If I owned a casino, all the card dealers would be magicians.
All the card dealers were magicians. These guys were dishing out the cards from underneath their diamond cuff links with expert precision. We had the hairy dealer. Large white beard, wearing glasses with lenses so heavy, they kept falling off his face. Blackjack was the game, my friend Carmen always made me play blackjack with her. She was obsessed with the game, an addict. Maybe that's why I like her, she can admit she's an addict, and she doesn't give a shit. I just sat there, let the other folks at the table play this round without me, I was too polite.
"What's your name?" I asked the dealer.
"Winter."
"Really?"
"No, it's Charlie, but everyone thinks I look like Edgar Winter, well, you get it." Fireworks explode behind him and he begins dealing cards on the felt. Great, my name twin is a near blind polar bear in a shriner hat who's still tripping on bad acid from a wild night in the 70's. Carmen's sitting on my left, she looks entirely unaffected by this strange coincidence, good, it doesn't mean anything anyway, just a coincidence.
Charlie, Winter, whatever.
I always wondered if Carmen can count cards, she always had a smug look on her face as she lazily looked over the table. Every time she spoke to the dealer a puff of smoke would follow her words, clouding the table to give her a better look at the hand she was dealt. Yeah, that's probably her strategy, become a magician yourself. I'm no genius, imagination always had its reign in this brain.
It got a bit chilly in there. I began tapping my foot on my stool nervously, I took off to venture beyond the blackjack. I quit smoking ages ago, but all the squinting elderly folk were shortening my leash with their second hand bliss. Choking me into submission. A cocktail waitress strolled by in a tight sequinned frock with red feathers dangling all over the bodice as if to hypnotize everyone, possibly in effort to better confuse our interactions with the skeezy magician dealers. I waved her over.
"Where can I get a pack of smokes in..." She quickly touched her gloved finger to my lips. Shut me up like a puppy in a cage. The waitress pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes from her garter belt.
"I just quit, have em'."
"Thanks!" I took a glass of champagne off of her tray, tipped her $10, bet you another $10 I'll win it back tonight anyway.
Thought to myself that if I worked in a place like this, I would probably quit smoking for good, right? Sickly slot junkies inhaling smog only to turn it into dust after their last five years of triple wishes. Only the down and out want to serve and watch people day after day as they gaze at a machine. There's no romance, or anything just as interesting about slot machines that could keep my attention. The players get their rush somehow though. Maybe they're meditating. Yes, that must be the answer. Breaking news, zen slot machine meditation craze sweeps into Vegas overnight. If I worked here, I know I'd be just as tempted as I am now to smoke. I mozy around and light a Lucky, side glancing at the slot zombies, at least try a card game for chrissakes. Maybe I'll write a story about this experience, not likely.
The maroon and black paisley carpet reminded me of the walls in an old saloon I visited earlier this summer, I was impressed. Sometimes I'm easily impressed. I'm drawn to simple things that tie the other stuff together, like the similarities in the carpet and the wallpaper, at least I explain it to myself that way. I tried doing the French inhale, I've been practicing...ended up getting smoke in my eyes, looked like I was crying over losing my life savings. Suddenly, laughter roared from the craps table. I couldn't resist temptation yet again. See what I mean? Easily impressed. I needed to be in on this, I walked faster, my heels felt like they were going to break underneath my soles. Still, I tried to carry some sort of grace as I curled around each player, soaking in the genuine smiles and chatter as I sipped the rest of my champagne. I stopped directly behind a man clad in a grey jacket who was about to roll. I leaned in to whisper into his ear...he turned around, I was shocked and dropped the glass in my hand. It broke over my shoe. The lady behind me bumped into my back, knocking me over into the table, at which point the laughter increased in decibels. The shooter picked me up off the table and immediately threw the round's come out roll. A goddamn seven lay before us....
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Note: This is just a stream of consciousness bout. I have written nothing further for this story.
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