The Gamble

  

  
   
      I enjoy something of a perverse amusement in visiting a casino.   They are one of the few places that still allow me to foster a notion that I have some fragment of my youth remaining. I am able to spryly zigzag through the aisles, whooshing past gray hairs as they plod along with their walkers or canes. And it pleases me to note that valet parking is still a convenience and not yet a necessity. They say that wisdom comes with age but it is demanding to find evidence of that in a casino. It’s not uncommon to watch inheritances dwindle as some elusive combination of spinning reels prods and flamboyant machines beg. Grandpa fumbles to make an ATM do his bidding one more time, while granny tugs at her wheeled oxygen tank for another trip to the cashiers window to scribble her signature again for a bit more of her social security holdings. I don't know if any of this is sad, disease, free will or just good honest fun. That’s not my judgment to make, and who’s to tell; the good luck amulets and charms may well work their magic after I have gone.

　
      As a youngster my first association with gaming came through my uncle, Don. Don had a fondness for the ponies and when he came to town he always made sure his wallet was lined with two-dollar bills to pass out among his nieces and nephews. One summer he motored into my grandparents driveway waving and laying on his horn to herald his arrival at our annual summer family reunion. This wasn't out of the ordinary, and uncle Don had never been described as a wallflower. What was different this time was that all of his commotion and gesturing was centered from the drivers seat of a top notch brand new convertible. After warm greetings and the distribution of cold hard cash I established an observation post in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. A sudden downpour had chased the men indoors to continue their poker at the dining room table, and with some prying I learned that uncle Don afforded the down payment on his new ride with the proceeds from something he called a perfecta. The word perfecta wasn't yet a part of my vocabulary, but it was obvious that it had to do with wagering on horses and that it must have been an especially generous perfecta.

　
      From where I stood I could also see Grandma standing in the kitchen and the expression on her face was markedly different from those of the men playing cards. It was her opinion that gaming and the new convertible would attract women of loose principles and contribute in sending her son farther down the woeful path he was already traveling on. To turn my head one way and shrug off her concern would cause me to deny she had never steered me wrong, and turning the other way would deny my undeveloped intuition there was something decadently good going on in that smoke filled dining room. From one direction came an oddly enticing whiff of Drewrys beer and Pall Mall cigarettes and from the other the reassuring aroma of Grandmas baked beans being prepared for our coming outdoor feast. Over there sounds of playing cards being fancily shuffled and flipped chips clicking against each other and over here comforting clinks and jangles of tableware being readied. Boisterously hushed bawdy jokes on one side and soft sympathetic talk of ailing acquaintances from the other. A flooding of the senses washed over me and left me woozy and in a moral quandary that no young man should have had to suffer. I went down to my knees and let loose from my gut the salty pretzels and sugar cookies that I had pilfered from either room. Grandma helped me to my feet and gave me a sympathetic but distanced hug, while Grandpa reached out to pat the top of my head and toss me a towel to mop up the product of my inner turmoil.

　
       The poker match was adjourned as the party shifted to the backyard and the conversation over our picnic took on the compromised tone of mixed company. Grandma did make a clumsy attempt to quiz uncle Don about the extent of his good fortune, but he properly declined to speak too much of his finances at the table. He assured her that aside from a down payment on the convertible and some misfortunate in getting too carried away with a daily double, he had invested the remainder of his windfall in the stock market. Uncle Don must have picked his investments as well as he picked his horses, because he retired well and with a woman of high moral character, despite Grandmas worry over his gas powered floozy magnet.

　
       In the end your life path and what you do with your wealth isn't really anyone else’s concern but your own. The transcendent may one day give humankind a clear way forward. A Bridge will be written; perhaps the odds of every moment of life will come barefaced before us, but until then when I go again to visit a casino I may just take along that lucky troll doll Grandma pressed into my palm one conflicted summer a long, long time ago.