This blog is an excerpt from my short story, "FREDDY THE FINGER." Its theme is, stand your ground and fight for what you think is right; even if your opinion is greatly outnumbered. However, if you're proven to be wrong never make excuses and own up to your mistake.
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I was (24) in my first few months at the Stardust when I befriended a boxman called Freddy the Finger, (a boxman is the lowest wrung on the craps supervisory ladder). I was too young (blind) to realize it but I was aligning myself with a universally disliked and distrusted individual. My cohorts tried to clue me in but they failed to make a clear case.
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| FREDDY HAD MANY DIFFERENT VERSIONS ABOUT HIS MISSING FINGER. THE MOST COMMON WAS, IT WAS ACCIDENTALLY CUT OFF WHILE WORKING THE MACHINES IN HIS UNCLE'S LEATHER GOODS FACTORY. OTHERS WERE TOLD IT WAS SHOT OFF IN A POLICE RAID WHEN HE WAS A BOOKIE. THE DRIBBLE HE SAVED FOR ME WAS, THE LEADER OF A PUERTO RICAN YOUTH GANG CUT IT OFF AFTER FREDDY IMPREGNATED THE GUY'S SISTER AND REFUSED TO MARRY HER. |
Fred was also a Jew from the Bronx. Sometimes we cracked each other up because our cultural similarities resulted in inside jokes. This laughter bordered on being unprofessional which only fanned the flames of antisemitism and a negative east coast (New York) bias. I had never experienced either problem so when haters hinted at this being a problem, I blew them off.
A greater segment of the staff saw Freddy as a boorish exaggerator and a chronic liar. They were also galled by his sarcasm and tough guy swagger, (which was not backed up by a physical presence).
Many coworkers distrusted him because he was a namedropping braggart who implied he was an untouchable. I wasn't savvy to casino politics so I didn't understand. But I found out that the possibility of him being "connected" to upper management and perhaps their spy, saved him from many beat downs.
I just thought he was funny. But his enemies assumed that he was taking me under his wing.
*
I was on the job, about a month when I had first interaction with Freddy Cantor. I returned from a break and some paper money was strewn about the table, as Fred slept. The main responsibility of a boxman is to account for the cash and place it in the drop box, (under the table). My coworkers kept quiet because they wanted to jackpot him (let him get himself in trouble). I didn't know, so I woke him up. Later he privately said, "I owe you big time!"
Over the next couple of weeks our alliance formed.
*
One late afternoon, the skies blackened and a freak, wind-driven rainstorm ravaged Vegas. Most people lost electricity. The usual 7:PM daylight was replaced by an apocalyptic, blackened eeriness. On my slow drive to work, I wove through flooding and debris that laid all over Las Vegas Boulevard. Policeman in yellow slickers, bombarded by sheets of rain, assisted motorists at malfunctioning traffic signals. The only dots of light came from the auxiliary power in casinos.
In front of the Desert Inn, it felt like an accomplishment when I saw the Stardust in the distance. I was about to turn onto our property as a bouncing umbrella blew past me. That’s when I noticed across the street, a stray billboard completely lit-up…advertising that the circus was coming to the Convention Center.
I ran against the howling wind and through the pelting rain to the time office. I was drenched but inside, the Stardust was business as usual. In the break room, Freddy the Finger was boring a non-responsive audience about a tree that fell on his car.
He crowed, "It was like a monsoon! I used a hacksaw for two hours, to cut away thick branches that hemmed my Lincoln in." His yawning captives rolled their eyes and snickered as he added, "Then I hadda drive across my neighbor’s lawn, to come to work."
Freddy saw me and hustled me away for a private conversation.
“I haven’t forgotten my debt. How about me and my wife, taking you and your girl, to the circus next week?”
I groaned, “Nah.”
“Who are you, Mr. Maturity? A friggin’ circus is too juvenile for you?”
I said, “Really, you don’t owe me…”
"I get it,” he said. “You’re afraid a clown is going to put cotton candy in your hair. Oops bad example. I should have said cotton candy, on your head.”
I laughed, “You’re an asshole.”
He said, “Okay, no circus. But how about lobster…you aren’t afraid of the best food on the goddamned planet are you?”
I said, “Lobster is good.”
Freddy said, “It’s settled. Me and Estelle are taking you and your girl to the Tillerman…for a soup to nuts lobster dinner.”
A week later, two hours before our big date with the Cantor’s, Freddy called and lived up to his bullshitting reputation.
“Estelle isn’t in the mood for seafood so we’ll eat chinks instead.” I was in no position to say no as he continued, “Do you know Jung Jie’s on Paradise Road? They make a great lobster Cantonese.”
In the restaurant’s bar, Freddy made the introductions. His wife was wearing her gold Century-21 blazer complete with her Estelle Cantor name tag. She was especially unattractive and a rather large woman. But her looks and girth was no reason to dislike her, her personality did that as soon as she opened her big fat mouth. In an overly loud, shrill nasal voice, she announced that she could only give us two hours because she had a final walk-through on a Tudor, on Alta Drive.
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| IT'S NO COMPLIMENT, ESTELLE CANTOR MIGHT HAVE BEEN THE INSPIRATION FOR SHEILA BROFLOVSKI FROM TV'S, "SOUTH PARK." |
While sipping a tropical drink out of a fake pineapple, she never stopped babbling about real estate.
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| ESTELLE WAS A BIGGER PLASTIC PHONY THAN FREDDY AND HER PINEAPPLE PUT TOGETHER. |
Freddy idolized his wife. He stared in awe of her as she rattled-off celebrity clients and commendations she won. At a rare pause I tried to get my girlfriend, (my wife Sue) into the conversation.
Estelle interrupted, “Did I tell you that Tudor on Alta is going for 175K? Frederick darling, tell me, what’s the commission going to be?”
Instantly without counting on his nine fingers he proclaimed, “Ten-five!”
Frederick? I was gagging from all her pretense and was about to puke in my beer when the maitre d came to escort us to a table.
I thought we were saved from Mrs. Cantor’s yapping but she started blithering to the maitre d in Mandarin Chinese.
When a waiter came by with menus after we were seated, Estelle shooed him away and announced for the entire dining room to hear, “I hope you don’t mind, I already ordered for the table.”
Estelle NEVER stopped talking as the plain wonton soup arrived. She was still jawing as we each ate our one egg roll appetizer.
She finally stopped talking about herself to say, “On the way out, I must compliment the chef…he’s really out done himself.”
Sue and I looked at each other and smirked.
We were all served the same entrée; roast pork egg fu yung, (an oriental omelet). This was not lobster at the upscale Tillerman. Nor was it lobster Cantonese. Sue and I were not from Mars. In fact as New Yorkers, we are required by law to know all the ins-and-out of Chinese food...and what we had…was the most basic, cheapest things on the menu....and not a lot of it.
Freddy saw the disappointment in my face.
He cut-off his wife as she explained the value of a valley view, “Did you know Estelle made the newspaper by risking her life with an armed robber at Albertson’s?”
She broke in, “Oy, it was nothing! They called it passive resistance but nobody was going to makes moi lay on a filthy floor. Besides, I knew that runt was going to give me the gun as soon as I saw those weak, beady eyes.” Sue and I looked at each other in disbelief as motormouth continued, “You kids should drop by my office. You can see all my awards, read the newspaper article and the framed letter of thanks I got from the supermarket.”
At that point, I was positive Mahatma Gandhi and Mother Teresa would have fought each other to the death, for the privilege of strangling her.
The ordeal worsened as Estelle began her sales pitch, “You puppies are a cute couple. But did you know renting is a terrible waste? What’s your combined income? Do you have any outstanding debts? Are you planning a family?”
She never came up for air as she plowed-on about a fenced-in yard, a two-car garage and the curb appeal of nice landscaping. That’s when she finally got to her point, “Because…I can work with anyone, to put them into their perfect home…”
Two bites into my omelet, I decided I had enough.
I held my stomach and croaked, “I feel lousy!”
In the same nagging tone Estelle chimed in, “Listen Bubbula, you ate too fast. Take a rest, have some dessert, you’ll be okay.”
“No,” I snapped as I stood. “I have terrible stomach cramps.”
I turned to Sue, “C’mon doll, we gotta go.”
Sue followed my lead, thanked them and sharply whispered, “He can only ‘go’ on his own toilet.”
For the benefit of the other diners Estelle announced, “I understand, I’m lactose intolerant myself.” We were halfway to the exit when she blared loud enough for them to hear in the kitchen, “I’ll take care of the check.” Sue and I were at the door when she boomed again, “Wait, you forget to take my card.”
I opened the door to freedom, looked back, held my hand on my belly and bleated, “Thanks.”
Estelle shot up out of her chair and yelled, “Freddy’ll give you my number. Call me when you’re ready to buy.”
In the sanctuary of the car I joked, “That was nothing but a friggin’ commercial. That’s why nobody at work likes Freddy, he must have promised them all lobster dinners with his wife.”
I dodged Freddy for several days. During that time, I confided in one of the elder dealers on how much of a douche Freddy turned out to be. He was neither surprised or interested until I mentioned that Freddy was afraid he could've lost his job if I didn't wake him up.
The dealer concluded, “So the "Finger" isn't an untouchable. Good, I’m glad you figured it out on your own. Because it’s not a good idea to be associated with…well, you know what I mean.”
I nodded but it took a while till I knew what he meant.
A few days later, I worked with Freddy for the first time since our date from hell. I decided to get off his crazy train of friendship but he knew how to push my buttons. So I settled into the idea that he was a work friend not an outside friend.
We entertained ourselves and enjoyed a laugh-filled shift. Towards the end of the night, we were standing dead. I saw Freddy staring down, straining to hold back laughter. For a second, he looked up with his hand clasped over his mouth. I didn't understand. Freddy looked like he was going to explode into another laugh spasm as he pointed with his eyes to the far right. He resumed staring down when I saw what he meant. My head involuntarily sprang back to the left as I too became paralyzed with Freddy’s laughing affliction.
Strip casinos were like cathedrals. We were beyond pushing our luck because childishness was not tolerated at the Stardust. I composed myself and concentrated on the center of the craps game because I didn’t want Freddy to get me in trouble. Fred had calmed down too but at one point, our eyes met and we started all over again. We had gotten away with our silliness all night but this was different, passerby were stopping to gawk at us.
Our floor supervisor leaned between us.
In a condescending tone, he asked in his southern-accented baritone voice, “Are you two boys all right?”
To suggest that we might be high sounded pretty funny coming from a man who reeked of cheap booze every night. Nonetheless, we assured him that we were okay.
To reduce the risk of a relapse with ten minutes left before my break, I stood erect and stared straight ahead.
The next few minutes took an eternity until I heard the last thing I wanted to hear, our stickman calling out, “Hey little buddies, wanna play craps?”
That dealer was Walter "Disaster" Lemaster. He earned his screw-up nickname by being a burnt-out Vietnam War vet with a talent for saying and doing the dumbest things. I knew what this moron was referring to so my mind internally screamed, "Don't turn around..." but of course I did.
In a split second, I saw my worst fear and turned away again. I muffled my laughter as saliva flowed into my palm. But when I heard Freddy roaring, I couldn't control myself either. With hundreds of eyes on me, I squeezed my stomach muscles. Then from the diaphragm, I took three cleansing breaths. I maintained my composure even though Freddy was still in stitches.
Through my teary cataract-like eyes, without laughing, I watched the proceedings on the other side of the table. This would be the day that I learned the difference between midgets and dwarfs.
These two four-footers were a father (55) and son (35). They were dragging slot machine stools to our table when I got my first good look at them. The dad was eager to play and cheerful but the austere son seemed to be going through the motions to please his father. From his attitude, I gathered that junior didn't like being disparaged.
Despite my new choir-boy pose, the son who was now positioned on his knees atop the stool, kept giving me dirty looks.
The dad was shorter. To play, he had to stand on the stool and hold the craps table rail with his hand.
The father was offered to shoot the dice first.
I am clueless (even a gazillion years later) what possessed Freddy to tell Walter, "Give him the 'short stick.'" (This ploy was saved for women in low-cut blouses. So they'd further expose their cleavage by reaching for the dice).
Freddy was kidding. But Walter's military background compelled him to follow a superior's orders. This knucklehead was so buried that the absurdity of Freddy's statement didn't prevent him from leaving the dice a bit too far away from dad.
The father would have had trouble getting the dice under normal circumstances. So when he strained to pick up the dice, he lost his balance and tumbled onto the table. Now everyone was hysterical...with Freddy screaming the loudest.
Onlookers rushed to our game to see the hysteria. The son was doing a slow burn as his dad writhed like a turtle on its back. Each time the poor man tried to flip over, his foot bumped the concave rubber lip that rims craps tables.
Our pit boss Chick Halversen rushed over, "What the fuck is going on?" That was the only time I heard that gentleman use profanity. Now nobody was laughing! The dad was standing on the table as he set himself to climb out. Chick repeated himself, "What happened?"
The dad peeked over his shoulder with a cute chuckle, "This always happens to me."
Chick shook his head, "Geez, now I've seen it all..."
Chick came around to greet the dad in the aisle and gave them meal tickets. In return, the father offered him circus tickets but Chick turned them down. As the two dwarfs walked away, the son turned back and gave me a harsh glare. Luckily, his dad took the high road, the incident was swept under the rug and none of us were disciplined.
At quitting time, before clocking out, my crew along with Freddy, decided to have a drink across the street at the Silver City Casino. I was tired and turned them down. While they lingered until everyone was ready, I left.
On my way to employee lot, I hopped over puddles and walked around the mini-lakes. I heard my name called. It was that idiot Walter "Disaster" Lemaster. He was happy as he ran straight towards me. I back-pedaled so I wouldn't lose my homeward momentum. I was shaking my head in disbelief as I watched the Neanderthal splash through all the still water in this path.
I was distracted by the sideshow and carelessly backed into a water-filled pothole. The bottom of my left pant leg, shoe and sock were soaked.
Walter saw me hobbling and said, "Are you okay?"
I was surprised he didn't laugh at my mishap and had enough sense to ask about my well-being.
I said, "I'm lucky I didn't twist my ankle."
The goofball looked perplexed as he stammered, "No. A-a-are you okay from b-b-b-before, when you clocked out?"
He hated being called by his nickname but I was impatient, "Disaster, what are you talking about?"
He said, "Then you're okay?"
I said, "Heh?"
Lemaster said, "Hey man, I j-j-just wanted to know before I said anything..."
"Said anything about what?"
Walter slapped my shoulder and said, "They fired the Finger!"
