Everything lost is found again, Part IV

Click here for Part One, Part Two and Part Three.
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Our last full day began with two peppy travelers thrilled beyond belief to have much more bankroll remaining by this point in the trip than ever expected. It meant we could take some chances. Push the envelope. Not worry that we wouldn’t even have enough to hail a cab to the airport the next morning.

Las Vegas was probably built on the backs of people like us. Instead of just pocketing the winnings and stopping there, we wanted more.

But as any seasoned gambler will tell you, what Las Vegas giveth, Las Vegas taketh away.

And sure enough, she did.

After another fine breakfast, this time at Margaritaville, we meandered back over to Casino Royale for more $1 Michelobs and Margaritas, and to try our luck again.

None was forthcoming at the table, but the slot players among us walked away up at least $120.

From there, we set our sights on The Venetian.

Here let me say that I have never been a fan of The Venetian’s. Every dollar I have ever put down here has been lost in a snap. Of course, that meant I had to try again.

I lost $100, and just like every other time I have gambled at The Venetian, my loss came quick. Too quick. So quick that when I was down to $30 I decided to try my hand at Casino War to change my luck.

Highest card wins, between me and the dealer.

I lost.

And lost.

Then lost again.

It was that way for everyone. At least now I know that my $100 is the last I will ever lose in there. The Venetian is too big. Too corporate. It has neither cachet nor character, at least not to Mrs. Family Man and me.

So we decided that a return to Binion’s was in order.

We walked up the strip, past The Palazzo, The Wynn and The Encore. We dodged the street vendors—some trying to get us into the clubs that night, others wanting to sell us some cheap sunglasses and spray paint art.

We approached The Riviera and, having never entered before, decided to give it a shot, but not before rubbing some dancing girl behinds for good luck.

So much for that. Another $100 gone in an instant. Not much different for the Mrs.

Outright hated The Riviera. From the rude dealers, to the dingy interior, everything about this place rubbed us the wrong way.

We gave up on The Riviera before she even had a chance to convince us to stay, and before long were finally back on Fremont Street, sitting in the Golden Gate for the very first time.

I liked it there.

Until I lost.

And lost.

And lost.

That’s it, I told the Mrs. I’m going to Binion’s. She followed, as did the others.

At the Party Pit, I lost again, while Mrs. Chubbs and her folks at least were up and down.

I was about to pack it in when near the back of the casino I spotted a $5 table that paid 3:2.

I sat there for a solid few hours and turned my last $50 into $250. Good thing too, because by then Mrs. Family Man was broke and my $250 was the last $250 I had on me.

At that point, all in our group were certifiably drunk and in desperate need of food.

Over to Grotto we went, for a final Golden Nugget dinner for the foreseeable future. The pizza here is to my liking so I had my second serving in three days. A perfect way to end our downtown evening, but not before we caught Don McLean’s American Pie one last time.

“Drove my Chevy to the levy but the levy was dry…”

Beautiful, but not enough to tie us to Fremont on this night, so back to the Flamingo we flew, quite literally too, with a lead-footed cab driver scaring the bejeezus out of us on the way.

At home base, I briefly went up to the room. This is how the mind of a degenerate gambler works: every night that I won, I wore the same long-sleeved white shirt under my t-shirt, and sandals, not shoes.

I concluded that my clothing had contributed to my losses, so naturally I had to change.

Back down in the casino, I cracked open my wallet and gave Mrs. Family Man $100, kept $100 for myself and tucked away the last $50 I was carrying so I wouldn’t use it should push come to shove.

We started at the Party Pit but our hopes faded fast. Both of us were up and down, mostly down. The vibe at the table was all wrong, so up we got, moving to a 3:2 table near the cage.

Quickly, I was down to my last $40 so pulled my chips and decided just to hang with the Mrs. for awhile.

What happened next was beautiful.

Everything I experienced the night before, Mrs. Family Man was experiencing now.

Her red chip bets were paying out in greens, and oh boy were those greens piling fast. Up, up and away they went. At one point, the dealer even stopped paying out in green and went back to red, just to maintain a few more 25’s in her tray.

I was having as much fun watching as I do playing. As the streak continued, our attention was drawn from the table to a slot machine not far away. The mother-in-law was calling for the father-in-law’s attention at his table, but not leaving her seat as the numbers on her penny slot kept climbing, and climbing, and climbing.

Here I was torn. Part of me believed Mrs. Family Man was doing so well because I was there with her.

Could the mojo of my white shirt and sandals be working by osmosis?

But as the numbers on the mother-in-law’s machine kept going, I had to see for myself. I ran over as quickly as I could, peaked down, looked up at the mother-in-law who by now was grinning sideways, gave her a high-five for the $985 win, ran back to sit with Mrs. Family Man, but not before high-fiving the father-in-law at his table on the way.

As I finally regained my seat, I hoped beyond hope that my departure hadn’t caused the wife’s streak to come to a premature conclusion. In my rational mind I know that isn’t possible, but such is the power that Las Vegas lords over the hopeful gambler.

The streak continued awhile longer until finally Mrs. Family Man ran out of reds. At that point, there was no way she was betting greens and losing her gains, so she colored up, asking for and receiving, you guessed it: purple!

If you want to win a purple, win a purple. Maybe it was that easy. 

As we counted Mrs. Family Man’s winnings, it became more than clear that with my $250 win at Binion’s earlier in the evening, we had again mostly reclaimed the day’s defeats, even despite my lacklustre luck by then at the Flamingo.

Everything lost is found again.

I had $40 left and wasn’t about to go quietly into the night.

The father-in-law was still over at his double-deck, $25-a-hand table, and acquitting himself quite well, so I joined him.

With not even enough for two hands, I opted instead to add $5 to each of his bets. My $40 became $45. Then $50. Then $60.

At that point, I really felt like I had nothing to lose so I put down $25 and won.

Sweet. I just bought myself another hand.

Then another and another.

Things were going well.

Mrs. Family Man was tired so she retreated to the room. The mother-in-law was almost right behind her, tuckered no doubt by the strain of that outstanding penny slot win.

It was me and the father-in-law now, with all signs pointing to a night of drunken Vegas gambling not unlike another that may (or may not) have occurred on a previous trip.

Just as the table really started to get hot, the mother-in-law summoned the father-in-law to the room—not for those reasons, but because by the sounds of it some dude one room over was beating the crap out of his lady friend.

Even if that guy won a million dollars in Vegas, he still went home a loser and will be one for the rest of his life.

For obvious reasons, I was left to gamble on my own, so it was just me and my tablemate, a guy the father-in-law presumed to be an arms dealer of some sort, but to me just some dude wearing sweat pants.

We won a few hands and at least an hour passed.

It was about 1 a.m. when Mrs. Family Man texted me.

Her: Text me when you come up, ok?

Me: Ok, all good down here.

More time passed, the wins continued, another text arrived.

Mrs. Family Man: Please come up soon ok? Big day tomorrow.

Radio silence; I was winning.

Mrs. Family Man: Please?

Me: Will be up soon.

Mrs. Family Man: I’m serious... it’s almost two.

Me: All good. Having fun, still playing on fives from earlier.

And it was true. My four red chips from earlier had become a pile of greens. Now those greens were proliferating like gremlins gone swimming after midnight. Or something like that.

I looked down and counted, careful to arrange my greens into neat piles of four.

One pile. Two piles. Three piles. Four.

Another pile for five, and just a little more.

I was up to $575 and change. No way was I leaving the table now.

So we kept playing. I was up, I was down, but I maintained around $575.

A Spanish couple joined the table. Some mediocre drunken Spanish was spoken. "Mi daughter se llama..."

I was still up and down, still maintaining, and by now downing water like it was going out of style, trying to sober up, which meant I was also leaving the table every twenty minutes or so to make room for the next bottle.

At one point in the men’s room, a 20-something fella in a suit stumbled in front of me, caught himself, looked at me, then at himself in the mirror, then at me again. He looked like hell.

“Man,” he said. “That cocaine is a powerful drug. You want some?”

Uh, I’m good, was all I could muster and I left as fast as I could, though I do confess that I couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of everything that was going on.

I had been gambling solo for almost three hours.

It was going on three a.m.

My $40 had become $575.

I was just offered coke in the bathroom.

And I was drunk as a skunk.

Vegas baby!

Back at the table, I had to make a decision. On the one hand I didn’t want to lose my gains, but on the other I had rarely played at $25 a hand long enough to really enjoy it as much as I was.

I counted my money again.

One pile. Two piles. Three piles. Four...

I was going for it, but not irresponsibly.

I put $300 aside and vowed I wouldn’t touch it. At worst, with Mrs. Family Man’s winnings we would have $800 between us for the evening. That day’s defeats reclaimed, and then some.

With everything lost having already been found again, I was playing with house money.

I took my remaining $275 and tried to make the best of it, but it just wasn’t happening.

My splits lost, my doubles lost. Everything lost.

And that was that.

But I still had turned four red chips into twelve greens, and had a heck of a time doing it.

It was 3.30 a.m and time to call it a night. I bid my sweat pant-wearing, alleged arms-dealing friend farewell, and stumbled up to the room where I couldn't help but muster a smile as I undressed and crawled into bed.

Over on the floor, piled on top of my dirty jeans and the smelly shoes I left behind earlier that night—the white shirt that made the whole evening possible.

Thus goes the mind of the degenerate gambler.

PART FIVE

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