Grubby at PokerWorks

Casinos have a strange effect on me.

Inside, I’m completely awake, seldom tired, and not hungry. Once outside, my body collapses and desperately gorges on sleep and food.

Must be all the oxygen they pump through the vents (just a casino myth — this was never found to be true).

I spent four days visiting and revisiting at least seven casinos, staying and eating at a couple of them, and playing slots in all of them. I brought cash that lasted through the first day but went fast later that night. All that I have to show are five crumpled ATM receipts with reminders that on top of the losses are ATM fees on both sides. The casino should really pick up the tab for these fees, I mean really.

On our final day, a coworker held out his palm of 18 cents. I guessed that was all that remained in his pockets, but I was wrong — it was his profit. I remember in the old days of going to Atlantic City when slots accepted coins, even if $0.18 were all that I had left, I’d insert three nickels into the machine and take the bus back with three pennies to my name.

We were there for work, it was my own money to spend, and losses accumulated to what I’d typically lose on a trip to Las Vegas. At least in Vegas, you can drown your sorrows in free drinks and chatting with hookers.

I’ve really got to stop playing slot machines. If only they weren’t so much damn fun.

Where we were was considerably colder than Vegas, and toward the end of the trip, after delayed and cancelled flights that pushed back our departure 29 hours, I felt like we were trapped in the supermarket from Stephen King’s “The Mist.”

When I got home late Friday, I wasted away the weekend on sleeping in between tilting in online poker and making food runs. Back to a dull, simple life. Which I enjoyed every minute of.

On the trip back, we had a two-and-a-half hour drive between casinos. We loaded up on carbs at the all-too-familiar cafe that was the only food place left open in the casino.

I fattened up on a one-pound chicken-fried steak dunked in country gravy (and a sprig of parsley on top to counteract the clotting), with mashed potatoes, hash browns, and toast. I left a good third of the meal to the wolves.

While eating, a little kid began sprinting toward us and then turned away at the last minute. My boss said, “I thought the 5-year-old competition had begun.” I cracked up at this comment every time I thought of it, referencing a 2+2 posting on how many 5-year-olds you could take down.

The interstate had been closed due to drifting snow. We stayed an extra night expecting snow plows to have cleared by noon the next day, but it was far from safe and should’ve stayed closed.

On the drive, I counted 15 cars and two trucks that were abandoned, stuck in ditches, or even shockingly overturned. Some had headlights on, some had people still in them, evidence of it just occurring.

It was an eerie, end-of-the-world sight with one car after another in various positions that a car should not be in.

With these sprinkled accidents as a constant reminder and not wanting to tempt fate, we kept a slow and steady pace of 45 mph.

This only served to tempt the wrath of the truckers.

The 150-mile stretch was the only connector for these big semis that don’t seem to slow down no matter the road conditions. They’d bear down on cars to get them to switch into the icy lanes, and I’m certain a few of those accidents were caused by the trucks.

All for the sake of sticking to their ball-bearing delivery schedule.

Each time a truck passed with a too-close whirring sound, we’d hold our breaths. That passing sound is much like what I’d expect to be your last dying sound rattling around in your head when zombies eat your brain.

One tractor trailer passed and like a captive audience, we watched as it almost swerved out of control.

We maintained a not-far-enough distance from it with one car ahead of us acting like a buffer… or a sacrifice.

A few seconds later, we were in drifting snow territory, where nothing but white was seen on the road.

The same truck began sliding and suddenly jackknifed across both lanes like out of an action movie. It ran in slow-motion silence, muted by the snow.

Somehow the driver miraculously recovered, straightened, and ran into a ditch — all without ever toppling.

To call it a harrowing experience was an understatement. I’d never seen anything like it. Had any vehicle been in the other lane, it would’ve been swiped clear across the other side of the highway like a ping pong ball. Had we been driving a little faster, we could’ve been that unfortunate vehicle.

As we passed the ditched truck, I saw the driver holding his cell, calmly dialing a number or text messaging. He didn’t appear excited or anxious; he was probably used to it.

Still with two hours left to drive, we anticipated the very real possibility of not surviving at 5 percent. Each truck that passed upped that percentage until playing a slot machine would’ve given us better odds.

Though slot machines are pure math, the superstitious part of me believes in luck and that if you’re lucky in gambling, it balances out with being unlucky in something else.

I’ll take being unlucky in gambling any day over being unlucky in surviving.

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This entry was posted on Monday, March 5th, 2007 at 1:35 am and is filed under Uncategorized.