Here’s the scene: Cleveland, Ohio.
Friday night, midnight, at Jack Casino.
It’s rough, folks.
The dealers are unkind, snide, and utterly miserable.
Nobody tips, and why would they?
This is not the sort of casino that even feigns happiness when players win.
It’s us versus the house, and there’s no confusion about that.
Mook and I took our seats at a blackjack table.
Of the five seats, three were occupied.
It only took two hands for me to realize how fucked we were.
He waffled for a bit, then decided to stay.
I had 12 or something.
I hit obviously, and I took a six.
That would have made 21 for Ron, and it was the card heshouldhave taken according to basic strategy.
Now I stay on 18, and the dealer turns over a six (16!
We’re golden!!!)
and then a five for 21 (Fuck.
Fuck you Ron).
The whole table loses obviously.
Because Ron wasn’t feeling it.
I don’t have a problem losing in blackjack.
Hit, stay, split, double… they’ll coach you!
I wanted to tug gently at his conscience, make him think twice before playing so selfishly again.
The needle didn’t move.
Finally, I’d had enough.
I asked if he wouldn’t mind switching seats.
How’d he take it?
You guessed it: poorly.
Ron initially acquiesced, but then he thought about it and picked up his ball to go home.
“You know what?
I’ll say thisthe SECOND Ron left our table, the winds of fortune shifted in our favor.
Ding dong, the witch is gone!
I had no idea.
This casino sucked ass.
Simply put, it didn’t seem like the pop in of place you’d have your bachelor party.
Dave said he doesn’t really care either way if someone plays against basic strategy.
These two, being our resident gambling experts, certainly made me reconsider my actions.
I hope Ron recovered and won a ton of money, truly.
First hand is on me brother.
As long as you play your cards right.
