bum couldn’t lose and branched out to a couple of long shots and won again.  Soon, he built up to fifteen dollars in place bets, fifty-cents on all the hardways and had five dollars in the rail.  His original twenty-five cents in nickels remained on the pass line.

The casino manager happened by and asked the boxman, “What’s this piece-a-shit in?” 

Before he could get the first word out of his mouth, Debbie pointed to the nickels and chimed, “He’s in twenty-five cents from the coupon.” 

The casino manager said, “Take everything down, color him up and send him packing.”  Nobody reacted so he yelled, “I told you to get him the fuck out of here.”  After storming away he came back and shouted, “We're now a 75c minimum and no more chump change!”

A tipsy old man heard the tumult, came over and bought-in for thirty dollars.  His eyes were riveted on Debbie’s chest.  After three rolls, it was her break. 

He frantically questioned us, “Is she coming back?  When is she coming back?  Is she coming back here?”  
The old-timer folded his arms and refused to throw the dice until she returned.  When she did, he picked up his chips and moved beside her. 

He had a nice run of luck and started praising Debbie, “I like craps but I usually prefer BJ if you know what I mean.  But when I saw you, I knew I had to come over and give you a shot.”  
Debbie said, "Uh-huh."
The drunk started ranting about her wholesome radiance and finished by saying, “We can have some wonderful times together...”

She said, “I’m flattered but no...”

“You would if I was ten years younger.” 

I laughed to myself and thought; if he were thirty years younger, he’d still be old enough to be her father. 

He won about a hundred dollars and was still gaping at her pointy nipples when he said, “Miss Gorgeous, I’d like to give you a five-dollar tip.” 

“That’ll be very appreciated sir,” Debbie’s said. 

The man held out a red chip and said, “I’ll give this to you if I can put it in your pocket,” (Craps dealer tips are kept in stickman's pocket and later put in a larger tip box).  

Debbie looked at me. 

I shook my head and thought; this is definitely not in the job description. 

She shrugged, “Go for it sir.” 

Deliberately, he inserted his hand into her right breast pocket and said, “You don’t have to call me sir, please, call me Alfie.” 

It was disturbing to watch the movement of his perverted, nicotine-stained fingers as she strained to look away.  After ten long seconds, Debbie cleared her throat and with one last emphatic caress, the lecher withdrew his hand. 

He pivoted to leave but she blurted out, “Wait!” 

     The man riddled with guilt, sheepishly turned and avoided eye contact as Debbie said, “Hey Alfie, I have two pockets.”  
His excited eyes rose. 
      She pantomimed adjusting her bosom and cooed, “Do I look uneven?”

     Alfie crossed behind her and ravenously jammed another chip into her left pocket.  

The process lasted twice as long as he seized the opportunity to more purposefully squeeze and fondle her.  Whether it was team spirit or stupidity, Debbie’s act netted each dealer in the place less than twenty-cents.

Afterwards at the crowded casino bar, I was standing next to Debbie.

She was giggling as she slugged down a scotch and told Buzzy in a less than private voice, “Let’s get a bottle and a six-pack and get outta here.”

A minute later as they left, I saw Buzzy grab her bottom.                               

                             *

At ten that night, Ciro phoned.

“Steve,” he declared.  “I got a new job at the Holiday International. I start Friday, on day shift.” 

“That’s great.  What do they make?” 

“They average twenty-three.  Now I can start living the life I’d become accustomed to, back in Bensonhurst.”

I said, "Are they still hiring?"

Ciro said, "There's only one way to find out."  

                             *                          

The next morning, Debbie showed up ten minutes late for her second day.  Her tardiness had nothing to do with her getting fired. 

She came to our empty table and held out her pink slip, “What does ‘change of personnel’ mean?” 

The boxman said, “That’s what they write when they don’t want to hurt you...” 

Before he could finish she sniffled, “Job performance, FAIR?” 

The boxman said, “They put that down on everyone’s...”

     Debbie stormed off and from a distance called back, “I never did a FAIR job in my life.” 

We all laughed when Buzzy leaned in and said, “You know why she never did a FAIR job?  Because she’s a moron; she should take FAIR as a goddamned compliment.”  Under his breath he added, “Well, at least she’s good at some things...”

Through the grapevine, we found out that Debbie hunted down the casino manager and proposed giving him oral sex any time he wanted, if she could have her job back.  When he refused, she grabbed his crotch.  He pushed her down and threatened to call LVPD. 

                            *                         

Debbie Dotson came into the Western a week later to beg for her job back.  Her hair was a mess, there was a small pimple on her immaculate cheek and her glossy eyes made her look exhausted.  Debbie’s plain white dress shirt looked like it had just been pulled out of a car’s glove compartment and her black slacks were tattered.  In her back pocket, the top of a copper hip flask was peeking out.  However, her single most obvious new development was that she was now “showing.” 

The casino manager said he couldn’t help her with a job.  He saw her puffy tummy and insisted on buying her lunch; she refused and left.

*

I was in my third week at the Western when Al Muñoz came in to take an audition. He passed and I spent a break with him.

He said, "I got fired from the Lady Luck.  I told them I was deaf in one ear.  They suggested I get a hearing aid."  He concluded with, "I'm a new man."

I wanted to say that hopefully I'll be a new man at 6:30 because I had an audition after my shift.  I didn't bring it up, in fear that he'd get there ahead of me.

                              *                            

From the Western, it was a short walk along Fremont Street, then Main Street, to the Holiday International. My heart was beating out of my chest when I approached the craps pit. 

I might have been tortured at Slots-A-Fun but through rapid fire repetition, I did learn a lot on my own.  In my three weeks at the Western, I learned nothing.  Other than making standing dead into an art form. So I was nervous that I would be rusty and blow this excellent opportunity to improve myself. 

Two of the four tables were open.  On the slower game, I saw Ciro and his friend Bobby, (Ciro had recently introduced me to Bobby and his buddy Mike "Mooks" Mamoukian. Mooks will be featured in my next blog).  

     I approached the pit boss and said, "I have an appointment for an audition."

     He found my application, gestured to the busier table and said, “Take out the stick.”

     I was perspired before I started. Somehow, I managed to get through fifteen minutes without embarrassing myself.  When I came around to deal, I got off to a rough start.  I was hoping for guidance or at least some moral support from the old-timer boxman (Ernie).  But he just sat like a statue on his frilly, hemorrhoid pillow throne. 

     When the geezer finally spoke, he pointed at his wrist and said, “Look, my cuff links are pistols.”

The craps game was loud, chaotic and intense.  I worried that I wasn't keeping up a decent pace.  Here was my big chance to work in a "real" casino and Ernie, this senile, brain-dead guy who was supposed to help, was a distraction.

During a ten second breather Ernie yammered, "Did I tell you?  My cuff links are guns and they really shoot bullets..."

The action picked back up. 
     I was wishing I could tell Ernie to shut-up as he said, "Don't worry about these cockroaches."  His statement temporarily relaxed me until he started toying with his cuff links and said, "You know why I can't shoot'em no more?  'Cause I lost all the ammo."               A player in a white dress shirt yelled, “Where’s my hard ten?” 

I froze and looked at Ernie.
The old fart quietly sneered, “Fuck him. That kid’s a dealer.  He sees enough fleas to know not to act like one.”

I looked up for a second and saw Ciro and Bobby, they were laughing at me.  
I smiled until Ernie whined, “Ronnie the slot mechanic got mugged...” He kept talking as I went through my next procession of payoffs while thinking, who’s Ronnie?  When I was done, Ernie was still blithering “...so if you remember just one thing I tell you about downtown kid, stay out of the alleys.”

Between rolls, I was reminded of what Al Muñoz said about the dangers downtown and of Ciro’s sharpies.  Just as I was feeling comfortable, the audition was suddenly over. I was sent to the pit stand.

I was demoralized by the austere look of the pit boss and was convinced that I had failed. 

He read from the audition form without looking up and said, “You did fine.  Can start Saturday at eight on swing shift?” 

I was so thrilled that I stammered, “Y-Yes.”

                              *

Bobby's friend Mooks had just been promoted to craps pit boss on graveyard, at the Holiday International. At five the next morning, he had just ordered dinner when Debbie Dotson stumbled in from a misting rain. Wet and shivering, she headed to the bar.  When Debbie found it was empty, she advanced to the craps pit. 

Debbie's white dress shirt was soaked, shabby, stained and torn.  The seat of her loose, wrinkled black pants was soiled and the bottom of her left pant leg was frayed.

From the distance, Mooks saw Debbie coming and noticed something wasn't right. 
     Despite suffering from malnutrition and sleep deprivation she summoned her bountiful charm and said, "Are you giving craps auditions?"
Mooks' eye gravitated to the dark purple, dime-sized lesion that had formed on her now ashen cheek.  He surveyed the waif's matted-down hair.  Then pity tore at his heart as he spied her bloated belly.
     "Sorry hun."   To camouflage the lump in his throat, he coughed and forced a smile, "Auditions are only given on day shift." Mooks tapped both hands on his stomach, "Besides, you gotta take care of your bundle."  When disgusted Debbie turned away he said, "Can I get you something."
     Debbie's disoriented face lit up, "Yeah some scotch would warm me up."
Mooks picked up his cricket and clicked for a cocktail waitress.
     "Miss," he said as he looked at her bulging abdomen, "I don't know about booze in your condition.  But I'll get you orange juice, a coffee and maybe a sandwich..."
     The craps floor supervisor sidetracked Mooks with a work-order to replace an overhead light bulb and said, "When you finish reading this, sign here and initial here, here and here."

Before Mooks read the second sentence, a chip fill to replenish some of the craps table's bank arrived.  
The floorman tried to hand Mooks the fill's paperwork but said, "I see you're busy.  Just put your John Hancock here and I'll take care of it for you."
     The fill was being set in place as Mooks returned to Debbie and said, "Not for nuthin' doll, but nobody's gonna hire you..."
     When his voice cracked Debbie patted the unborn child in her womb and sobbed, "Nobody?"
     The floorman said, "Sorry to interrupt but it's a good time to show you how to complete the master attendance sheet."
Ten seconds later, Mooks looked up and Debbie was gone.



                              *
     


I was uneasy coming into work the next day.  My managers at the Western had been good to me and I was afraid they’d be sore that I was abandoning them after three weeks.  I saw Al Muñoz ready for his first day as I sought out the casino manager.

When I informed the boss that I was starting a new job on Saturday, he congratulated me and said, “The Western has been a stepping stone for a lot of people. I know you’ll do well.”  He shook my hand and continued, “I hope you’ll stay with us today, tomorrow and Friday.  That’ll give us time to fill your spot.” 

Energized, I used all that standing dead time to chat with the newly bespectacled Al Muñoz.  First, I reminded him that he picked me up on his Vespa scooter and took me to my Slots-A-Fun audition. 

He said, “It looked like you were going to crap your pants.  You didn’t want to go, did you?” 

“Yeah, plus I had already waited a week before I mustered the guts to go at all.”

Al became philosophical, “Most of the people I’ve come across out here are escaping bad lives somewhere else.  Some vacationed here or heard stories and didn’t realize that the whole town is a fantasy.  Yuh know what I mean?”

I nodded.

“But to settle here,” he continued, “you need something tangible.  People see what they want to see and expect to deal right away at Caesar’s.  But if you’re unwilling to pay the price, you become bitter when reality sets-in. Once the bubble is burst, those that haven't burnt their bridges, go home.  The rest seem to stay downtown and survive miserably day by day or paycheck to paycheck.  If you don’t believe me look at the character of our coworkers and the people who live around here.” 

A sloppy drunk interrupted our discussion and bought in for three dollars. He put one on the pass line, called for the dice and cocktail service. 

Indifferently Al said, “Comin’ out,” and sent him the dice.  He looked at me, “I bet half the locals I met downtown have criminal records, are runaways, lowlifes or deadbeats.”  I was about to cut-in when he said, “Vegas gets the same caliber of creeps who volunteer for the French Foreign Legion.” 

I was piecing together his point as I watched the shooter painstakingly examine each die before finally selecting two. 

Al had one eye on the player and the other on me as he concluded, “People don’t know what to expect here. Maybe it’s a romantic notion or desperation to just run out here.”  He sighed, “Either way, Vegas is a sanctuary for the lunatic fringe.”

The rummy was still setting the dice.  He contorted his thumb and index finger backward to grasp the cubes with both twos facing skyward, before finally casting them.  

Al called, “Three craps three, line away.” 
The other dealer took the losing bet. 

“Hey Al,” I said. “Do you remember Debbie Dotson from the Lady Luck?” 

Al said, “Are you with her?” 

He saw me shake my head and said with relief, “‘Dirty’ Debbie is a drunken tramp...she gave five guys the clap over there.  When she isn’t ‘connected,’ she panhandles enough to pickle herself in mint gin or some other cheap ‘rat-gut.’” 

Our player made a new bet and impatiently slapped his hand on the table, “Gimme the ‘bones,’ you guys are killing my roll.”  The shooter got the dice and went into his ritualistic gyrations. 

Al followed the flight of the next toss and called, “Twelve craps twelve, line in, triple the lucky field.” 

When the shooter’s dollar was taken he snarled, “Lucky my ass...you fuckin’ wise-ass...gimme different dice.” 

Al followed the instructions and continued, “When Debbie gave a ‘dose’ to the floorman she was living with, he kicked her out and got her fired.  Last I heard she was living on the street, going home with whoever was buying drinks.” 

                              *                        

The next day, in a light drizzle at dawn, a Silver State Hauling and Refuse truck rumbled up First Street.  The driver crossed Fremont Street as he sang Frankie Valli’s “Rag Doll” along with the radio.  He past the Friendly Club Casino, came to a stop and put the truck in reverse.  He was inching into the rear alley when a high-pitched whistle signaling an emergency stop pierced the early morning stillness.

THE FRIENDLY CLUB (1978-1983) WAS A TINY CASINO LOCATED AT 101 FREMONT STREET.  IT WAS BOUGHT-OUT BY THE GOLDEN NUGGET WHEN THE PROPERTY EXPANDED TO THE CORNER.

“Whoa, Jimmy whoa!” beseeched the backman. 

The backman jumped off the truck and ran behind the dumpster. Mortified, he found Debbie lying, in a pool of her own blood.  Her slacks were pushed down past her knees and a straightened wire hanger with a reddened tip rested on her lap. 

Ten minutes later, two EMS techs slid Debbie into an ambulance.  The driver whisked her away as the other man scribbled on her chart; Jane Doe unconscious: no ID, money, jewelry or any other material possessions.  Wearing black shoes, black pants and a white shirt.  No socks or undergarments were found. 

Left behind, hidden in the shadows was her empty copper hip flask that was standing upright against weeds that had pushed through the cracked pavement. 

                             *

                           

Five weeks later, one block from where paramedics picked Debbie up, a bus destined for Vancouver Canada pulled out of the Greyhound depot onto Main Street. Debbie, without a swollen stomach was among thirteen scattered passengers.  At first, she clutched the small valise provided by Social Services.  Unable to get comfortable, she twisted in the seat and blankly stared out the window, on her way home to Roseberg Oregon. 

In a trance, she gave no recognition to the nearby alley where she almost died.  The bus accelerated past the heart of downtown where the glorious warmth and brightness of the mid-day sun was dulled by the infusion of Fremont Street’s cool glittery neon. Immersed in guilt and denial, she involuntarily withdrew to a fetal position and nodded off.

Since running away when her baby was six weeks old, this would be the first time she saw her son in eight years.  While awake, she tried to concentrate on the baby and struggled throughout the daylong bus ride to separate the delusions of her life from the truth.

Towards the end of her journey, Debbie became more lucid.  In an attempt to picture her now thirty-nine year old mother, she couldn’t discern a face.  Debbie tried to project an image of her child; she had always referred him to as Perry Lee but as her mind cleared, she was shocked to remember that her baby was a girl, named Judy.

The bus crossed into Oregon as Debbie was focusing on a whimpering infant across the aisle. Teary eyed, overcome by sorrow, she comprehended that she’d never become pregnant again.  Unable to compose herself, Debbie retreated to the rest room and looked deeply into the unsteady mirror.  She didn’t recognize herself and splashed water on her face.  In frustration, Debbie plopped on the toilet. 

Lost in a whirlwind of memories, Debbie sat there for ten minutes until stern rap on the door startled her.  When she returned to her seat, a bolt of fear shot through her stomach as she thought; how am I going to manage the alcohol support groups and job training?  

She then started openly crying when she contemplated her new role as “Aunt” Debbie.

                                                             *



Debbie Dotson's tribulations were interwoven with Mike "Mooks" Mamoukian's in "SANCTUARY FOR THE LUNATIC FRINGE."  While they both fit into "Skitzo" Al Muñoz's assessment of moving to Las Vegas without a plan, their stories are acutely different and deserve to be separate.  

The next blog and seventh installment in my "MY 40th ANNIVERSARY IN CASINOS," series, will be called, "MIKE MAMOUKIAN, WHERE ARE YOU?"  The answer to the question only supports Al's theory.