Beginner’s Luck

Recently Jan and I accompanied a group of friends from our town to a Supertramp concert in a nearby city. When the show ended, someone suggested we check out the local casino. I had never been to a casino before. My mind conjured up Hollywood-inspired images of beautiful people, laughter and glittering roulette wheels. Hey, that sounded like fun! We hopped into our vehicles and headed out to The Slots.

The lot was jam-packed, so it took us a while to find parking spots. When we finally got into the lobby the first thing I noticed was a sign stating any patrons found leaving their children unattended in the parking lot would be banned from the premises for five years. There were also several posters for Gamblers Anonymous and Ontario Addiction Services on the walls. Hmm… .

We decided to go watch the horse races. There were a few hundred spectators at the downs. A huge scoreboard above the racetrack updated the odds continuously. One of our friends had a little gambling experience, so he gave us a crash course on how to bet on horses. Perhaps I misunderstood him, but it sounded to me like I could either bet on the favourite and win a pittance, or bet on one of the long shots and lose my shirt. It seemed like an expensive way to have a good time.

After watching pint-sized jockeys whip their tired steeds around the track for half an hour we lost interest and returned to the main building. By then I was getting pretty hungry, so I asked one of the employees where the restaurant was. He advised me the cafeteria was the only place where food could be purchased. I went in and looked around. They had every species of Cheezies, Pringles and Doritos known to man, but no hot meals or sandwiches. Oh, well. It was time to get the show on the road. We hurried down the main hallway, past a knot of beefy security guards and into the casino.

It was like stepping into The Twilight Zone. Hundreds of slot machines filled the room, and nearly all of them were occupied. The glassy-eyed zombies playing the slots were pushing buttons and pulling levers like well-trained lab rats. Whenever the credit on their machines ran out, most people automatically pulled out a fresh bill and carried on playing. Some of them were using $100 bills. Every other player had a cigarette in hand. Once in a while they’d stop pushing buttons long enough to take a drag. The air was blue with smoke.

I took a stroll around the room. Most people looked as though they didn’t have a lot of disposable income. There were markedly few conversations taking place, and no one was laughing. Everyone seemed to be grimly fixated on their slot machine. I noticed several players wearing necklaces with a credit card-type device attached to them. The cards were inserted into a special groove located on the front of each machine. I asked a waitress what they were for.

“Oh, those are frequent player cards. It works kind of like Air Miles. The card keeps track of how much you play. The more you play, the more points you get. When you accumulate enough points you can trade them in for things like food or free lottery tickets. Would you like me to get you one?”

“No, thank you,” I replied. I backed away from her warily.

There were no seats for non-players in the room. Your options were to play, stand around and get lung cancer, or leave. I decided to play.

I found a vacant one-armed bandit, sat down and fed it $20. My cash was instantly converted into 80 credits. It reminded me of something I once read in a psychology textbook: Converting money into more abstract things like poker chips or “credits” tends to make people less inhibited about spending it. Someone showed me how to work the device. Essentially, all I had to do was press one button to specify the quantity of money I wanted to bet, then either press a second button or pull down the lever to make the icons spin. If a winning combination lined up I’d be awarded credits; otherwise credits would be deducted. I could cash out at any time. It seemed straightforward enough. I started pressing buttons.

Press, press, look.

Press, press, look.

Not exactly the most intellectual game going, but frighteningly enough there was an undeniable appeal to it. It was sort of like participating in a lottery – even though you were fully aware the odds of winning big were almost zero, each time you pressed that second button you felt like this could be the time you won the jackpot.

I must have been having a bit of beginner’s luck, because 15 minutes later I was up to 120 credits. The Vulcan in me spoke up: Now would be a logical time for you to quit and cash out a winner.

“Are you kidding? I’m on a roll! Nothing can stop me now!”

But the odds are stacked against you, so if you play long enough, you’ll be guaranteed to lose.

“No way, killjoy - I’m red hot! I’m going all the way!”

Suit yourself.

I continued playing.

Five minutes later I was down to 30 credits. A waitress came by.

“Would you like a drink, sir?”

I hesitated. Drinking and gambling are two activities that probably should not be combined.

“No, thank you.”

“Coffee and pop are free,” she added.

“Do you have decaf?”

“No.”

I knew if I had a cup of regular coffee this late at night I’d be up for hours. I’m sure there’s nothing a casino likes better than an insomniac playing one of their slot machines.

“No thanks.” As she turned to go I asked, “Any idea what time it is?”

“Sorry, I don’t have a watch.”

I caught a glimpse of the wrist of another casino employee who happened to be passing by. No watch. I scanned the walls. There wasn’t a single clock in the entire room. There were no windows, either – all the lighting came from artificial sources. Background music was curiously absent. The only sound was the trance-like drone of the slot machines. It was almost hypnotic. No clocks, no windows, perpetual light and continuous white noise. Whoever designed this room obviously wanted to make its occupants as oblivious to the passage of time as possible. The Room That Time Forgot. Talk about the ultimate gambling environment. I returned to my game.

A short while later my credits ran out. Without even thinking, I fished out another bill. I was about to slide it in when my inner Vulcan murmured: Are you sure you want to go down this road?

I thought about it for a spell, then stood up.

The player to my right squinted at me dully. I noted with some disquiet that we bore a passing resemblance. In addition to looking like he was half in the bag, he was tethered to his machine by one of those creepy Frequent Gambler umbilical cords. I wondered if somewhere out there a family was waiting for him to come home. Hoping and waiting. Night after night.

“Ya done already?” he slurred.

“Yep.”

“Well, dat’s how it goes, eh? Ya put yer money in da @$#% machine, ya press da button and it eats yer @$#% money!” He leaned over to my freshly vacated slot machine, dropped a couple of tokens in and pulled down the lever. Three different icons tumbled into place. He shrugged, turned back to his own unit and resumed playing.

Out-bluffing the Kids

Our friend Gord is an ER doc in a nearby city. Last winter we invited him to visit us in our small town. One of the things he and his two sons mentioned they wanted to do during their stay with us was go sledding. A few hours before they arrived, Jan inspected our sliding paraphernalia. The crazy carpets were fine, but our sleds were in woeful condition. She drove to Canadian Tire and returned with two new GT racing sleds. They cost $50 apiece.

Assembling things like GTs greatly exceeds my virtually non-existent mechanical capabilities. Luckily for me, when Gord got to our house he offered to help. We sat on the kitchen floor and surrounded ourselves with a slew of sled parts. After 30 minutes of head-scratching and tinkering we managed to put together a pair of GTs that looked more or less like the ones on the covers of the boxes. We both felt that applying the decals would take more time than it was worth, so we skipped that step.