Welcome back pal.
I'm in a predicament. The soup. A quandary. Perplexed. Dilemma. Damned thesaurus won't give me the right word. Okay, I'm downright stumped! You see, I've been thrown a curve ball.
The Chief Proprietor and Editor of this journal gave me a call and asked me to have a discourse about the holidays. "Tell some stories about Christmas and New Years, " he enticed. No problem there, I've got plenty. Now comes the proverbial icing on the crumpets, "Take as much column space as you want," he egged me on. Well you know and I know that's one sure way to shut a writer up. Give me a limited amount of space to fill; I can do that and more, lickety split. Tell me to write as much as I want, and I'm in a fix. A predicament. The soup. A quandary…. You get the picture. "Pass the scotch, Ernest! This column is going to be a happening!"
One thing for sure is that my promise to talk about the Prince, at least the Prince I was talking about in my last column, is out. That'll have to wait. My orders are Christmas and New Years. Who cares about any one individual who could, and would, lose $30 million or more at a single sitting, anyway?" Can you imagine how many hookers were hanging around that table? Lordy me!
This here "Scribbler" column appears to have some readers. A lot of readers. A multitude of readers. (How's THAT for taking up column space, boss?) If I've been asked once, I've been asked 1,000 times…. "Are all of those casino stories you tell really true?" Well, yes they are. The next question is, "How can that many things happen to one guy?"
I guess I've been lucky to some extent, but any one who was in the casino business in the '70's or '80's or before will tell you that it was "fly by the seat of your pants" management and a lot of spontaneous episodes. Yeah, those were the really fun days. They were exciting, and I do mean exciting. Believe it or not, for every story that I have related so far in this column this year, I have five or six more to tell.
I repeat that I have been fortunate. For example, there was the staff Christmas party at the Flamingo in 1970. The boss, Burton Cohen, issued an order that there would be absolutely no booze at the party because he didn't want anyone getting drunk and doing stupid things. Well, by now you know me. I'd just finished emptying the second bottle of vodka into the punch bowl at the party in the Sky Room when Burton showed up. He went straight to the punch, slipped in a cup, and took a sip. I was standing right next to him when he peeked under the table and viewed the empty bottles. You know what? Those damned things said "Smirnoff" on them!
"What are those?" he scowled, as he latched onto a brand new and very full bottle. I, of course, assumed at that point that I was toast.
"Water bottles?" I croaked.
"Well, the Goddam punch needs more water, then!” he thundered and emptied the jug into the punch bowl. “And you? You’re just lucky I didn’t catch you putting booze into this punch bowl!” He took a fresh sip of what was almost pure vodka by now and told me I’d better start mixing up some more because this stuff was going to go fast.
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A fellow had dinner with his girlfriend in the Sky Room on Christmas Eve. They ran up a $350 tab, which was quite a lot in 1970. He signed the tab to his non-existent room, "S. Claus." The two came back on New Years Eve and the waiter vaguely remembered them, so he let the guy sign the tab again. This time it was "Hap E. Nuyear."
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New Years Eve at the Sahara, December 31, 1986 was an event to remember. We had two wonderful bands in that convention area, one on each side of the room. There were almost 2,000 people there, all dancing and carousing and partying like animals, (giraffes, to be particular,). As for me, I was used to smoking like a chimney and the pack was empty. I went down stairs and paid $3.00 for a pack at the gift shop and arrived back to the New Years Party just in time for Auld Lang whatever. "What're you resolving for New Years?" one of my high-roller friends asked. "Why don't you give up smoking?"
"I do quit," I agreed, and threw the unopened pack on the table.
"Thanks," he snatched them up. "I DON'T!" By the way, after a lifetime of heavy smoking, that was my last; I quit cold turkey and I still remember almost every miserable moment of the days that followed.
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On New Years Day, the Security Chief grabbed me and told me that one of my players had been hauled off to the hospital. "He got drunk last night and fell down the escalator."
Of course, I spent a great deal of investigation trying to identify the hapless soul, in order that I might at least offer my sympathy. Well, I came across Larry as he was checking out at the Front Desk. I knew immediately that he was the victim; he had swollen, red escalator tracks up and down his bulbous nose.
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A very, very, very, very…. (Did I say "VERY?"), attractive looking cocktail waitress at the Aladdin came over to me at the New Years Party of December 31, 1976. They all wore very skimpy, see-through lace uniforms in those days. She wrapped her arms around me and stroked my hair so softly as she allowed the sultry scent of her enticingly perfumed self to waft into my welcoming nostrils. Every sensory ending on my body was alive with fire as she stuck her warm tongue into my ear and whispered, "It's New Years. Don't you really want some wild, kinky sex?"
What can you say? I suppose that, being a writer of great talent, I could have responded with some eloquent, poetic verbiage. However, I just gurgled. I mean, pal, I just gurgled. "That guy over there told me to give you his room number," she cooed.
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One last holiday story before I get into the meat of this column, no pun intended. This story is a good story. At least, I hope that you take it as a good story. It starts with a good friend of mine by the name of Ed.
Ed used to come to Vegas and let it all hang out. He'd get totally schnnnnockered and lose his $5,000 credit line and usually much more, go home with a flat wallet and with his head tucked down, and then he'd send me a check. Well, this particular holiday weekend, I wandered by the blackjack table where Ed was wrapped around his usual glass of booze, and I noticed two things. For one, he had about $15,000 in chips in front of him. As for the second, he had a face card and an ace turned up and he was scratching for a hit.
"Ed! Why are you asking for a hit? You already have a blackjack!"
"Those other guys all have more cards than I got," he explained, nearly falling out of his chair. "The more cards you got, the more you win!" Actually, his words were slurred so badly that I couldn't possibly describe them here. "Anywhoooo," as he used to say, I had the pit boss count the chips in front of him. Then, I collared two security guards, one to take Ed up to his room and one to take the chips to the cashier's cage. I placed them in a safety deposit box, for which I took the key.
The inevitable call came the next afternoon. It was Ed. "I think I got a little drunk last night," he said, as usual. "How much do I owe you this time?"
"Ed," I lamented, "You got carried away. You owe $20,000."
There was a silence. Then, there was a sucking noise, followed by a four-letter expletive starting with "F" and ending with "C." "Uhhh, Bobby. Uhhhh, I really need to talk with you. Uhhh, can we meet at the cashier's cage?" And, we met. And, he was embarrassed and so sorry and he explained to me that he couldn't pay the $20,000 at that time. He was trembling.
"You know damned well, Ed, we in the casino business don't take kindly to people who gamble more than they can pay," I said, as sternly as I could. "And, you know what happens to people who don't pay up." His eyes rolled back into his head. "Here, Ed" I said, as I handed him the key to the safety deposit box, "Have the cashier open this box."
His eyes almost popped out when he saw all of the chips inside along with a slip describing the total as being $15,160. "What's this?"
"Ed, they're yours. You don't owe us a dime. You won this last night," I explained. "Merry Christmas."
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We weren't a financially wealthy family, by any means. My father did have his Doctorate's degree from Columbia University, but he'd spent his life working for the government in a relatively low-paying job trying to help Native Americans obtain a better education so that they could survive in the modern world. Nevertheless, every Thanksgiving and Christmas saw the house fill with 20 or so guests for dinner, most of which were single. "Everyone needs to be with friends or family for Thanksgiving and Christmas," he'd say. "That's what life is all about."
My mother was one of those rare people who saw the humorous side of everything in life. She had the ability to turn the utmost dire circumstances into something to smile about; to lighten the load, to touch some unhappy soul with the gift of love. Together, those two were awesome.
At Christmas time, we would place the tree in front of the big window so that all of the neighbors could see. That was the tree that we men, my brother and father and I, had gone into the woods to find, to chop down, and to drag home. After which the family would spend hours together, decorating that tree, talking about its shape, sipping hot chocolate during the cold winter night. Each ornament would have its special nook and cranny, each icicle had to be draped with the greatest of care. There would always be the smell of minced meat pie in the oven, and the record player would be churning out Christmas songs in the background, (often in conflict with the voices of carolers outside in the snow).
Long after the chores were done and we'd been tucked into bed, we would sneak down the hallway in anticipation of catching Santa sliding down the chimney. And, there they would be, our mom and dad, sitting on the couch in each other's arms. The lights would be out except for the tree, and there wouldn't be a sound except for the crackling of embers and the popping of fresh popcorn in the black, cast-iron kettle in the fireplace. Yeah, it was good. We'd end up sitting next to mom and dad, in their arms, one happy family, each one of us soaking in the glowing heat of Christmas love. I can almost feel it now.
Have some popcorn for me, my friend, and have a very Merry Christmas and a Happy and Patriotic American New Year. See you soon.
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