DEALING CRAPS IN PLATFORM SHOES...BAD IDEA!

My 40+ years in the casino industry tells me, if I knew the way of the world when I started as a craps dealer in 1979,  I wouldn't have made it through one day.



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In the 1970's, during the height of disco era, platform shoes for men were in vogue.  There's only one reason why guys allowed themselves to be manipulated into such trendiness...meeting women!

True to my independent nature, I failed to make this obvious connection.  That meant, for the most part,  I remained on the sidelines as the sexual revolution danced slightly beyond my reach.

AT FIRST, THE DISCO SCENE AND ITS LOUD, CROWDED DISCOTHEQUES WEREN'T MY SPEED.

A major hint that I was missing out on something good happened during my Brooklyn College years.  I was playing basketball in the schoolyard when my reality-check light bulb finally went off.   Down the block, a close-friend was clumsily walking (yet confidently), in ridiculous, platform shoes.  At first, I only saw the humor of a tough jock going to his car like he had a cue-stick up his butt. Then I realized was picking-up his new girlfriend, to take her clubbing.  Far worse, it was Friday night and I was playing H-O-R-S-E with an eleven year-old.

By the time I broke down and bought two pairs of disco shoes; brown ones and black ones, the chic style was beyond passe and speeding towards OVER!.



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In January 1979 with a New York School of Gambling craps dealer diploma in hand, I landed in Las Vegas.  My hideous "frankenstein" footwear were not only in my suitcase but were my only dressy shoes. Still, regardless of this fashion faux-pas, we were taught that dealers HAD to wear black shoes so, I felt prepared.

TO SAY PLATFORM SHOES, WERE NEVER INTENDED FOR CRAPS DEALERS IS AN EXTREME UNDER-STATEMENT.

A gracious friend, Ciro the Hero, (way before he became Ciro the Zero), let me and three other transplants from our clique at school stay in his apartment until we got settled.

The low man on the totem pole was the floor dweller, John Heaverlo.  He was already apartment hunting.  John invited me to sleep on his sofa when he got a place, until his wife came out from Poughkeepsie.

During my first five days in town, I got caught-up in hanging-out, gambling and drinking.   Ciro correctly figured out that I was having cold feet, (afraid) of dealing.

To coax me he said, "You're welcome to stay at my place free! Forever!  But you gotta get a job."




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My group took advantage of our school's job placement service.  In November 1978 Ciro was set up as a craps dealer at the Slots-A-Fun Casino, in December, BB was sent the California Club, before me in January, JLUPY got his start at the Lady Luck and the day after me John Heaverlo was hooked-up with the El Cortez.

Like Ciro, I too was being sent to Slots-A-Fun.

THE SLOTS-A-FUN CASINO OPENED IN 1971 AND IS STILL ACTIVE.  HOWEVER, IT HASN'T OFFERED LIVE TABLE GAMES FOR SEVERAL YEARS.  DESPITE BEING LOCATED ON THE FABULOUS LAS VEGAS STRIP, IT HAD THE REPUTATION OF BEING ONE OF THE WORST PLACES TO DEAL CRAPS.

I got distracted by having second thoughts and forgot I had a specific date to report.   Three days late, in full audition regalia, (white dress shirt, black slacks and black (platform) shoes, I showed up.

*Mr. Broderick O'Boyle the Slots-A-Fun casino manager looked like Roger Ebert's evil twin.

ROGER EBERT (1942-2013) WAS A FILM CRITIC, TV PERSONALITY AND JOURNALIST.

I was traumatized and felt intimidated as O'Boyle held my paperwork and peered over his glasses, "Weren't you supposed to be here Saturday?"

*Please note, Mr. Broderick O'Boyle was the only casino boss, in my 40+ years in the business who insisted on being addressed as, mister.  He also was the biggest prick I would ever work for.

I didn't tell Mr. O'Boyle I was so nervous that I could "crap" my pants at any second.  Or that I spent my extra time away carousing, to mask my doubts about ever dealing craps.  Instead I blithered some lame excuse.

Lucky me.  My school's reputation for quality students was so high that I was hired without the traditional audition (try-out). More importantly, the "fashion-police" didn't question my platform shoes. O'Boyle was so kind that he "let" me get my "feet wet" by working me forty minutes AND didn't even charge me for the privilege!

In that short opportunity to show my ability, I rumbled, bumbled and stumbled throughout my live-action practice session.   Maybe I was the only one there who knew how buried (god awful) I was.  Still, I was encouraged by O'Boyle and the staff.  At the time, I had no idea that they were always desperate for help because I soon found out that bust-out toilet had a revolving door for craps dealers.

O'Boyle patted me on the back, "Your shift will be 10:AM till 6:PM.  Be here tomorrow and be ready to do a good job."

Other than that first awkwardly pleasant meeting, O'Boyle was overwhelmingly a devilish asshole with a complete disdain for me, my coworkers and every loser, (customer) who walked in.

That night at Ciro's, John Heaverlo told me, he might be signing a lease for an apartment on Van Patten Street. I had NO IDEA where it was.

He said, "If I take the place tomorrow, while you're at work, I'll take your stuff over there.  Actually he didn't call my stuff, stuff, he called it shit.  Then he called his shit, stuff.  But I saw his stuff and I know shit when I see it, (Wherever you are George Carlin, I just gave you the proper footnote). 

GEORGE CARLIN (1937-2008) VISIONARY STAND-UP COMIC AND SOCIAL CRITIC.  MY MOUNT RUSHMORE OF COMEDIANS WOULD INCLUDE HIM, RODNEY DANGERFIELD, EDDIE MURPHY AND JERRY SEINFELD.

You can almost say, every day in Las Vegas is bright and sunny. The next day (January 10, 1979) was no exception. It was chilly when me and my platform shoes got off the city bus at 9:45AM.  But at (23), without a jacket, I radiated in confidence and enthusiasm as if I had life by the balls, (soon, Slots-A-Fun would forever douse that sparkle in my eye).

Like any break-in (newbie) craps dealer, I sucked!  I was so terrible that my first shift would be a dreadful experience and the longest day in my life.  Storm clouds literally AND figuratively moved in. The disco shoes were annihilating my feet, the players, O'Boyle and his under bosses were MF'ing my ineptitude and at 3:PM, it started drizzling. Even without the rain, I was a soggy mass of confused perspiration and big blisters where killing my feet.

John Heaverlo walked into the casino. He witnessed Mr. O'Boyle's loud profanity, while belittling another dealer.  Seconds later, O'Boyle "inspired" me to succeed with a harsh, obscenity-laced tirade that was designed to be "needed" constructive criticism. I was mortified.  John rolled his eyes and  looked away to hide his grin.

On my break, John shared less humiliating, yet similar "impatience" at his job too.  Stupidly, we both accepted this practice as the "nature of the beast."  But, NOBODY should be treated that way.

John just wanted to tell me about his apartment, give me a key and leave. I was delirious and felt the shame of inadequacy. I probably didn't listen well to his hasty instructions.

He said, "I took the apartment and it's in walking distance." He told me the address and continued, "Across the street, up Riviera, left on Paradise, to Karen Avenue. Its near the "big" Hilton.  You can't miss it."

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I left work at 6:PM, in a misty rain. At first, the near-freezing temperatures felt good on my sweaty body. But in a short time, my long sleeve shirt was damp and I was shivering. The cross street after Riviera was two "city" blocks away. Each step in those awful shoes further aggravated my blisters.

At Paradise Road, in front of me to the right, was the Hilton International Casino's property. It was rimmed by a huge vacant lot. Along its left side, I saw the Karen Avenue sign. The monstrous size of the Hilton dwarfed Slots-A-Fun and held my attention so that when I got to the next street (Joe W. Brown Drive that led to the Hilton's back entrance), I walked in that direction.

Being NEAR the big Hilton and turning down a street John didn't mention, are two different things:

First, had I been more observant and gone straight on Karen, I would have seen several residential streets in a row, with Van Patten being the third.

Secondly, across from the Hilton was the impenetrable (walled-in), Las Vegas Country Club.

Thirdly, I went past the Hilton without asking for help.

Curvy, Joe W. Brown Drive snaked on a 45 degree angle which for some reason led me to think I was getting close. Before reality set-in, I turned to see the Hilton already in the distance, behind me. I was screwed. Then I was screwed worse when four bombs fell on me; it started to pour, my foot blisters erupted, I had to pee and the sidewalk had been broken up, (there was no sidewalk on the Hilton side and despite only a occasional car, the frequent blind spots prevented me from walking in the street).

Too bad a good Samaritan didn't stop his car to see why some schmuck in clown shoes was hobbling in a steady rain on a desolate street without a coat.  It was a miracle that I didn't turn an ankle in those clod-hoppers as I kept painfully tip-toeing through the broken cement and mud.

MY EPIC WALK STARTED ACROSS LAS VEGAS BOULEVARD, (to the left of the "R" in Riviera).  THREE BLOCKS TO THE RIGHT OF THE STAR ON KAREN AVENUE WAS VAN PATTEN. INSTEAD,  I WENT ON JOE W. BROWN DRIVE, (diagonally down and to the right),  TO DESERT INN ROAD, (at the bottom of the map), UP MARYLAND PARKWAY (the right hand border), BACK TO KAREN AND FINALLY TO VAN PATTEN.

I was back on solid pavement at the next cross street; Desert Inn Road. I kept walking around the perimeter of the country club. At the gate to the club, I told my situation to a security guard.

He said , "It's much faster to walk through the golf course. But I can only let members in."

I said, "Is there a restroom I can use?  It's an emergency."

The guard said, "Sorry."  He pointed to Maryland Parkway, "Make a left at Karen and there's an Arco station with a clean bathroom there."



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I was unprepared for this unnecessary leg of my journey which added over an hour to my longest work day. When John saw me, I was a broken, wet, frozen, limping, tired and depressed man...in muddy, platform shoes.  Thankfully he drove me to a department store.  I never dealt craps (or wore) those disco shoes again!



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Slots-A-Fun was one of the worst craps dealing jobs in Vegas.  If it wasn't Mr. O'Boyle, it was one of his underlings, the awful working conditions, the caliber of the clientele or grossing $170.00/week. To tolerate such a hostile environment just goes to show how ignorant I (we) were back then.  I wonder if that shithouse ever had a Human Resources Department?  Either way, I'm reminded that someone once told me; you can't appreciate the good that life has to offer until you understand suffering.  I didn't see it his way then but I appreciate his wisdom now.  Certainly my feet would agree.