As I Was Saying
A Slot Master’s Journey to The Isle
By Alan Williamson
Monte Carlo. Autumn of ’89. The Casino Royale. She was on a roll at the craps table. I was on my last roll of quarters. Our eyes met across the crowded casino floor. She said, “Come, kiss the lips of lady luck.” I did. Five minutes later I won $50,000 on a slot machine called “Gooses Wild.” I turned and she was gone. I’ve been looking for her ever since.
Atlantic City, Summer of ’96. The Golden Nugget. Down to my last $50, I join my parents on a three-hour bus trip to the new promised land of gambling conquests – the Jersey shore. The mooing sound from a slot machine called “Sacred Cows” captures my attention. I wait patiently for 2 hours and 25 minutes while a plump, chain-smoking grandmother with a sweatshirt that reads “Caution: Stops Frequently” finishes “milking the cow” for all its worth. It takes me only ten minutes to dump my $50 bankroll down the hatch. The mooing sound seems to mock me as I stagger away.
I cap off my day of thrills by watching a bum fight a seagull for a French fry out on the boardwalk with my dad. In a creepy coincidence, he’s also been rendered penniless by a machine called “Buffalo Bills.” “Do you hear a mooing sound?” my dad asks as we wait for my mom to emerge from the casino with tales of daring moves and jumbo jackpots.
Canada. Winter of 2005. Casino Windsor. After a decade of trying to go “legit” I’m back in the hunt for easy money. Because of my status as a high-rolling, big-time gambler, my means of transportation is once again a bus. This one is bound for Canada from suburban Detroit, crammed to capacity with my wife, my in-laws and other titans of the casino world who are cleverly disguised to look like an assortment of twitchy burnouts, lost souls and cranky seniors.
The favorable exchange rate in Canada translates into more play time for my U.S. currency, an advantage I quickly exploit on a machine called “Yabba-Dabba Dollars.” I shovel in twenty, forty, sixty dollars of Canadian coin, secure in the knowledge that I’m only down $50 in American money. I win a little, lose a little in a seesaw crusade to hit Yabba-Dabba paydirt. Suddenly, I reach deep into my deflated wallet and realize the cold hard truth. I’m Yabba-Dabba done.
While my wife and others count their winnings on the long bus ride back, I take solace in small, less material victories. Had I not, after all, ravaged the casino’s all-you-can-eat buffet, going back for three heaping platefuls of their shrimp cocktail, baked ziti, and banana cream pudding? Why yes, I do believe I did. Because that, my friends, is exactly what a big-time gambler does to even the score on a day when lady luck is nowhere in sight.
Pompano Beach, Florida. Winter of 2011. The Isle Casino and Racing. The odds of hitting a jackpot at a Florida Indian reservation are steep. Last year in fact, $750 million were fed into slot machines on tribal land in Florida with not one single million-dollar baby to show for it. (By way of comparison, a tollbooth attendant named Elliot Hickleburger gave away over a $1 million in quarters all by himself that same year by miscounting the change due back to motorists.)
Offering a refreshingly friendly alternative, The Isle Casino in sunny Pompano Beach, Florida wasn’t affiliated with any Indian tribe and offered 1,500 slots that actually were known to pay off with some degree of regularity. I felt an exhilarating confidence as my wife, my in-laws, my parents and I crammed into a rented Chevy Impala and headed to the glittering, welcoming hubbub that is The Isle. A machine called “Triple Diamond” looked promising, so I assumed the squatting position and dropped in some seed money. I hit the “three coins” button and watched the images flicker and twirl, coming to rest on the payline in random patterns of possibility:
ting, ting, ting, ting – a bar, a seven, a blank – you lose
ting, ting, ting, ting – a seven, a double bar, a blank – you lose
ting, ting, ting, ting – a blank, a diamond, a triple bar – you lose
Mustering up my last ounce of self-control, I hit the “cash out” button, grabbed my ticket and headed for the nearest “Blazing Sevens” machine. Within two minutes, the miraculous happened:
ting, ting, ting, ting – blazing seven, blazing seven, blazing seven!
In one fortuitous flick of the finger I had won $234.33! Take that you Hard Rock tight wads! Who needs you shady lady luck! I beat the system on my own terms and nobody, but nobody can take that away from me!!
Nobody except a machine called “Wolf Run” which 20 minutes later claimed all $100 of my winnings. A man’s just got to know when to quit.
Oh well, I know there’s another jackpot waiting for me at The Isle. And in the meantime, in the immortal words of big-time gamblers everywhere – “Gangway to the free buffet!
Alan Williamson is an award-winning writer with 27 years in the field of true fiction (advertising). A practical man who knows that writing for a living is risky going, he has taken steps to pursue a second, more stable career as a leggy super model. Alan can be reached at [email protected]. © 2011 Alan Williamson.