And grow they did. In my lifetime I have cultivated many addictions (ice cream! Where's the goddamn ice cream?) and vices, most of which I now abstain from, including: overeating, overspending, smoking, drinking, experimentation with unhealthy pastimes, Lifetime television, shopping, sugar and more. But there's one vice by which I was stung by so early, I realized I was powerless at my very first go: Gambling.
It's simple enough. Already a hard-core sugar addict by the age of eight, I tagged along with my parents and all of my BINGO-loving relatives to a card party fundraiser at my brother Jimmy's high school (LaSalle Academy for future juvenile delinquents, I think it was called). I was in search of cake, and every fat kid knows that where there are old ladies, there's cake. I followed at my father's heels pestering him for sweets, until finally he gave me a quarter and pointed me to the direction of the Over/Under table. The crowd parted, music played, and like Woody Woodpecker getting drawn in by the scent of a pie cooling on a windowsill, I waddled over to the table and placed my bet. 25 cents, Under. All in.
It was a wild ride. I was up, I was down, the adrenaline was pumping, my heart dropping with each loss and bursting with excitement at each win. Other kids cheered me on. The Lasallian brother behind the table barked out the wins while a crowd gathered to see the excitement. Before long, I had turned that one, lonely, shiny quarter into seven dollars in shiny quarters. I was the queen of the table.
And then. Then Lady Luck took her leave. She abandoned me, went out for the proverbial pack of cigarettes and never came back. I've never seen her since, actually, now that I think about it. I lost every penny. Every one. I lumbered back to my father and begged him-- just one more quarter, that was all I needed, dammit, just one more f-ing quarter old man! He just patted my head and said "Looks like someone learned an important lesson tonight."
In fact I had. I learned that people are born with luck, and I wasn't one of those people. All I had was optimism, and that wasn't enough. Thinking you were going to win wasn't going to make it so.
I come from a line of gamblers. My maternal grandmother, Rita, would push you down the stairs for a stack of scratch-off Lotto tickets. "Oh no! So-and-so is in the hospital?" she'd say,"What room? I gotta play the numbers." My cousin Karen inherited her itch, and some luck as well. She wins when she plays, but always a moderator, she knows not to do it often. This is a concept I can't quite wrap my head around.
Me, I know I can't control myself. I rarely gamble- money isn't something I ever have, how can I just give it away? But when I start, it's hard to stop. I'll go to the bodega and try to buy one Lotto ticket and end up with ten dollars worth. (Ever the optimist, I'll keep them for years after, even though I haven't won, hoping there was a computer error.) And I'd tell you about an ill-fated night at the dog track in Dublin, but I was still drinking then, so details are fuzzy. My vices, it seems, play well together.
So when my beloved John Moses told me he had a show at the Turning Stone Casino in beautiful Syracuse, New York, I was hesitant. A comped room, he said, meal vouchers and a paid gig-- it would be like a mini vacation, a great getaway after a difficult summer. "Fantastic!" I said with a smile plastered to my face, while inside I was filled with dread: my two mortal enemies in one place-- slot machines and an all-you-can-eat buffet.
It should be said that Syracuse in early September is really stunning. Lush foliage about to turn, with villages set into the valleys of majestic mountains. The casino itself is breathtaking, all carved stone and glass, and owned by the Oneida Indians-- a tribe from which John Moses can actually trace his heritage, though he seemed to disagree with my assertion that it meant he actually owned part of the casino. It was pristine but not overdone, with big rooms, comfortable (and clean!) beds and a lobby strewn with glowing waterfalls and the hypnotizing sparkle of blinking of ATM machines.
But let's face it: you only see the lobby for ten minutes. For the 24 hours after that, all you see are incredibly overweight men on scooters and old ladies balancing four inch ashes on the Pall Malls that dangle from their cracked lips while they push the buttons on the slot machines. There are scrunchies and mullets at every turn, complimenting a bevy of Big Johnston T-shirts and NASCAR hats.
It seemed to me that the Indians kept nature for themselves by luring the white man into voluntary captivity. Payback.
In we went.
John's show was, of course, great (comedianjohnmoses.com). I was afraid that the old ladies in the front row wouldn't take to his particular brand of filthy jokes, but they loved it. In fact, the filthier, the better-- I am sure Mr. Moses set the mood for some geriatric loving later that night, and a lot of old men are thanking him today.
After making the grown men who worked at the buffet weep with fear, John and I headed to the slots. We made an agreement-- $20 each, we walk away either up or out that twenty, but there would be no more money after that to lose.
If I was a gambling woman, I'd bet I couldn't do it.
We sat amid the smoking old ladies-- the real hard core gamblers-- they must know where the good machines are, right? The ones that did look up only gave us a once-over. The rest just kept pressing buttons, their eyes glazing over.
We started our games. Time after time John's machine jingled as his booty added up-- $20, then $29, then back down to $22. Calmly he watched the numbers rise and fall, while the spirits of his native brothers cheered him on. In my corner, I watched as my $20 was drained away on a 5 cent slot called Lucky Sevens. Lucky for who?, I thought bitterly as visions of Indian tribesmen walked by me laughing and counting my nickles. Delirious, tired and reeking of some old mummy's cigarette smoke, I came to a sad realization: Lady Luck, it seemed, was not to come back to me. Not even after all these years.
I gave up. With $10.20 left, I pulled my card from it's slot and stood up. That tricky bitch wouldn't get me this time.
Resigned, I sat down at a machine next to John and waited for him to finish.
And then it happened. My Addict-Voice spoke to me. You know, the one with all of the awesome ideas. The one that whispers "You deserve that ice cream!" and "Who cares about rent when you can buy that over-sized snakeskin clutch?" and "You're a better dancer when you're drunk!" The one that has conversations with me everyday, talking incessantly, even though I constantly, calmly but firmly ask her to shut the fuck up.
This time, she seemed to be making perfect sense, though. What she said was, "You've still got $10 and twenty cents left."
And just like that, my card was in to The Enchanted Kingdom, a game whose rules or point system I am still not sure of, except that occasionally a fairy woman with large breasts and Staten Island hair would appear on screen and add more money to my total as long as I just kept pressing that big, round, glowing button.
Suddenly, I was up. I had nearly doubled my money. That's right-- I had $39.75 in my booty bin.
"I should quit." I said to myself.
"No, you shouldn't-- think of how much you can win if you keep going!" Addict-Voice countered.
"But I'll lose it all!" I said.
"This could be your lucky day!" She said back.
"OK, OK." Let's compromise." I said.
"Here we go." She said in a voice that was the verbal equivalent of an eye-roll.
"No, really. Hear me out," I pleaded. "What if I keep going until I have $35, but then I stop?"
"Why not $30?" She countered.
"When I get to $35," I said, knowing I was asking for trouble, "we can negotiate again."
"Fine." She huffed.
And so I went. $39.75 became $39.70, then $39.65-- a slow and steady march to $0.
"Just keep going!" Addict-Voice suggested with a sparkle in her tone. "What's the worst that could happen?"
And then someone else spoke. Sober-Voice. The rational, kind-hearted inner voice that Addict-Voice and I usually pointed and laughed at, calling her "lame."
"But Julia," Sober-Voice said. "Right now you're a winner. You've almost doubled your money! You could go out on top, just end this now! Stop the insanity!"
"Don't listen to her!" Addict-Voice cried. "She has no idea what fun is, and she dresses like she's Amish. Just keep going!"
I stopped and looked at the screen. Staten Island Boobies Lady blinked seductively. I still had $39. Next to me, an old lady's long string of ash fell from her cigarette to her lap, and she didn't even blink. In the casino, bells clanged and whistles blew, but nothing felt quite as festive as it was probably meant to.
I pulled out my card. $19 richer than when I put it in. John Moses looked at me. "Wanna go?" he said, "I'm up $5, let's quit while we're ahead." I stood up, took one last look at Staten Island Boobies Lady, and turned away.
It only took me 25 years, but I finally learned how to walk away a winner.
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