POLITE CRAPS DEALERS FINISH LAST

I should've know better after being a mercenary, Las Vegas table for table craps dealer for two and a half years.  But in my escapade below, my instinct for kindness took over.  I bet when Leo Durocher reads it, he'll do back-flips in his grave. 

LEO DUROCHER (1905-1991) WAS A HARD-NOSED MAJOR LEAGUE PLAYER, COACH AND MANAGER.  HE IS FAMOUS FOR SAYING, "NICE GUYS FINISH LAST."

Sometimes I wonder how my fate would have changed if I hadn't (stupidly) taken the high road.



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The lowest point of in my forty year casino career was getting fired by the Stardust Casino.  I was further traumatized because I forgot I was a nobody.  So for the next few weeks, I diligently sought employee only at the elite gambling halls. My skewed sense of worth resulted in a daily exercise in futility.  

Repeated rejection caused my standards weakened. I tried lesser strip casinos but as my failures mounted so did my disillusionment.  Soon laziness and depression overtook me.   

A big part of my new daily routine was staring blankly at Channel 6’s grade-B film noir matinee while feeling sorry for my self.  

I was in a trance as a poor movie's big climax was about to unfold.  Suddenly, the ring of my phone startled me; it was my friend Ciro.

“Dimi, (his private nickname for me), it’s time to swallow your pride and face facts,” he asserted.  “You should start looking for work downtown.” 

I was distracted by the TV's police shootout and yawned, "I paid my dues, I ain't starting all over."   

“Look,” he said, “do yourself a favor.  They just fired a whole crew at the Mint.  Get off your ass.  The hiring office is one flight up. Get down there now!”

"Nah,” I lied, “I gotta hot lead at Circus, Circus.  Plus, I'm trying Holiday Center Strip and the Silver Slipper today.” 

"Don't be a schmuck..."

I hung up on him.  I lingered long enough to scan the closing credits as reality set in.

An hour later, I marched up Fremont Street wearing my audition clothes.  Shivering and uninspired by the prospect of sinking to the depths of downtown, only my white dress shirt shielded me from February’s blustery chill. 

At the Mint’s main entrance, I waited to hold the door open for a man in a dungaree jacket.  As if blazing my trail, I crossed the casino floor directly behind him.  From twenty feet behind, I noticed he was wearing black dress pants and shiny oxfords as we rode the escalator to the Mezzanine Level. 

He proceeded to an opaque glass door labeled Casino Games Employment Center and disappeared inside... without waiting to hold the door for me.

In the empty waiting room, he was meeting with the receptionist as I entered.  He sat down and began his application. The phone rang as I approached.

The woman behind the desk raised her index finger as she answered, “Mint Casino Employment Center...yes we are hiring craps dealers...we close at four...you’re welcome.” 

A wave of euphoria hit me.                                       

She hung up and said, “How can I help you?” 

I smiled, “I’d like to audition for a craps dealer job.” 

She handed me a form and said, “We don’t give auditions. Complete this app and Mr. Harvey will interview you momentarily.” 

Two more candidates came in as I was logging my work history. The door marked “Lance Harvey” opened and an enthusiastic man strode to the reception desk. 

I tried to eavesdrop but only heard her say, “Congratulations and welcome aboard.” 

The dungaree jacket man got up and handed his application to the receptionist. 

She checked the paperwork and said, “Still at the Nevada Club?"

He said, "Yes."

"Mr. Harvey will be with you shortly.”

He was no competition to me.  The Nevada Club was the worst bust-out job in town.  I was intent to complete the forms until I got startled by the shrill buzz of the inter-office intercom. 

A metallic voice squawked, “Miss Blake, please send in the next applicant.” 

I looked up from my last question as she handed him back his application and said, “You may go in now.”  

It’s a good thing I read that last question because unlike most applications that asked for certification that all your information was true, this one read: “Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Communist Party?” 

I checked “NO” and mused, “What a way to lose a job.”  Over-confident of my credentials, I chuckled to myself,  “Pinkos in Vegas,” as I presented my application.

The receptionist looked it over and said, “Mr. Harvey will be right with you.”

The man I followed in was all smiles when he came out. 

I listened closely as he was told, “Congratulations. Go to the time office for processing.” 

A minute later the intercom buzzed, I had to contain myself from exploding out of my seat. 

“Miss Blake,” the voice said, “all the Craps Dealer positions are filled.” 

The cheerfulness ran out of Miss Blake’s face as she rose and curtly told me and the other two men in no uncertain terms, “We’ll keep your APP's on file for three months. Thanks for coming in.”

The bum’s rush...I was crushed.  On my way out, I was about to hold the door for the other two applicants.  I caught myself and kept going. 

On my way down the escalator I muttered, “Those knuckleheads can open their own goddamned door.”



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Yes, I was polite and missed out on working at the Mint. That fiasco led me to concentrate on better downtown joints.  It took six weeks but eventually, after more failures, I finished last and scraped the bottom of the barrel and was hired at the Vegas Club.

This less than golden moment in my life was actually the start of my previous blog, "AGNES CARMICHAEL OF THE CARMICHAEL CALIFORNIA CARMICHAEL'S." To shorten what was already a mouthful, I separated this segment.