DINING AND DASHING, DIXIE-STYLE

The theme of today's blog is, making good choices while surrounded by bad influences.  More specifically, the avoidance of peer pressure and the disaster of stupid decisions while socializing and having fun.



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Brooklyn College has had an excellent scholastic reputation for a long time.  Unlike everyone else who earned a degree there, I treated BC as thirteenth grade.  Thus, prolonging my childhood.
MANY OF MY FELLOW ATTENDEES ADMIRED AND LOOKED UP TO ME. OF COURSE MOST OF THEM USED THEIR GREAT EDUCATION AND WENT ON TO LEAD PROSPEROUS, PRODUCTIVE LIVES.

When I graduated, (June 1977), my protective, zero-responsibility umbrella called schooling, closed, hermetically sealed and filed away, in the further abyss of my memory. Despite this vaunted degree in my back pocket, the next fifteen months of my weltschmertz-filled existence was a rocky transition into adulthood.

By August 1978, my aimlessness caused the vice-like pressure of dim horizons, to crash in on me. Until a glimmer of hope poked through those gray clouds of uncertainty during a weekend in Atlantic City. While visiting a friend of a friend, I stumbled across a stray casino supervisor's pay stub. When I focused on this boxman's "gross pay" field, the allure of vast riches, ($505.00), swayed me.

The gaming industry was a burgeoning infant, on its way to becoming a colossal global institution. Economic forecasts suggested that long-term careers in this suddenly corporate, (respectable), business included, plentiful opportunities, good pay and generous benefits. If that wasn't incentive enough there was also a convenient dealer training academy, on West 32nd Street, in Manhattan.

Still, the idea of such a radical move became a paralyzing decision. Two weeks later, I received a surprise phone call from a friend.

The fabulous Mr. K.  had left the safe bosom of Canarsie, (my hometown),  two years earlier, to become a craps dealer in Reno. This trailblazer painted a rosy picture of casino life and encouraged me to take the plunge.

Even with his support and that of local friends, I still wasn't able to pull the trigger. Until destiny's perfect storm exploded in my face, between late night episodes of, "GILLIGAN'S ISLAND," and "THE TWILIGHT ZONE." It was a sexy commercial for the, "NEW YORK SCHOOL OF GAMBLING." I was smitten. I visited the facility and without hesitation, signed up.

At school, I avoided the students who were stoners, criminal wannabes and weirdos, (the jet-setters wanted no part of me).  So I gravitated to the earthy, regular guys heading to Las Vegas.

I landed in Las Vegas, the first week of January 1979 and contacted one of my school buddies.  Ciro got out there two months ahead of me and had invited me to sleep on his apartment's floor until I got on my feet.

                                                                         

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Ciro's place was in a rough downtown neighborhood, on South Tenth Street. My first impression, (from outside), was that it was a hovel. From noon's bright sunshine, I entered his dark, stinking lair. The inside pigsty made the outside, look like the Taj Mahal.

Through a thick gray-blue haze of stale cigarette and marijuana smoke, I saw his tiny, frat-house-like, two-bedroom apartment. My eye gravitated to the overflowing sink of dirty dishes. Then to a cockroach scurrying across the counter between a crushed Olympia Beer can and a generic scotch bottle laying on its side.

I set down my luggage and within twenty seconds, I sped-up my mind in reverse, to recall the Stardust Casino marquee, advertising eighteen-dollar rooms.

Ciro interrupted my daydream, "You're in luck. BB, (his roommate Bob Bailey from school) was hospitalized with alcohol poisoning." When I raised my eyebrows he added, "That means that (two other slumming schoolmates) John Heaverlo can sleep in his bed and JLUPY can now take the couch.  So you've been upgraded. You can push these two chairs together...it beats the floor."

Ciro had just got home from work.  He was wearing a ratty bathrobe over his dealer uniform and offered me a cup of Postum.

FOUNDED BY THE POST CEREAL COMPANY IN 1895, POSTUM, IS A "HEALTHFUL," CAFFEINE-FREE COFFEE SUBSTITUTE.  IT WAS DISCONTINUED IN 2007 BUT RETURNED TO STORE SHELVES THROUGHOUT THE USA AND CANADA IN 2013.

I was already skeeved by his apartment so it was quite natural to refuse food or drink. Ciro led me to the sofa.  He pushed aside an over flowing ashtray and a stack of 25c chips from various casinos before setting his mug on the coffee table, (a slat of wall paneling propped up by two piles of Popular Mechanics Magazines). 

He filled me in on his unspectacular life breaking-in as a craps dealer at Slots-A-Fun, (the same casino that our school's job placement service was sending me). He said he took the city bus to work and added that BB, John Heaverlo and JLUPY walked to their downtown casinos.

John Heaverlo, a little older than the rest of us, walked in. He was married and planned on sending back to Poughkeepsie for his wife when he got settled. John was also the only one of us with a car. So Ciro asked if he could borrow his 1971 Buick Skylark, to give me a guided tour of town.

John agreed as long as we didn't touch his stuff in the back seat and trunk.  He knew exactly where everything was and didn't want us to cause an avalanche.

Once Ciro got the okay, he went outside, (still in his the robe and wearing a black sock and a navy sock). Three minutes later, he came back with two (stolen) newspapers. From each, he ripped out a Silver Nugget Casino coupon, for an eight-ounce beer and a cup of chili, for twenty-five cents.

THE SILVER NUGGET WAS ACTUALLY IN NORTH LAS VEGAS. IT WAS A SMALL DIVE THAT CATERED TO LOCALS AND ECONOMY-MINDED DAY TRIPPERS.

Ciro first cruised the fabulous Las Vegas strip.  He pointed out the kingpin casinos and guess-timated each place's substantial tip income, (all over $100/day).

On the way back, we approached his casino, Slots-A-Fun (soon to be mine), and he said, "We average $10.00/day."

He suggested that I check-in with them.

I said, "Another time."

We continued downtown. Back in the low-rent district, he made a right off Main Street onto Fremont Street. Ciro told me how much tip income was generated at each casino. Binion's Horseshoe topped the list at $50.00/day while the Nevada Club was neck and neck with the Lady Luck at the bottom of the dung heap. Interestingly, he added the extra dimension of telling me the who's who of our schoolmates and where they were working.

A few blocks up, Ciro pointed out John Heaverlo's casino, (the El Cortez). He said, "Hal Mair works there too. They average twenty-two dollars a day." At the corner of Las Vegas Boulevard, we turned left. In a few streets, we crossed Bonanza Avenue and entered the next town, North Las Vegas.

The Silver Nugget was a modest, clean and modern casino with a big empty parking lot. Inside was like walking into a southwestern-themed cathedral.  Other than one distant burst of clanging quarters hitting a slot machine's hopper, you could hear a pin drop, on the spacious, low-limit casino floor.

We did a superficial loop of the property and saw few customers. Ciro encouraged me to take my first shot (gambling), on a near-empty, 75c minimum craps table. I was too inhibited (bashful) and shook my head.  He led me to their, Wagon Wheel Cafe.

The large restaurant was well-lit, cheery and completely empty. We waited at the sign that read; PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED. A skinny, teenage, stuttering, redhead with a KAYLA - TRAINEE name tag greeted us. When she dropped the laminated menus, a much older hostess named Dixie bolted out of the kitchen.

Dixie had a deeply wrinkled face.  Her liver-spotted arms coupled with an unnatural, dyed blond beehive hairdo, made her look like she was a hundred. In a coarse southern accent that suggested that she gargled with lye, Dixie reamed-out Kayla for her lack of eye-contact with us and the angle of her elbow while handling the menus.

Teary-eyed Kayla was humiliated and stormed away. So aloof Dixie escorted us to a table. Ciro asked her to wait as he emptied his pants pockets onto the table. He placed down John Heaverlo's car keys, a few coins, a box of Marlboros and a Dunes Casino matchbook.

Dixie said in a huff, "Well..."

Ciro said, "Hold on...," as he put his apartment keys, glasses case and wallet down. He looked puzzled until he said, "Oh, I have them here." He took the two coupons out of his shirt pocket and said, "We should show you these first, right?"

Dixie looked at him with contempt and rasped, "What else will you gentlemen be having?"

Ciro pushed his menu an inch closer to her and said, "That's it."

When she was gone I said, "Boy, what a sourpuss."

Ciro said, "Yeah, the Wicked Bitch of the West...I could tell she really hated you...be careful, she might spit in your chili."

I gave him an uneven smile, "She wouldn't...?"

At the hostess stand, we watched Kayla greet three women. She was leading the party towards us as the menus slipped from her grip. Luckily, this time she managed to grab them, before they hit the floor. The poor girl looked over her shoulder in fear but Dixie was nowhere to be found. As Kayla's serious freckled face passed us, Ciro gave her the thumbs-up.  She smiled broadly.

A minute later, sobbing Kayla came out of the kitchen with our order. While fighting off tears, she set down two Silver Nugget, Wagon Wheel Cafe napkins, (with caricatures of chili peppers in sombreros). Then without spilling a drop, she cautiously set our chili-filled coffee cups on top.
IN SMALLER PRINT THE NAPKINS READ: WASH DOWN RAIMUNDO AND EDDIE'S DELICIOUS, EXTRA HOT CHILI SPECIALTIES WITH AN ICE COLD BEER.

Kayla's voice quivered as she said, "W-w-will there be anything else?"

Ciro said, "You okay?"

She said, "I-I'm supposed to be a hostess but my supervisor is so mean that the waitress just quit. I don't know what I'm doing and now Eddie the cook saw her go into Mr. Atkinson's office. She's screaming about firing me too. But I don't care...I'll just go back to McDonald's." She took a deep breath, put our short beers on the table and said, "Will there be anything else?"

Ciro said, "Honey, if it isn't too much trouble, how about extra crackers and some Tabasco sauce."

Her genuine smile revealed a mouth full of braces as she said, "You might want to try the chili first."

When she came back Kayla set down our 53c check with the coupons stapled to it. Then she put down a basket of Saltines, the hot sauce and two glasses of ice water.

Kayla said, "If you're fixin' to put more Tabasco in that, you'll need all these."

Ciro slipped her three dollars and said, "You'll be okay whatever happens. Trust me, you're very nice."

Dixie interrupted us from up front with a booming sarcastic voice that combined anger and sweetness, "Sugar, how long y'all gonna make these good folks wait for a table?"

Ciro and I were done "eating" in a minute. But his mouth was on fire. He gobbled up all the crackers and doused the fire in his mouth with the last of his beer and both of our waters.

So it surprised me that the first thing he said was, "Where's fuckin' Dixie?"

I said, "I don't see her."

Ciro said, "Let's dine and dash."

I said, "Heh?"

He said, "That girl is getting fired anyway.;  C'mon, let's beat this toilet for the check."

I wasn't in Las Vegas twenty-four hours and I felt bad for refusing many of Ciro's other suggestions.

I hesitated and said, "I'm not ready to become a felon."

"Felony?  This is bullshit kid stuff."

Shamed, I said, "Okay."

Ciro pushed aside the spent Saltine wrappers and made a neat pile of cracker crumbs. He was gathering his possessions as Dixie came in from the casino and went into the kitchen.

We could hear her screaming at Kayla as Ciro said, "Let's GO, GO, GO!"

Ciro and I walked fast, left the restaurant, crossed the casino and continued outside. I was exhilarated and laughing at John Heaverlo's car as the smile vanished from Ciro's face. He started emptying his pockets on the hood of the Buick. The one thing missing was Heaverlo's keys. Ciro cursed and went back in.

He wasn't smiling when he came back and said, "Fuckin' Dixie was waiting for me.  She was twirling Johnny's key ring on her middle finger and said, 'Hey low-life. Forget something?'"

I said, "What did you do?"

"What could I do? I gave her a five and grabbed the keys."

We were about to pull away as Kayla came out.

Ciro called her over and asked, "Did Dixie fire you?"

She beamed, "Hell no, I quit!"

Ciro said, "That sucks. But hey, give me your phone number and we'll go out and have a good time."

Kayla said, "Go out with you? Go to hell, low-life."



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For most of my five years in Las Vegas, Ciro (the Hero) remained an important yet guarded friend.  Fortunately, due to his eccentricities and limitations, I never allowed myself to get swallowed up by his lifestyle.

Fifteen years after leaving Vegas, Ciro and I were reunited during my vacation.  It was difficult to accept what kind of jackass he'd become.  I was certain after we said goodbye that our friendship was over.  

Eventually, I realized I was wrong. He hadn't changed.  Instead, it was me who grew, matured and took on responsibility. Dixie and Kayla were right, he was (always was) a dine and dash low-life.  Or in my book, a zero.  From that epiphany going forward, he was nothing more that Ciro the Zero.