Gambling doesn't run in my family although my great-grandfather supposedly disappeared from the State of Georgia without a forwarding address. His departure forced my great-grandmother and her two daughters to take refuge up north with her uncle in Augusta Maine. This flight from misfortune probably occurred around 1895. No one in my family ever explained the causes of this misfortune.
Another woman versus gambling.
I always chose gambling, since no one in my family gambles on anything.
Not horses. Not football. Not cards.
At least not until late-May 1973, when I crossed the Nevada state line in a drive-away car headed west on I-90. My two companions on this cross-country trip were my good friend Andy Kornfeld and a blonde co-ed from California. She did little of the driving. More from male superiority than choice and she didn't protest our first stop at Oasis. It was dawn and we were hungry. After a quick breakfast I entered the small casino and sat at the blackjack table. I had never played the game of chance, but won over $150 in thirty minutes. I would have stayed longer, except both Andy and the blonde ( I remember her name as 'Carol') were glaring at me. They wanted to be in San Francisco, not a dusty town in the high plains.
"That was easy." I boasted counting my take in the front seat.
"Beginner's luck." Carol commented from the rear. She was pretty, but neither Andy nor I had come close to touching her. My luck was strictly at cards and not getting speeding tickets.
"That and it being my birthday." 22 years old. legal to do anything in the USA that was legal for adults.
Two hours later I tested my luck further at a cowboy gambling hall in Elko. My streak continued unabated and we rode out of town with my winnings of $250. This was double the cash in my pocket and I started thinking about flying back to Boston rather than hitchhiking. The fantasy of first-class seats for both Andy and me flourished with another triumphant sit-down at the cool green tables in Winnemucca. $1000 in total. Easily enough for a car.
We reached Reno at sunset. My friends suggested that we continue onto California. The border was up the old trail along the Truckee River. I wanted to see the Sierras in the light of the sunrise. Andy and Carol acquiesced to my request.
"One last time at the tables." I was dreaming of $2000. Double or nothing. The casino in Reno was bigger than any of those along I-90. Slots, roulette, poker, blackjack. The staff was in uniform. I sat at the nearest table. The dealer was a buxom blonde. I played my cards right and soon was approaching my goal. I pulled over Andy and handed him $1000.
"Don't give this to me. No matter what I say." I was smart enough to realize that once the bug bit the victim stayed bit, having read Fyodor Dostoevsky's short novel THE GAMBLER. I refused to fall into that trap, but the casinos don't make money by letting first-timers win big and the floor boss sent over a skinny brunette in a band-aid mini-skirt.
"Would you care for a drink?" Her smile gleamed in the eternal neon day.
"A Jack and Coke."
I don't remember much after that. I drank more and more. The cards ran against my river of luck. There was a a brief argument with Andy and then blank.
I woke up with a raging hang-over. The Truckee River was only ten feet away from me. The cascades rushing over worn boulders drown out the traffic on I-90. Two silhouettes stood over me.
Andy and Carol.
"Did I lose it all?"
"Yes." Carol shook her head and walked away to the station wagon.
"And you gave me back the $1000?"
"You threatened to punch me out." Andy walked away too and I sat up to check my pockets. They weren't kidding. I had blown all my winnings and some of my stash for the trip. This was a disaster and I stood with some difficulty, wondering how many Jack and Coke's I might have drank. The razors inside my skull said more than ten and I shambled over to the car with the pain of having learned the ageless lesson that alcohol and gambling don't mix.
It was a lesson I only had to learn once.
At least only once as far as i can remember.
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