Actual factual photo of a twin-pack deck of cards with the railroad logo from the big railroad based in my home town of Roanoke, Virginia
By Grant McGee
I was at a
church rummage sale the other day and spied something with an old railroad logo
on it: A twin-pack deck of cards with
the Norfolk and Western Railroad logo on it.
Norfolk and
Western is what they called the big railroad based out of my old hometown of
Roanoke, Virginia before they re-named it the Norfolk Southern.
Then the
memories came back of the times I thought about playing Blackjack and gambling.
I never
have been much of a gambler. I’ve known
folks who were, folks who were raking in the bucks, lost it all and walked out
of the casino with no more money than I had.
No, wait, I
take that back, there was that time I picked up a wad of bills gambling in Iowa . It was years ago during my one-year truck
driving career. I was team driving
coast-to-coast with another driver who loved adult beverages. We’d drop off our load and he’d make a
beeline for a bar, any bar. This meant I
was the one who had to escort him back to the truck and that I was always first
driver on the next load we got.
Anyway, we
dropped a load off in Council Bluffs ,
Iowa
“I’d rather
read my book and hit the hay,” I told him once we parked up.
“Aw, come
on man, don’t make me drink alone,” he said.
“It’s not my thing, man.”
“Here,” he said, reaching for his
wallet, “Here’s 10 bucks, sit and gamble and shoot the shit with me.”
So while my
compadre had cerveza after cerveza I played the video gambling game built into
the bar. After I’d won about 50 bucks I
decided I’d had enough.
“You gonna
share?” my buddy asked.
“Yeah,” I
said, “Here’s your 10 bucks back.”
Every time
our 18-wheeler was in the neighborhood of the Acoma Pueblo west of Albuquerque we always
made a point of stopping at the Sky City Casino. They have this deal: Show them your commercial driver’s license
and they give you a $5 roll of quarters.
For my co-driver that meant a $5 start to a gambling spree that usually
cost him 50 to 100 dollars. For me, that
meant $5 off a huge green chile cheeseburger platter in their restaurant.
But as time
wore on I got the usual tired feeling of working for someone. You know the old saying: Bosses are like diapers, always on your ass
and full of shit. One day it occurred to
me that I could have a full-time career playing cards.
It wouldn’t
be poker…there’s too much hype around that game what with faking people out,
wearing sunglasses so people can’t read your eyes, crap like that.
Nope,
Blackjack would be my game. I felt it in
my bones. My time was now. I was going to make a living raking in the
big coin at the Blackjack tables of Vegas.
The time
came I had to run a load to Vegas, this would be my lucky trip.
I rolled
into Las Vegas…the opening riffs of Elvis’ “Viva Las Vegas” running around in
my head… “Da-da-da, da-da-d-da, da-da-da, da-da-d-da…,” driving by the big
places: The Bellagio, Caesar’s Palace,
Mirage and that place where a big beam of light shoots from a pyramid into the
night sky, The Luxor. I didn’t stop at
any of them. Instead, my big-time
gambling career would start at a truck stop Blackjack table.
In Vegas it’s not unusual to find a
Blackjack table at a truck stop, there are casinos and slot machines all over
the place there.
I bellied
up to the Blackjack table with visions of dollars piling up in front of me.
“I don’t
know how to play,” I said to the dealer, a lady who gave off the feeling like
she was at the end of her shift. “Just
what my brother showed me a long time ago about getting ‘21’ or less and
beating the dealer.”
“You’re
kidding me,” she said.
“I don’t
know how to dribble a basketball either.”
The dealer
outlined the rules of the game, including the tapping of the table when I
wanted another card. I was ready to
play. I put $2 on the table.
She looked
at me over the top of her glasses, smoke wafting up from the cigarette that
dangled from her lower lip. “Two
dollars?” She said. “I think you should
give that to me for making me get up from my chair.”
I just
smiled.
I lost my
$2 bet.
“You wanna
play again, big spender?” said the dealer.
“Yeah,” I
said. I put another $2 on the table.
On my
second hand at Blackjack I won $4.
“That’s it
for me,” I said. My visions of wads of
cash flying into my wallet disappeared.
I couldn’t take this kind of risky behavior.
“You’re f*%king kidding me,” said
the dealer. She took a long drag off her
smoke and exhaled. She walked back to
her chair, sat, then stared at me over the top of her glasses. “Next time go to one of them hotels on the
strip, big spender.”
“Maybe the Bellagio,” I said. “I like the architecture.”
“And you’re a truck driver?” she
said. “You sure you’re not a flower
arranger or something?”
Sometimes I
still ponder the life of a gambler. I’ll
be channel surfing on a Sunday afternoon and land on one of those televised
poker tournaments. I watch the players hunker
down over their cards, some wearing sunglasses, others with the brims of their
hats pulled low over their eyes.
“Maybe I
could learn poker and make tons of money,” I say to The Lady of the House. She looks back at me and starts
laughing. Soon she’s laughing so hard
she’s out of her chair and laughing down the hall.
“Well, I
thought it was a good idea,” I muttered to myself and kept flipping the
channel.
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