MY THIRTIETH ANNIVERSARY OF LEAVING LAS VEGAS

1983, my last full year in Las Vegas, was accidentally, an incredibly great experience…but through all that positivism, the same thing that made it good resulted in a huge disappointment and almost a disaster.

To understand that year’s bonanza, you should understand that the Vegas portion of my craps dealing career included seven casinos. This five-year period spanned the first week of January 1979 until (almost to the exact day) the first week of 1984.

In 1979, I earned my stripes working eight months in three different toilets. On   September 10th, I was ready to break my bonds of poverty so I pounced on a rumor that Union Plaza Casino needed craps dealers. I dressed for the occasion, put on my swagger and marched to their craps pit. But after careful scrutiny and much internal debate, the flying fickle finger of fate, diverted me away, (I chickened-out because my color blindness couldn’t differentiate the shade of their red and green chips).

I felt like a loser as I stood frozen, outside the Union Plaza’s front door, (not far from where the 1974 movie, “HARRY AND TONTO” filmed Art Carney getting arrested for peeing in a potted plant).

EVERY TIME I THINK OF THE UNION PLAZA, I THINK OF ART CARNEY. "HARRY AND TONTO," MAY NOT HAVE BEEN THE GREATEST MOVIE BUT ANYTHING WITH ART CARNEY IN IT, IS WORTHWHILE.

I was disgusted.  My nuisance malady just cost me a chance to get up in the casino world. But I snapped out of my funk and decided that as long as I was already wearing “black and whites” (black slacks and white shirt, the unofficial uniform of a dealer applicants) that I would knock on random casino doors along Glitter Gulch. My goal was to hit the top four jobs on Fremont Street. Destiny smiled down on me that day because I started my quest at Hotel Fremont…and was hired.

I WISH THE PHOTOGRAPER WOULD HAVE SAID, "SAY CHEESE," BECAUSE I WAS SO AWE-STRUCK BY GOOD FORTUNE, I FORGOT TO SMILE.

The Fremont paid much better than the Union Plaza…but in a short time, I learned it had an invaluable hidden perk. That extra benefit was, the Fremont was the sister casino of the Stardust on the fabulous Las Vegas strip, (it’s all a matter of prospective but at that time, no downtown casino could touch a strip casino in terms of economics or status). And like a minor leaguer from the Fremont, I was sent up to the “bigs,” when I received my transfer to the Stardust, in March 1980.

For the next two years, I loved the job so much that decades later, it seems impossible that I could ever have been so self-realized at work. When my world crashed in me, I was unemployed for six weeks. In that time, I found out how fortunate I was to reach such lofty heights without much experience, an abundance of talent or knowing the right people, (it is true however, that a fifty-dollar bribe cemented my ascension from the Fremont).

In February 1982, I wound up embittered and back downtown working for peanuts, at the Las Vegas Club. This flea-bitten, saw-dust on the floor, grind joint became a six-month long wake-up call that signaled the end of my impressionable youth. In that time, I frequently tried to free my experienced, casino savvy self by making applications and asking for auditions at the better, storefront properties in the area. Whether it was a weak national economy or bad timing I don’t know…but I was stuck.

A coincidence in August would change my lot in life. My wife Sue’s girlfriend (Rona) flew out from Brooklyn. They came to meet me after my shift, at 4:00AM. We gallivanted through casinos and took advantage of the fifty-cent drinks.

OUTSIDE THE MINT CASINO, RONA TOOK THIS PHOTO BEFORE WE GOT SEPARATED.  YOU CAN TELL FROM MY LIT-UP FACE HOW WASTED I WAS.

In a blur, I scoured our favorite haunts trying to reconnect with the girls. I was breezing through the near-empty Golden Nugget with a Heineken in my hand when my name was called.

One of my former crewmates (Benito) from the Stardust was the craps floorperson (supervisor). This Italian national was in his forties and resembled French actor Louis Jourdan.

LOUIS JOURAN (1921-Present) IS BEST KNOWN FOR HIS ROLE IN 1958's FOUR-STAR MOVIE, "GIGI."

When it was to Benny's benefit, he could exude sophisticated European charm. But generally, especially if he got excited, he sounded like Chico Marx.

Benny politely said, “Where are you working?” I was still wearing my uniform (see photo above) and held back a burp as I peeped, “Vegas Club.” Benny exploded, “Whattsa matta wid you? A guya like you shouda not have to work in a shithouse.” I took a short swallow of beer and shrugged. Benny blasted, “Whya you doan cumma here to work?” I said, “They don’t give auditions without an appointment. I put in five apps in the last six months and they never called…” He cut me off, “Fuhgeddaboudit!”  He turned to the drunken pit boss who was holding on to the pit stand to keep himself erect and said, “Heya Scotty, I gotta good man ova here who needsa audition.” Scotty barely looked up, “We ain’t hirin’. Tell him, come back during the day and fill out an application.” Benny said, “No! I’a knowa dis man and we needa guysa like dis.”

Scotty nodded. Benny said, “Cumma ova to second base and tap in.” I lifted my beer bottle and whispered, “I’m a little messed up…” “Doan wurry, Benito willa take care uh you.”

The only two players were standing next to each other. One had three white chips bet on the don’t pass line and his friend had three red chips, also on the don’t pass line. The first roll was; three craps. My job was to pay both bets. But in my fog, I paid the white chips with red and the red chips with white…and didn’t notice. I was so “out there” that I didn’t notice that the boxman (immediate supervisor who sits between the dealers) was another friend. Dave Wolf also from the Stardust pointed at my work and said, “Look what you did.” I was embarrassed but quickly grabbed up the two payoffs, crisscrossed my hands and corrected my mistake. Benito roared like I was a conquering hero, “Wow! Tap him out.” He pounded my back and called out to Scotty, “Seea, I tol you, dissa good man or what.” Scotty yawned, “We aren’t hiring.” Benny went over and whispered in his ear. While they chatted, I was tough on myself for doing so poorly in one dice roll and squandering a chance to make a better living.

Benny was all smiles when he rushed over, gave me a playful shove and said, “Calla dis mumba tomorra and to get processed.” Like the bribe I paid to get out of the Fremont, the Vegas system of "juice" is completely unfair…unless of course, it works to your advantage.

The Golden Nugget was one of the top four casinos downtown but it was nothing compared to the Stardust. It catered to budget-minded locals and economy-driven day-trippers from Southern California.

In the early stages of working there, the bad taste of losing my Stardust job was still in my mouth. So my wife and I decided to sell our condo and return east, to be closer to family and friends.

Someone must have been looking down at me from above because after a few months at the Golden Nugget, the owner, Steve Wynn presided over mandatory meetings. At the time, these gatherings seemed like empty rah, rah speeches. He discussed his vision of a better Golden Nugget. But the incredible images he projected in our mind, made the staff snicker. When he declared that everyone was getting a salary raise immediately…we listened more intently. He said he needed our cooperation to complete the casino’s metamorphosis into a global destination…and to put us all on the same page, he made us his partners, (we all soon received stock in the corporation). If that wasn’t enough, he directly addressed the dealers and said, “When the construction is done, your tip income will double within six month."

True to his word, he made that gloomy, claustrophobic dump into a palace. It was a miracle, the ceilings were raised, walls were knocked down, city streets were purchased and the casino expanded in every direction. The guest rooms were remodeled, upscale restaurants and shops were brought in and the clientele improved. We worked around the continuous refurbishing and the casino NEVER closed. In less than six months, we were a high class casino, dealing to astronomical limits and we more than doubled our tip income.

1983 was a gift from the heavens. I made more money than the Stardust and was fulfilled by constant social opportunites and tons of good friends. Sue and I led a high life and it got better every day.

During this time, my condo was put up for sale. So while living it up, I had the added luxury of being indifferent to the fact that nobody was looking at my place. Even crazier, Steve Wynn wanted to parlay his success at the Golden Nugget. He broke ground on the strip with the Treasure Island Casino. So as good as the Nugget was…it was anticipated (correctly) that this new venture would be a bigger and better opportunity for he entire Golden Nugget staff.

It seems impossible but even with that joyride at the Nugget and a clear road to a brighter future…I still had enough. I wanted to sell the condo and go back home.

THAT'S NOT MY CAR BUT THAT IS MY CONDO COMPLEX.

One of the things that I did to sweeten the “going home” pot was outlining a thirty-day, cross-county vacation. I wanted to show Sue the west like, Utah’s Zion National Park, Arizona’s Grand Canyon, the Monument Valley, the beauty of Colorado, the enchantment of New Mexico, the Carlsbad Caverns and tour Texas.

By the time December rolled around, I was overcome by the feeling of being trapped. The great, ever-improving Golden Nugget experience had gotten old. I also assumed that hanging in and making the transition to the Treasure Island would only temporarily keep me going. I wanted out and I wanted to show Sue the world.

Two weeks before Christmas, the second prospective buyer (in almost a year) came to look at my condo. So I was shocked that he made an offer. But the shitty price he wanted to pay would have resulted in a loss, (back then taking a loss in real estate was unfathomable). I compromised with a counter proposal. This gentleman raised his bid but also demanded ridiculous terms. I accepted.

We closed on the property, in the first week of January. I worked a couple of shifts into 1984 and without much fanfare, said my good-byes. To lighten our load, I gave away Sue’s car, some furniture and other essentials to a friend.

One thing that made leaving town easier was our impending cross-country jaunt. But after the year-long build-up to go on such a wonderful trip, it was disappointing to be leaving in the heart of winter. My dream of a leisurely, thirty-day, once in a lifetime excursion wasn't feasible due to the threat of cold weather and unsafe conditions.

So Plan-B was a southern route with few tourist stops. From Las Vegas we would drive to Interstate-10 (in Tempe Arizona).  We would stay on that one roadway, all the way into Mobile Alabama.

The omen of what was to come, happened on the morning we were leaving. The U-Haul had already been packed but we had left our bicycles in the exterior storage closet. Unfortunately, I stupidly had surrendered the keys. It took a while to track down the buyer by phone. To get the key, we had to drive to the farthest corner of town, come home, pack the bikes and return the key.

Once we blasted off, we dragged that trailer all day, on a dusty two-lane road, through the Arizona desert. It was after dinner that we got on the interstate. We were in the car nineteen hours (and lost another hour due to the time zone change) when we found a motel in El Paso Texas.

In the morning, we paid the two-cent toll and crossed the pedestrian bridge over the Rio Grande River. We were comfortable in our thin, Vegas-worthy winter coats. So despite being only 28 ºF, it was a glorious and beautiful day for a walking tour of Juarez Mexico.

IN JUAREZ, SUE AND THE SHOP OWNER WERE MILLIONS OF PESOS APART.  BUT AFTER A STRONG HAGGLING SESSION, SHE GOT THAT DRESS FOR HER PRICE.

We got back in the car and projected our next stop to be San Antonio, (so we could visit the Alamo). Going east from El Paso, Interstate-10 is cut through the Davis Mountains. Soon the warm sun vanished and the wind kicked up. On some mountain passes, the highway was cut out just enough to fit a sliver of roadway through the rocks. When the wind was especially nasty, it felt like being in a hurricane.

I stopped for gas atop one of the mountain passes. It was around noon and the skies had darkened to the weird color that makes you expect snow. Just opening my car door in that rippling wind was a challenge. I pumped my gas and must have looked like mime as I struggled to walk against the howling gale. Inside the office, I asked the attendant how the roads were going east. He said, “We’re getting snow here tonight but it’ll miss you…you’ll be okay as long as you don’t have a trailer.” We were at an angle that he could see my 1980 Chevy Monte Carlo but not my U-Haul. I said, “But I do have a trailer…” He said, “Oh…”


YES INDEEDY, I'M WEARING TWO-TONE, SHARK-SKIN COWBOY BOOTS, (STILL GOT'M SOMEWHERE) BUT THIS IS THE ONLY DECENT PHOTO OF MY CHEVY AND THE TRAILER.


The skies brightened after we left that pass but it was still cloudy. Soon the mountainous landscape was covered in a queer, gray-colored snow. I took a picture of it as Sue drove.

NEARING THE PECOS TEXAS EXIT, BETWEEN MOUNTAIN PASSES, THE SNOW IS COVERED BY GRAY SOOT FROM NEARBY MINES.

Sue zoomed through the almost empty highway as we appreciated the stony crags and cool rock formations that can come up as close as a few feet of the road’s shoulder. Suddenly, our trailer started to fish-tail. It was still attached but it’s never a good thing when your possessions are overtaking you.

At 1:00PM, we lost control and went into a skid. The car left the road. I thought our lives were over as we barreled toward a conveniently located, jagged mountain wall. Luckily, we got traction on the unnaturally-colored snow and stopped a few feet from an awesome-looking rock formation.

We hugged each other for ten minutes. I got out and checked the U-Haul’s connection and was satisfied that it was okay. Appropriately, I was wearing cowboy boots as I walked up, onto the highway. Like being on skates, I slipped and slided until I realized that black ice covered the whole surface. I was numb all over when I got back behind the wheel. I drove about 20 miles per hour into the town of Fort Stockton until I had feeling in my extremities again.

THAT NIGHT IT WAS 12 DEGREES WHEN WE FOUND A MOTEL IN SAN ANTONIO.  THE HIGHLIGHT OF THE EVENING WAS SEEING A COUPLE SCREWING IN THE BACK SEAT OF THEIR FORD PINTO, (I GUESS THEIR FRIENDS WON THE COIN TOSS FOR THE MOTEL ROOM).  IF THAT WASN'T ENOUGH TO HELP US FORGET OUR CLOSE CALL WITH DISASTER, WE FOUND OUT WAY AHEAD OF PEE-WEE HERMAN...THE ALAMO HAS NO BASEMENT!

January 2014 marks the thirtieth anniversary of me leaving Las Vegas.  It's true I occasionally wonder how my life would have turned out if I stuck around the Golden Nugget long enough to take the Treasure Island job.  But no matter how great the scenario I imagine...there's NO WAY, I'd ever trade considering how great my life has turned out.

Even crazier, it seems Las Vegas is the early leader to where Sue and I retire...I'll keep you posted.

THE COCKAMAMIE KID

In September 1978, I enrolled into the New York School of Gambling. Considering that I was commuting into Manhattan five days a week, the last thing I expected while navigating through the brave new world of craps education was to be fascinated by every movement of fellow student, Barney Kush. 

Today, I'm far more sensitive to the issues caused by the likes of; Aspergers, ADHD, OCD or adult ADD.   So, I'm sad to admit that my ignorance of Kush’s eccentricities, left him hysterical to watch.

There must be something strange about the name Barney because Kush remains the only person I ever met with that name. Years later, I thought Barney the Purple Dinosaur was the essence of weirdness while the only other Barney I can think of (Fife), was a fictional oddball too.

FROM 1960-1965, DON KNOTTS (left) AS TV's BARNEY FIFE SYMBOLIZED THE SMALL TOWN, BUMBLING FOOL, POLICE OFFICER.

A week before I started school, Barney had been reinstated from a suspension. The carefully worded agreement that Barney was compelled to sign shied away from any link to neurological disorders.  Instead, it centered on him falling behind on his scheduled tuition payments. In reality, the director used it as a worthy excuse to be rid of him without risking legal liability while avoiding any type of refund.  In addition to stipulations regarding sexual harrassment and fighting, the main claus in the document that he signed-off on specified  a six-month window to pay the full lump sum of his remaining debt, in cash before being permitted to return to class.

To the dismay of the instructors and students, and the mixed feelings of the money grubbing administrators, Kush managed to meet those demands and was restored after a six-week absence.

The student body was overwhelmingly under thirty-years old, (I was twenty-three). Despite the age similarities, three main cliques divided the pupils, (the jet-setters, the good people and the *kruds). Barney Kush was so aggravating that no group wanted any part of him.  Unfortunately for him, his ambition was to be accepted by the jet-setters...and that NEVER happened!

  

*It's true that the term “nerd” was already in use. But alternative epitaphs like “krud” were popular in certain social circles until “nerd” earned its eternal universality.

THE STEREOTYPIC TERM "NERD" SEEMS TO HAVE BEEN CEMENTED INTO THE FABRIC OF OUR CULTURE IN 1973.  IT USUALLY REPRESENTS THE UNCOOL OR SOCIAL MISFITS WHO ARE OVERLY INTELLECTUAL, SHY, UNATTRACTIVE OR HAVE DEEP-SEEDED INTERESTS IN NON-MAINSTREAM ACTIVITIES.  THE TERM REPLACED,"SQUARE" OR "DRIP" AND IS CURRENTLY AN ACCEPTABLE SYNONYM FOR "GEEK."  MANY PEOPLE FEEL "NERD" ORIGINATED FROM "KNURD" (DRUNK SPELLED BACKWARDS) WHICH IMPLIED THOSE INDIVIDUALS STUDIED RATHER THAN PARTY.

At school, I was one of the “good people.”  Like intermediaries, good people could blend with the social climbers while also being inclusive to awkward personalities . Of course we made one exception, Barney Kush.  It was a moot point because Barney shunned the good people by lumping us together with the kruds.

Kush was intelligent and good-looking. But he was a hyper, selfish, (self-centered) chatterbox, know-it-all. I surveilled his annoying yet entertaining behavior and saw why he was a friendless pariah.

A jet-set couple, Rick and Tish advocated for the others to stop picking on Barney. Tish had less conviction and was likely to contradict herself by calling Barney a creepy asshole seconds after saying, nobody deserves to be bullied.

Kush’s biggest problem centered around inappropriate contact with female body parts. which he called "accidental grazing."  But his inability to be still or keep quiet was constant. It seemed impossible but everyday, his nervous energy made him more detestable as he tried to get in good with the, “in-crowd.”

The three distinctly segregated social groups were blended into every course, (craps, blackjack, roulette, baccarat and an advanced management program). The only time this caste system was clearly defined was before class, during breaks and after school. The king of the jet-setters was an enormous gym-rat who worked as a nightclub bouncer in the Bronx named, “Party” Artie Cisco.

WAY BEFORE I HEARD OF STEROIDS OR HUMAN GROWTH HORMONES, PARTY ARTIE (stock photo above, not him) WAS THE BIGGEST GUY I KNEW.  THE ULTIMATE CONTRADICTION, ARTIE WAS A DOPEY, WORK-OUT JUNKIE WHO EPITOMIZED THE "JERSEY SHORE" MENTALITY.  HE SPOKE OF THE HEALTHY BENEFITS OF DIET AND EXERCISE WHILE PREACHING ABOUT VITAMINS AND NUTRITIONAL SUPPLEMENTS.  YET HE SMOKED UNFILTERED PALL MALLS LIKE A FIEND, BRAGGED ABOUT "RECREATIONAL" DRUG USE AND DRANK LIKE A FISH.

Sweet-talking Party Artie was having his way with one of the receptionists (Phyllis). Artie was big on nicknames and dubbed this tramp, "Sif,"(as in Sif-Phyllis).  Whether she took this "abbreviation" as a term of endearment or knew the truth, I don't know. But in exchange for clubbing outside school, free access to pot, cocaine and membership with the elite, she dedicated herself to satifying Artie.  Soon, during business hours, Sif and Artie were having sex in empty conference rooms ...and upon request, Artie pimped her out to his high echelon cronies.

Artie bragged about these magnanimous gestures .  The whole school knew and Barney Kush decided to tap into Sif on his own. She was so infuriated by his hands on advances that her grievance didn't go to school management, it went to Artie. To prove how messed-up Barney was…even with a new black eye and bloody lip, he kept hitting on her.

IS IT GOOD MEDICINE?  TODAY, OVER SIX MILLION AMERICAN CHILDREN (EVEN TWO-YEAR OLDS) ARE BEING FORCE-FED CONTROVERSIAL, POWERFUL, TOXIC, PSYCHIATRIC MEDS, LIKE RITALIN.  LORD KNOWS WHAT WAS WRONG (IF ANYTHING), WITH BARNEY KUSH BUT IF RITALIN WOULD HAVE HELPED HIM, THEY SHOULD HAVE PRESCRIBED HIM A DAILY BUCKET FULL.

Learning to deal craps, DID NOT come easily to me. In my defense, only a few people such as Barney Kush stood-out as naturally talented. For the vast majority getting the knack was a slow process, (it was a 240-hour course for a reason). Additionally, a small amount of others gave the impression that they would never “get it.”

"Party" Artie Cisco had a hilarious personality and enough charisma for the rest of the school.  But it was apparent that he'd never, "get it." He lacked the math agility to quickly solve simple craps tasks or the dexterity to handle casino chips.

Far worse, Artie was a power junkie. His disposition left no room for constructive criticism and his response to failing while in the spotlight of a classroom drill ignited an explosive temperament. 

When Artie’s cherished twenty-minute turn to deal in a mock craps game came up, he’d usually fail miserably. The class may have silently been amused as he struggled but outwardly, we seemed patient during these lulls.  Except Barney. He had learned the hard way not to offend Artie. So when vapor-lock came over the big fellow, Kush pent-up his instinct to make corrections.  

During Cisco's indecision, I was amused watching Barney agonize, twitch and contort while holding himself back from springing over the table to "help."  Artie might have been stupid but he could sense (and hated) being in that position. So he'd give Kush a murderous stare down. If Barney lost control and insulted him, a Charlie Chaplin-like chase scene followed, except with a real chance of Kush getting hurt. 

Barney developed a defense mechanism by pretending that he wasn't watching and boast to whoever was next to him about his winning football bets or whine about his losses, (he did a lot more whining).

Several times, Barney loudly went off on a tangent to include his mounting debt and eluding loan shark collectors.  Artie could barely concentrate on his work without distractions, so when these sob stories were brought up, the practice session temporarily came to a halt, until the instructor told Barney to be quiet...or Artie threatened him.

Artie once implied that he had been an enforcer for a bookie. He stopped short and probably never mentioned it again because mob connections might hinder his pending New Jersey casino license approval .  Plus, he didn't want to hear about a pissant like Kush risking life and limb over mounting penny-ante ten-dollar bets. So Cisco’s response always was, “If yuh don’t eat garlic, yuh don’t stink.” That was his way of saying; if you pay your tab, you have nothing to worry about.

Like picking at a scab, Barney's inherit wiring couldn't stop him from pestering Artie for acceptance.  I was shocked when he violated Cisco's personal space and poked his massive bicep.  Like flicking away a bug, the giant reflexively shoved Barney and drew blood when  the cockroach's head hit the craps table's wooden ledge on the way down.

Kush NEVER stopped instigating battles in this unwinnable war.  On a couple of ocassions when he didn’t get the attention he demanded, his facial muscles convulsed and he exploded into a tantrum aimed at humiliating Artie. Cisco would've been justified to punch his lights out every day whether he needed it or not...but he didn't. 

Barney came up with new strategy aimed at reducing Artie's dealing time. At the first sign of weakness, for Artie's sake and everyone’s betterment: the group would learn more about dealing craps by watching him.

The title of Judge Judy’s 1996 book, “DON’T PEE ON MY FOOT AND TELL ME IT’S RAINING,” sums up Kush’s rationale for stealing Cisco's dealing time.

JUDITH SHEINDLIN (1942-PRESENT) WAS A NYC LAWYER AND FAMILY COURT JUDGE. IN 1996, HER HARD-NOSED TV SHOW "JUDGE JUDY" REVITALIZED COURT ROOM REALITY PROGRAMMING, (EIGHTEEN SEASONS AND 4,375+ EPISODES).

Kush’s obsessive compulsive behavior and condescending personality made for a toxic learning environment. Too bad it was indeed beneficial (for me) to watch him deal craps. The jerk thrived during the pressurized, frenetic pace and easily made sense of what seemed like incredible chaos. One of my class friends  Ciro (before he became Ciro the Hero and eventually Ciro the Zero) was mesmerized too. He confided in me that he fantasized about being as good as Barney.

It was hard to believe that a tough-guy like Artie wasn't sharp enough to know he was being manipulated away from something he needed, (he had to know that craps dealing, like body-building was based on repetition).

The scuttlebutt among the "good-people" was that our instructor was directed by his superiors to avoid siding against Barney on this vital issue. Maybe "they" sensed Artie would never get craps. If he stepped aside on his own due to stage-fright, nature might run its course, (he was already paid in full and craps was the last cell in his training). 

The last time I saw him give away his dealing time, he claimed that he studied and practiced at home before whimpering, "I should concentrate more on blackjack.  So, it would be better for me to watch." 

Kush had no internal shut-off switch even after the embarrassed lummox stepped-down.  While dealing, Kush took on the role of teacher and rattled off a barrage of basic questions that Artie (who rarely paid attention) wasn't prepared to answer. Artie's retaliation leds to harsh death threats. Kush smiled, “If you’re serious about learning, during the break, I’ll give you some real drills.  And a one-on-one ‘ultra-work-out’ which is more than this ‘gentleman’ would ever do, (as he pointed to our oblivious instructor whose head was buried deep into the Racing Form).”

Barney Kush knew Artie Cisco better than Artie did. These promised work-outs never happened because during the breaks, Artie was addicted to the nickel-a-point Hearts game that was played in the school’s lounge area.

HEARTS IS BEST SUITED FOR FOUR PLAYERS. AT FIVE MINUTES PER HAND, THIS EVASION-TYPE, TRICK TAKING GAME IS IDEAL FOR KILLING SHORT PERIODS OF TIME. THE OBJECT IS TO AVOID THE HEARTS (ONE POINT EACH AND THE QUEEN OF SPADES, THIRTEEN POINTS).

This break room was an opened-ended alcove that overlooked the casino-like classroom.  Crammed into this tight space was an el-shaped formation of five vending machines, two round tables and chairs, and a counter with four bar stools.

Artie and his jet-set crew played their hardcore game there. Like a minor league, the other table featured "good people" and sometimes "kruds," doing the same, at a slower pace and not for money.

Ciro told me that Barney Kush had been excluded from the cash game because he wouldn't shut-up and the regularity of his annoying tics, shudders and surpressed fits distracted everyone's concentration.  Plus the quirkiness of his OCD? required him to continuously tinker with his nickels and dimes into more precise formations. But the biggest problem was...he was always broke...and tried to play on credit.  He could've played for free but he didn’t want to hobnob with anyboby beneath his social strata.

Kush was relugated to watching the game. I was focused on him as he positioned himself behind Cisco. His constant drumming on Artie's chair was unnerving. Cisco said, "Fuckin' Barry, beat it yuh goddamned skidmark."

Barney didn't have a nickname to fit Artie's level of cleverness.  But he managed to make everyone laugh by referring to Barney as; Fuckin' Bernie, Fuckin' Bart, Fuckin' Bobby or the most used, Fuckin' Barry. 

Barney drifted next to Tish who was watching the game behind her boyfriend. Kush was uncomfortably close so she shooed him away, "Pervert, stop kibbitzing Ricky and get outta here."

"KIBBITZING," IS UNSOLICITED, UNWANTED OR UNHELPFUL ADVICE FROM SPECTATORS, ESPECIALLY DURING CARD GAMES.

Kush returned to Artie and noodged him about his poor strategy. Cisco generally ignored his badgering.  But he was on a losing streak.  Suddenly he got fed-up with the nagging and snapped! Artie Cisco stood up, grabbed his chair and swung it at Barney’s head. Kush used waterbug-like agility and zig-zagged his way to safety while laughing. In the classroom, his short attention span got the better of him when he crossed paths with Phyllis the receptionist and made a U-Turn, back to harm's way.

Under the pretense of wanting a candy bar, Phyllis came to hang-out with Artie. During the heat of the next hand, she wasn’t getting the attention she was craving and said to Artie, “I want uh Ah-Min Joy but I ain't got no change…” No one responded as the game continued. Seconds later, Artie got stuck with the queen, (he was the big loser again…this time for over a dollar).  Frustrated he emptied out his arsenal of cruel profanity. The other players didn't want to further piss him off and didn't respond to her.

Phyllis wasn't bright enough to be insulted.  She held out a five-dollar bill and carped, “Ar-dee, I doan want it fuh nuthin', I jus' need change." Artie had an odd smile as he raised up out of his seat and sneered, “You want a friggin' Almond Joy?” She perked up, “Uh-huh.” The goliath reached around the candy machine.  With an unearthly grunt, he pinned the over-sized dead weight against the wall and lifted it off the ground. Pulsating veins were protruding from Cisco's neck and forehead as he heavily dropped it. Artie repeated the process. Others from the classroom and office rushed over to see about the loud commotion. On the third try, like a beating a slot machine, candies fell into the hopper as a flood of quarters spit out onto the floor.

Artie pulled out two Hershey Bars, a bag of chips and a roll of Life-Savers. He laughed, “Sorry Sif, we’re all out of Almond Joys.” He gave the candy to Phyllis, put his arm around her waist and led her away as his hand slid down to squeeze her butt.

The second Cisco's back was turned, Barney dove on the floor and started picking up coins. Artie turned and yelled, “Fuckin' Bernie, you low-life scum!  This is for G.P.," (general principals or maybe Barney was annoying someone else with those initials).  Cisco grabbed Barney off the ground by the back of his collar, slammed his back against the soda machine and broke his nose with one enormous punch.

The next day, all the vending machines were bolted to the wall. Also, it was no surprise that Barney had two shiners and a huge bandage taped across his nose...but never spoke of the incident.

Barney graduated in early December and said he was moving to Las Vegas. The director probably refused him job placement because Kush's screwiness might be a poor reflection on the school. Barney's grating personality wouldn’t take no for an answer.  If that was the case, I could understand the director relenting just to get Barney out of his face.  Kush would now be someone else's problem.  Barney negotiated himself into getting sent to the El Cortez, which for a newbie in 1978, (grossing about $300.00/week), was the top of the line.

Artie graduated a couple of weeks later. He (and many others) soon learned the hard way that the school lied about being accredited by the *State of New Jersey. So if he pursued a gaming career in Atlantic City, he would have been required to retake, (and repay for) , all the courses he spent over $1,500.00 and six months on.

*I guess Artie Cisco never got into the legitamate end of the gaming business because nobody knew what happened to him. The New Jersey Casino Control Commission (NJCCC) was so afraid of the underworld infiltrating the industry that the licensing background check mandated strict disclosure of family associations and prior employment histories. So if Cisco was a bookie’s collector with ties to organized crime, I doubt he would've been granted a license.

The school’s job placement service sent me, (January 1979, in Las Vegas),  to a terrible craps dealing job. I toiled at the Slots-A-Fun Casino for $150.00/week (gross) until early April.

BY COMPARISON, BARNEY'S SELF-MADE "JUICE" BROUGHT HIM TO PARADISE. LOCATED DOWNTOWN, THE EL CORTEZ CASINO IS A BLOCK FROM THE EASTERN EDGE OF TODAY'S "FREMONT EXPERIENCE."  BUILT IN 1941, THE "TEZ'S" SPANISH COLONIAL REVIVAL-STYLE EARNED THE STRUCTURE A PLACE IN THE NATIONAL REGISTRY OF HISTORICAL BUILDINGS.

On a wind -chilled rainy afternoon in February, Barney Kush came into Slots-A-Fun. He had no jacket and was drenched and shivering when he asked for an audition, (a job try-out). He acted as if he didn’t know me…and that was fine. Despite being sopping wet, he seized the opportunity, wowed the bosses and was told that he'd start that night.

On my break, I saw him leaving. He was calm and in control. I figured it would be harmless to flag him down. What a mistake!

We chatted outside, underneath an awning. He was hyped-up in seconds and was twitching, complaining and looking over his shoulder as if he was expecting to get jumped. Between facial tics he asked, “Can I borrow twenty bucks?” I politely said, “No.” He scanned the area before whispering, “Does Tish work here?” I said, “No.” “Does she gamble here?” I said, “No.” “Does Rick or any of their friends?” I said, “No.”

Oddly, Barney wasn’t reacting to run-off water dripping on his shoulder. To annoy him I said, “Bernie, you okay?” His body had a split-second spasm as he said, “It's Barney.  How can you forget my name?" He stopped himself before continuing, "Well, I'm not okay. I got fired from the El Cortez last week and I’m fucked for cash. I had to hock my car.” He used his thumb to point to a 50CC dirt bike laying on its side in a puddle and added, “So I had to borrow my neighbor’s Honda.”

BARNEY'S "RIDE" LOOKED LIKE  TOY.  IT WAS DIFFICULT BUT I CONTROLLED MYSELF FROM SAYING, "I'D RATHER SEE MY SISTER IN A WHOREHOUSE THAN MY BROTHER ON A HONDA." 

I said, “Why did you get fired?” Barney said, “I was the only one who knew craps in that whole shithouse. If  someone needed help, I wasn’t trying to be a hero, I helped because I’m a team player…” I rolled my eyes as he plowed on, “The games always get out of control but at least I can handle it. Then some flea comes in and buries me with tons of nonsense props (proposition bets are long shots). When the prick gets impatient, I tell him if you want to keep the game moving, stop making all these cockamamie bets.”

I said, “Geez.” Barney said, “My supervisor, was a drunken old-timer who couldn't follow that kind of action if his life depended on it. Wanna know what that fossil said? ‘You can’t tell some sap to NOT make prop bets, that’s our bread and butter. You know the PC (house percentage) on them?’ So I say, you know how much this toilet losses if those cockamamie bets cause the dice to stop?”  The prick says, "You're FIRED, yuh Cockamamie kid, yuh."

“Could you believe it, I'm killing myself teaching this douche the ins and outs of his own business and he axed me? I can’t imagine who they dragged in off the street to take my place…” I looked at my watch and cut him off, “I gotta go.”  He grabbed my arm, "I picked up my pay the next day and a jerkoff from my crew said, "Lookey here boys, it's the Cockamamie Kid riding off into the sunset..." 

Barney knew I was trying to give him the brush and growled, "Brilliant."  He switched gears, perked up and said, "Can you at least spot me ten till pay day?"  I flashed back to the degenerate gambling habit he advertized at school and said, "Sorry."  Most people would have said; thanks anyway, but the sleazy opportunist looked disappointed and surprisingly said nothing.  I can't imagine what he was calling me in his mind as he spun in place and walked out into a stronger rain. 

I was turning away as he called out, "You know, um, er...my brother..." Slots-A-Fun was so cheap we had no name-tags . So it was obvious he never invested any brain space at school for the names of good people, kruds or whatever I was to him.  

His body had a frenzied shuddering convulsion as I watched the rain pelting him.  I was convinced that he was out of his mind.  In that awkward moment, I failed to recall the term; idiot savant.

Barney returned, put his wet, shivering hand on my shoulder and looked into my eyes, "Wouldn't you feel better lending me at least five dollars and know I had enough gas to get back for my first night?" 

I had twelve dollars on me, (as bright as he was and with all that dealing ability, I wondered if he realized how awful this job was...).  Either way, I didn't want to donate even a penny to him.  But he looked so pathetic.  My armor-coated force field was dissolving when the rain cascading off his pant-leg. I felt like he was peeing on my foot.  I said, "Sorry, I'm broke."  He was violently waving his arms and MF'ing the world as he marched back to the tiny bike and puttered away.

In a steady drizzlle at five minutes to six that day, I noticed Barney walking (not riding) the motor bike into the alley. He was all wet again except his white shirt was stained by automotive grease.  Inside, he walked past my craps table. I saw blood seeping through at his elbow. His black slacks were badly frayed to the middle of his right shin and two mud streaks extended across his right cheek.

The casino manager that hired him had already gone home. So the swing-shift boss says, “Are you Kush?"  Barney nodded. The boss said, "What happened to you?” Barney said, “Hit a pot-hole, skidded and took a spill. But don't worry about me, I’m here to work!” The boss said, “Son, I admire your willingness but we can’t have you looking like this. I’ll hold your job. Can you be back all cleaned up in an hour?” Barney's nose involuntarily went into a wrinkling spasm as his left eye fluttered. White gauze formed at the corners of his mouth as he said, “F-f-fuck you! I didn’t want to work for this cockamamie outfit anyway.” I watched limp away, pass the bike and vanish on foot into the darkness.

I phoned Ciro the Zero (he was still Ciro the Hero). I told him about Barney. He said, “I’ll make a couple of calls and we’ll find out what’s what.”

An hour later, he called back, “Rick (one of the jet-setters from school) said, ‘Vegas was eating Barney alive way before losing his job. Just like New York, he had no friends. Except here, he got caught-up with more gambling, booze and whores than ever. He was penniless. Last week, Barney found out that Rick and Tish broke up.  He conned her into letting him sleep on her couch a few days until he got on his feet. She came back from work a couple of days later and her apartment was stripped to the walls of anything that could be sold…and a neighbor’s putt-putt scooter was missing too.’” 

I said, "I knew he was a looney-toon but..." Ciro interrupted, "Someone like Barney always has someone after him.  I bet he only had the clothes on his back...and nowhere to go.  Guys like that get desperate, do stupid things and wind up six feet under...we got a pretty big desert out here..."

Over the next thirty-four years, I have NEVER heard of a Barney Kush sighting. That doesn’t mean he’s dead maybe he's doing time…but  I never heard even a rumor about him. So, maybe he is dead.

Too bad I can't contact "Party" Artie Cisco, I'd love to tell him that Barney earned a better nickname than "Fuckin' Bobby." If they're sharing a cell somewhere, then he already knows.

I still like to consider myself to be a "good person." And now that I’m aware of Aspergers, ADHD, OCD and adult ADD, I guess I’m supposed to feel sympathy for those afflicted…but forgive me, whether the Cockamamie Kid was sick and couldn't control himself or not, I still draw line and don't pity Barney Kush.

FREDDY THE FINGER

Father’s Day 1998 stands out in the highlight reel of my life. On that day, I had a one-on-one, Philadelphia Zoo road trip with my four-year old son Andrew. One of the golden moments of that day was the two of us riding on a camel. It was remarkable because Andrew had difficulties with motion, (I saved a fortune by never putting quarters in the mechanical horsey ride at the supermarket.  Andrew did like climbing on but all he wanted to do was sit…still).

AMAZINGLY, BY THE TIME ANDREW WAS EIGHT, HE HAD GRADUATED TO HEAVY-DUTY ROLLER-COASTERS.

I saw the camel ride up ahead and thought it would be cool for him to see. We watched for a minute then I said with tongue in cheek, “How about me and you riding that camel.” He said, “Okay.” I was in shock. On one hand, I wanted to strike quickly before he came to his senses…but on the other hand…just going on wasn’t good enough for me. I rolled the dice and took a gamble. I scanned the benches in the shady spectator area along side the ride and scoped-out the most trustworthy looking senior citizen I could find. I approached a kindly looking gentleman and asked him if he would mind using my camcorder to chronicle our three-minute odyssey.

I DON'T HAVE ANY STILL PHOTOS OF THIS WONDERFUL MOMENT IN PARENTING, BUT YOU'LL GET THE IDEA OF WHAT WE DID FROM THIS SHOT.

In adulthood, I have prided myself as being as excellent judge of character. Had I not trusted my thousand-dollar photo equipment with this man, I would have lost out on a tiny segment of film that’s worth a gazillion dollars to me.

This great moment in my life came to mind last month but for the wrong reason; this time my usual sharpness about people let me down. I’m certain when Charlieopera hears how I missed spotting a hump in the crowd he’ll say, “Oy vey! Are you stunod or what?”  (Of course there’s still a glimmer of hope that I’ll be proven right, but until that happens, it seems that my random act of kindness has come back to bite me in the ass…to the tune of a thousand dollars).

I won’t bore you with the details of my poor judgment until a final decision is reached, (maybe a lot will change until I go to press…in 48 hours). Until then, I will demonstrate a 1981 example of how I developed my ability to judge good character.

The following is an excerpt from my short story, “FREDDY THE FINGER.” This story is significant because it represents why I turned to writing out my Las Vegas adventures. I rarely told my father any details of the craziness I was exposed to while living out west. I was afraid he wouldn’t approve of my associations and the situations that I got into. After dad died suddenly in 1995, I realized how much he loved, “Freddy the Finger.” I should have had more faith in him and shared all my experiences with him. So, as a legacy to my son, wife and friends, I started writing these stories, (there are twenty).

I was twenty-four when I started dealing craps at the Stardust, on the fabulous Las Vegas strip. That’s quite an accomplishment considering I had no connections and only fifteen months experience. The other dealers were savvy and much older than me.  The low-level managers (boxmen and floormen) were rarely under forty and many were over seventy.

While I was still trying to fit in when my boxman (the immediate supervisor sitting between the dealers who regulates the game) fell asleep while our craps game was in progress. During his snooze, unattended cash buy-ins were strewn in front of him...and the other dealers weren’t rousing him. I wasn’t sharp enough to realize that Freddy Cantor was widely disliked. Far worse, I was witnessing him getting “jackpotted,” in the hope that this dereliction of duty would get him fired. When he started to snore, I nudged him and said, “You okay?” He sprang to life, plunged the money into the drop box and murmured, “I’m just a little tired.”

On one of our mutual breaks, Freddy profusely thanked me and added, “I owe you big time.” I shrugged it off but he said, “Lemme give some thought on how to repay you. You might have saved my job.”

In the days that followed, I was told that he was the most hated guy on our shift and that everyone called him, “Freddy the Finger.” I guessed his nickname came from the middle finger or giving someone the finger. But instead, it pertained to him, because the staff thought he was a rat, (a weasel that collaborated with management to “finger” malcontents, thieves and poor employees). Interestingly, Freddy was also missing his left ring finger, (even stranger, he wore his wedding band on his middle finger).

FREDDY TOLD DIFFERENT PEOPLE DIFFERENT STORIES ABOUT HIS MISSING FINGER.  THE MOST COMMON VERSION WAS IT WAS CUT OFF WHILE SCREWING-AROUND WITH THE MACHINES IN HIS UNCLE'S LEATHER GOODS FACTORY.  BUT HE ALSO TOLD A SELECT FEW THAT 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.

Freddy didn’t help his cause by smoking effeminate, thin, brown cigarettes and speaking with a creamy lisp. But what galled the casino staff much more was that he was sarcastic and had the swagger of a tough guy. Plus, he was also a namedropping braggart who implied he was so well-connected that he was untouchable. I learned right away that the possibility of this assertion being true saved him from getting his ass mightily kicked. I was so young, I thought Freddy was interesting. But just about everyone else thought he was a boorish exaggerator and a chronic liar.

Part of what made Freddy interesting to me was that he was from the Bronx and we shared many cultural similarities. So when we worked together and had laughing fits that bordered on being unprofessional, his enemies assumed that he was taking me under his dastardly wing.

One afternoon, the skies blackened as a wind-driven rainstorm ravaged Vegas. At 4:00PM, it was so dark that the automatic street lights cut on. An hour later, the power went off and I couldn’t get a dial tone. Huge palm fronds flew off the trees and smacked the exterior walls of my apartment. I kept imagining that a tree was going to crash into my kitchen. I couldn’t even take my mind off the situation by reading the newspaper because I had no candles or a flashlight. I was too nervous to sit there by myself so I got ready and left for work early.

The walk to my car was treacherous as rain and debris pelted down on me.  I must have looked like a mime struggling against the gale as I side-stepped loose household garbage, branches, rolling trashcans and a plastic chair. I turned on the car radio to hear a weather report but the Allman Brothers, “RAMBLING MAN,” caught my interest.

My two-block drive down Harmon Avenue to the strip was like viewing a nightmare through a kaleidoscope. My defroster didn’t work so I had to use my dealer’s apron to constantly wipe away the condensation. Up ahead, in the odd eclipse-like darkness, between the sweeps of my hyper-speed windshield wipers, I noticed something curious. Through the blurry, surreal mosaic, it turned out to be the twirling rack lights of a police cruiser. I was going five miles per hour as I zig-zagged around the obstacle course of fallen crap in my path. When I reached the cop car, a crew of fluorescent yellow-slickered workmen attended to a downed telephone pole.

On the next street, I saw a single dim, auxiliary light at the back of the Aladdin Casino. I made my right onto the strip and couldn’t believe that the daily glut of pedestrians (tourists) was missing. It felt apocalyptic without all the glittery neon signs as I crept without having to compete with other traffic past the MGM, Caesar’s and Flamingo. Next I went by the equally eerie, unlit Desert Inn and Sands. At the Frontier, their majestic marquee publicizing Roy Clark’s week-long appearance was half lit. On the brighter side, I caught a glimpse inside and it seemed like normal casino activity.

Before I reached the blackened Silver Slipper Casino, Roy Clark came on the radio playing, “GHOST RIDERS IN THE SKY.” What a coincidence to see his name and seconds later hear him sing on the radio. A sense of normalcy hit me as I pounded the steering wheel to the beat. Suddenly, I slammed on my brakes as an inside-out umbrella flew by me, across from the Stardust’s parking lot. That’s when I noticed one billboard completely lit-up…advertising that the circus was coming to the Convention Center.

Sheets of rain and howling wind made me scurry to the Stardust time office. But as the storm continued outside, it was business as usual inside. And that meant finding Freddy the Finger in the break room telling a group who didn’t care (but politely listened) how he used a hacksaw for two hours, to cut away the branches that hemmed his car in. His captive audience rolled their eyes and snickered as he claimed to have driven onto his neighbor’s lawn, to get around a UPS truck, in order to get to work.

Freddy 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 earth 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.  He lived up to his reputation of being a liar by saying, “Estelle isn’t in the mood for seafood so we’ll eat chinks instead.” I was in no position to say no. He said, “Do you know Jung Jie’s ? They make a great lobster Cantonese.”

In the restaurant’s bar, Freddy made the introductions. Estelle Cantor was wearing her gold Century-21 blazer. She was especially unattractive and a rather large woman. But that 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.

IT'S NO COMPLIMENT, ESTELLE CANTOR SOUNDED JUST LIKE SHEILA BROFLOVSKI FROM TV'S "SOUTH PARK."

While sipping a tropical drink out of a plastic pineapple, she never stopped babbling about real estate.

ESTELLE WAS A PLASTIC PHONY, JUST LIKE FREDDY.

Freddy idolized his wife.  He stared in awe of her as she rattled-off celebrity clients and awards she won. When she finally paused I tried to get Sue (she was my girlfriend back then) 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 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. When she finally stopped talking about herself she said, “On the way out, I must compliment the chef…he’s really out done himself.” Sue and I looked at each other and controlled our laughter.

We were all served the same entrée, roast pork egg fu yung, (a Chinese 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.

Freddy saw the disappointed look on 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, “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 she 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 would have strangled her and felt no remorse.

You'd think it couldn’t possibly get worse but it did. Estelle started a sales pitch, “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 her typical 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 and said, “C’mon doll, we gotta go.” Sue followed my lead. She thanked them and sharply whispered, “He can only ‘go’ on his own toilet.”

Estelle loudly said, “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 and told him how much of a douche Freddy turned out to be. He wasn’t shocked about my ordeal in the Chinese restaurant. But I got his attention when I leaked that Freddy said he was afraid of losing his job after I woke him up. That meant he wasn’t “untouchable” like had implied. This dealer concluded, “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 I didn’t know what he meant.

A few days later, I worked with Freddy for the first time since our date from hell. I tried not to laugh but he knew how to push the right buttons. So I settled into the idea that he was a fun work friend but not a friend outside work.

Later in that laugh-filled shift, we were standing dead. I saw Freddy staring down at the bankroll, straining to hold back laughter by covering his mouth with his hand. For a second he looked up with his hand still firmly clasped over his mouth. He looked like he was going to explode into another laugh spasm as he pointed with his eyes to the far right. He then resumed staring at the chip bank. When I saw what he meant, my head involuntarily sprang back to the left as I too became paralyzed with Freddy’s laughing affliction.

This kind of childishness was not tolerated at the Stardust and I didn’t want Freddy to get me in trouble. I composed myself and concentrated my gaze on the center of the craps game. Freddy had calmed down too but at one point, our eyes met and we started all over again. We had gotten away with our petty silliness all night but this was different, everyone near our table stopped 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?” It sounded pretty funny coming from a man who reeked of cheap booze every night. Nonetheless, we assured him that we were all right.

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. Then I heard the last thing I wanted to hear, another dealer (the stickman) on my crew 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 Vietnan War vet with a talent for saying and doing the dumbest things. I knew what this moron was referring to so my mind screamed, "Don't turn around..." but of course I did.

In a split second, I looked, 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 too was howling.  With hundreds of eyes on me, I squeezed my stomach muscles.  Then from the diaphragm, I took three deep 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 and son.  They were dragging slot machine stools to our table when I got my first good look at them.  The dad was excited and cheerful but the son who seemed to be going through the motions to please his dad was austere.  From his attitude, I gathered that he knew they was getting laughed at and didn't like it.

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.  So to play, he had to stand on the stool and hold the craps table rail with his hand.

It was decided that the father would shoot the dice first.  I am clueless (even thirty-plus years later) what possessed Freddy to tell Walter, "Give him the 'short stick.'"

Freddy was kidding.  But Walter's military background compelled him to follow orders.  He was so buried by the absurdity of Freddy's statement that he left the dice a bit too far away from the dad, (this ploy was saved for women in low-cut blouses.  So when they reached for the dice, they further exposed their cleavage). 

The dad 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.

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 the table.

Our pit boss Chick Halversen rushed over and exclaimed, "What the fuck is going on?"  Now nobody was laughing!  The dad was now standing on the table as he set himself to climb the table's wall.  Chick repeated himself, "What happened?"  The dad peeked over his shoulder with a cute chuckle, "This always happens to me."  Chick shook his head, "Just when I thought I saw it all..."  Chick came around to greet the dad in the aisle and offered them a meal ticket.  As the two men walked away, the son turned back and gave me a harsh glare.  But because his dad took the high road...none of us were disciplined.

At quitting time, 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 found out there had been another downpour during the night. I hopped over puddles and walked around the mini-lakes.  Then I heard my name called.  It was that idiot Walter.  He was excited and happy as he ran straight towards me.  I back-pedaled so I wouldn't lose my homeward momentum.  I was shaking my head in disbieleif as I watched the Neanderthal splash through every puddle in this path.  Then I carelessly stepped into a water-filled crater.  The bottom of my left pant leg, my shoe and sock were sopping wet.  I was hobbling when Walter 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."  Walter had a perplexed look as he stammered, "N-n-n-o.  Are y-y-you okay from b-b-b-before, when you clocked out?"  I knew he hated being called by his nickname and said, "Disaster, what are you talking about?"  He said, "Then you're okay?"  I said, "Heh?"  He 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!"

WAY BEFORE...WHAT HAPPENS IN LAS VEGAS...

In January 1979, (I was twenty-three years old), I showed up for my first day at the Slots-A-Fun Casino with my brand new "Sheriff's Card" in my billfold.  Before I was permitted to work, I had to show these credentials to the boss.    

DUE TO THE FEAR OF ORGANIZED CRIME INFILTRATION, A COSTLY NEW JERSEY GAMING LICENSE INCLUDED AN IN DEPTH BACKGROUND CHECK.  THIS LENGTHY INVESTIGATION CAUSED THE MOST ROUTINE APPLICANT TO WAIT SEVERAL MONTHS, EVEN A YEAR TO BE APPROVED. NEVADA WAS DIFFERENT, IT HAD AN "INNOCENT UNTIL PROVEN GUILTY" ATTITUDE. TO GET MY "SHERIFF'S CARD,"  I WAITED IN LINE FOR FIFTEEN MINUTES AND PAID THREE DOLLARS. 


I carefully slid my sheriff's card back into my unique billfold. My billfold was a card holder that some salesmen used to display credit card-sized photos of their goods, (it was practical too because it had two hidden sleeves that were suitable for storing small amounts of paper money).  Even though I received a lot of flak because it was a less than masculine baby blue, I liked it because of the gimmick I developed, (too bad I was never clever enough to take a picture of it). 

The gimmick I discovered, included putting the heavier, laminated cards like my Brooklyn Collge ID and draft card at the top.  That way, I could fling the cards forward simultaneously while saying, "Let me present my card." Like an accordian, the plastic compartments would fly open towards who ever I aimed it.  People thought it was funny..the manager at my new job...not so much.  However, about a week later, I found out that one of the dealers waiting to go home on my first day, Pete Izzo, thought it was hilarious.

It should be noted that Vegas was separated into two licensing jurisdictions, (basically, the strip and downtown).  The specific border that divided the city from the county was Sahara Avenue.  Therefore a toilet like Slot-A-Fun which was south of Sahara was technically in the high rent district, (a.k.a. the fabulous Las Vegas Strip), and required a sheriff's card.   On the other hand, the rinky-dink casinos downtown, (north of Sahara), required a "police card." Much of this story is concentrated on that Sahara Avenue division.

I ALWAYS HAVE TROUBLE FINDING DECENT SLOTS-A-FUN PICTURES ON THE INTERNET.  IRONICALLY, I'VE HAD THIS ONE ALL ALONG, (TAKEN BY MY DAD IN JANUARY 1980).


Pete Izzo (25) was so fascinated by my billfold gimmick that he tried to buy it off me.  He was such a nice guy that even when I turned him down, we became passing friends. 

Izzo was a sloppy, fat guy from Woonsocket Rhode Island.  His dark, pockmarked, oily complexion and sharp facial features gave him a caveman look.  His greasy, wild hair was a trifle long for casino standards.  But due to his tough exterior and claim of connections to the wise-guys in Providence, noboby bothered him over such trivialities.

On one of my night's off, I bumped into Pete and two of his fellow, Slots-A-Fun graveyard shift dealers.  They were a rather large trio. His buddies were, Joe Imperiale, (a 310-pound former college football player) and Frank Ianucci (who was built like Izzo, at 5-11 and 260 pounds).  I later nicknamed them.  Then years later, I wrote a corresponding blog, (March 1, 2010) called, "THE LAW FIRM OF, IMPERIALE, IANUCCI AND IZZO." 

They were on their way to the El Cortez Casino for the steak dinner special and invited me along.  Later, we played twenty-five cent craps and drank for free all night.  I hung with them on my night off many times.  In the weeks to come, we made several more visits the El Cortez.  Also, we went to Jai Alai at the MGM on three occasions (until we got barred for life) and horse back riding once.

Izzo's tough exterior was just a front.  He was a country boy at heart and his move to Las Vegas was the first time he had ever left Rhode Island.  Privately, he was a milk and cookies kind of guy who missed his mother and phoned her every Sunday.  Another part of this big galoot's unwillingness to leave home was a fear of flying and driving.  He was okay on a bus, in a taxi or as a car passenger but to move west, he took AMTRAK.  Therefore it was shocking that he got on a horse, (at the time, I joked that the other horse's were jealous of my horse because at 190 pounds, I was a twig compared to them).

Sometimes, I pushed the envelope with Pete.  Luckily, he thought my "jealous horse" line was funny. He also had a sense of humor when we wound-up at Denny's for munchies, at six o'clock in the morning.  Imperiale, Ianucci and I all had breakfast food but Izzo ordered "Dinner Italiano," (a.k.a. the slop Denny's called meatballs and spaghetti). 

We were all cutting up Izzo's odd choice up when Ianucci said, "Are you sure your Italian?"  In the middle of gulping his root beer Izzo countered, "Pure Sicilian!" Imperiale sneered, "Your mother would be so proud." Izzo interrupted our laughter by saying, "You assholes can drop dead! 'Cause I know when you see my plate, you'll all want some...and you can beg till you're blue in the damned face...but I ain't givin' up shit!"

Izzo dug in as soon as he was served. His contorted expression signaled to us that he made a poor food choice.  He moaned, "Yous wanna try this?"  We shook our heads.  To save face, he devoured the whole mess.  We had a good laugh at his expense when he looked up from the empty dish with red sauce all over his face.  Pete Izzo stated with a sigh of satisfaction, "That was pretty good. But these guys would make a fortune if they made pizza."  I looked at his sausy face and said, "You look like a friggin' pizza."  Then the joke hit me.  So, I modified the pronounciation and said, "Your new name is 'Pizza,' (more specifically 'Pete-Sza').  He didn't care so after that day, that's what I usually called him.

Imperiale and Ianucci left Slots-A-Fun for better jobs at the same time that I was pushing myself to get out.  On one of my last shifts, I crossed paths with Izzo as I was rushing in and he was rushing out. I noticed that he had a fresh, short haircut and cracked, "Hey Pete-Sza, you look different...what did you do, wash your face?"  He gave me a dirty look.  That look stayed with me because after I left the job, I didn't see him for several more months.

By December 1979, I was living with SK28 on East Sahara and dealing craps at Hotel Fremont.

I WAS AT THE FREMONT FROM SEPTEMBER 1979 UNTIL MARCH 1980.  ON THE NIGHT BEFORE MY FIRST DAY, I WRECKED MY CAR. SO MOST OF THE TIME I LIVED WITH SK28, I HAD NO WHEELS.

SK28 had no car either.  He was a pan dealer and break-in poker dealer at the Sahara Casino.  This was way before casino Texas Hold'em went viral.  So SK28, in order to qualify as a poker dealer had to serve an apprenticeship by acting as a Hold'em player to fill spots on the table during his breaks from dealing pan.

PAN, FROM THE PHILIPPINE WORD, PANGUINGUE (pan-geen-gee) IS A RUMMY-LIKE, 320-CARD GAMBLING GAME.  IT DATES BACK TO THE 1800's AND WAS INTRODUCED IN THE USA IN 1905.  IT IS NO LONGER OFFERED IN LAS VEGAS CASINOS AND CAN ONLY BE FOUND IN A HANDFUL OF CALIFORNIA CARD ROOMS OR ONLINE.

SK28 could rationalize not needing a car because he could walk to work, a shopping center and the bus stop easily.  One night, I walked to the Sahara to meet SK28 after work.  We had decided to eat in the steakhouse diagonally across the street, in the Jolly Trolley Casino, (by being on opposite sides of the jurisdiction border, Jolly Trolley workers required a police card and Sahara employees needed a sheriff's card).

The Jolly Trolley Casino was a bust-out, saw-dust joint with a terrible reputation for attracting low-lifes as clientele, dealers and managers.  To lure in gamblers, they had a seedy topless theater.  At the snack bar, (which offered a huge hamburger for 49c), if you sat in the right seats, you could avoid the cover charge and get a cheap thrill when the bouncer pulled aside the curtain and exposed the dancers.

While I was waiting in the Sahara for SK28 to punchout, I saw Pete "Pete-Sza" Izzo playing poker.  He was dressed like a knucklehead tourist and was toting a plastic bag full of Vegas souvenirs.  He whispered that he was a professional poker player and duped the so-called sharpies by having them think he was a mook (an easy mark) from out-of-town.  He also explained that he lived nearby and played a lot at the Sahara.  Similar to SK28, he liked living in the area because the city bus was convenient and made the whole town excessible.

We exchanged phone numbers.  Once I dropped by his apartment and we went to the Jolly Trolley for a burger, a beer and some cheap thrills.  He had two of each so my check was half his $1.98.

The second time we decided to have lunch at the Trolley, I was sitting on his sunken-in couch admiring his littered living room.  I was amazed to see so many partially-finished Fudge-Covered Oreo Cookie packages and the army of McDonald's chocolate thick shake empties.  I complemented his choice of cookies but added, "How can you drink so much of that aerated kaopectate?" as the phone rang.  Someone told him about a lucrative poker tournament at the Aladdin Casino. Pete-Sza excused himself from lunch and wasted no time in getting his faux-tourist uniform on.  We were going in the same direction so I waited with him at the bus stop, (same corner as the Jolly Trolley).  When he got on, I went into the casino.

THE JOLLY TROLLEY  (1977-1981) WAS LOCATED IN A STRIP MALL, (PARDON THE PUN).  IT WAS ORIGINALLY HONEST JOHN'S CASINO.  IT BECAME THE BIG WHEEL IN 1971 AND FROM 1975-1977, IT WAS CALLED THE CENTERFOLD.

I got my belly-full as well as many quick glimpses of the topless girls.  But when I reached for my baby blue billfold that I used as a funny gimmick, it was no laughing matter...it was gone...and I was penniless.  Based on their scummy reputation, I loudly made a fool of myself and claimed to have been the victim of a pickpocket.  That dump was used to vermin...except it was the bouncer accusing me of being a cockroach trying to beat a 99c check.  I was powerless to resist and was ushered out.  In the street, I was confused, mortified and angry.

A few weeks later, I got a new (old) car and a different apartment miles away. I fell out of touch with Pete-Sza again.  In that time, the porn star Marilyn Chambers did a one-women show called, "THE SEX SURROGATE," in the Jolly Trolley showroom. 

MARILYN CHAMBERS (1952-2009) WAS AT THE TOP OF HER CRAFT THROUGH THE 70's AND INTO THE 80's.   IN THAT TIME, SHE APPEARED IN 36 HARDCORE FILMS.

Ms. Chambers was supposed to use the Jolly Trolley opportunity as a springboard to the legitimate singing and dancing career she always wanted.  But her act featured full-frontal nudity during an interpretative dance as she pantomimed an orgasm during self-satisfaction.  Vice cops were in the audience so her first and only performance was stopped.

Months later, I got a call from SK28.  He said Pete Sza called and found my billfold in the cushions of his couch. When I was re-united with my Canarsie branch of the Brooklyn public library card, New York State driver's license, some pictures and other forms of ID, I was also relieved that all eleven of my dollars were still hidden in the secret compartments.

It was no surprise to me that the Jolly Trolley lived-up to its reputation and closed down in disgrace.  That's when a keno player hit the top prize $25,000.00 and the Nevada Casino Control Commission revoked their license because the casino didn't have enough cash to pay-off.

CASINO KENO IS A LIVE, INEXPENSIVE, LOW-PERCENTAGE LOTTERY-LIKE GAMBLING GAME. TWENTY OUT OF EIGHTY NUMBERED PING PONG BALLS ARE RANDOMLY CHOSEN AND THE PLAYERS WHO MATCH ENOUGH NUMBERS WIN.  IN 1979, THE JACKPOT WAS $25,000.00.  THESE DAYS, IT'S DOUBLE.

Today that strip mall boasts a true Las Vegas landmark, the world's biggest gift shop.

IN 2009, I TOOK MY FAMILY INSIDE.  AND YES ANY CHINTZY LAS VEGAS SOUVENIR YOU COULD IMAGINE IS FOR SALE IN THIS INCREDIBLY LARGE STORE.  MY ONLY REGRET WAS THAT I DIDN'T SEE PETE-SZA BUYING NEW PROPS TO SUPPORT HIS" INEXPERIENCED POKER PLAYER" SECRET IDENTITY.

These days the Las Vegas Chamber of Commerce and Better Business Bureau have teamed-up with slogan; What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas.  Now that you read this blog, you know the craziness out there...is nothing new.