I love gambling. I can bet the dice for hours without getting bored. And life is luscious kicking back in a keno lounge, sucking down free drinks delivered by lovely waitresses while making small wagers that have potential for huge payoffs.
But an incident 20 years ago made me vow never to leave another penny in Las Vegas. That pretty much limits my trips to times when I'm feeling so hot that I can't lose. Than happens about once an Ice Age.
The trouble started when I joined my brother Rick in Omaha, where he was serving in the Air Force, to drive to Los Angeles to visit our parents. We hit Las Vegas late on our second day and stopped at one of the bigger casinos on the Strip. I was tired and sat it out in the keno lounge. But Rick was nine years younger, it was his first trip to Vegas and he headed for the slots.
At 18, Rick assumed he was old enough to gamble. There were no signs in the casino saying otherwise. But the legal age was 21, which Rick learned when he dropped a few dimes in a slot machine and won a jackpot of $2,000 and change.
It was the change that did him in. All winnings over $2,000 had to be reported to the Internal Revenue Service. When he won, lights went off, sirens blared and a cupcake danced out to deliver his winnings. Then they asked for ID for the IRS report.
When they discovered he was only 18, the lights and sirens stopped and the cupcake danced back to wherever she came from. They took back the money and ordered him off the premises. When he found me in the keno lounge, all he had to show for the experience was the all-smiles Polaroid of him and the cupcake.
We couldn't walk away from $2,000 without a fight, so we went to have a chat with the casino manager. He called in a state gaming officer, who handcuffed poor Rick and locked him in a back room. They threatened to charge Rick and call his commanding officer in Nebraska, where it was about 4 a.m., unless we left town.
I was for calling their bluff. I figured Rick's commanding officer would order a bombing raid on the dump. But Rick prevailed. 'It's not your $2,000, you're not the one in handcuffs and it won't be your court martial,' he pointed out. So we left, figuring we'd deal with it when we got safely into California.
Which is when our father got on the case. Dad was the poster boy for working folk who had been going to Las Vegas all their lives looking for the big win only to come back with empty pockets. The idea that somebody in the family had actually won something and had it taken away made him crazy.
'They didn't have any problem with the kid's age while he was losing money,' he growled.
DAD made it the great cause of his life. He spent the next several months harassing the casino, the entertainment company that owned it and the state of Nevada with letters, telegrams and telephone calls.
His relentless campaign finally wore them down. He not only got Rick's $2,000 back, but also nailed the casino manager and gaming officer for their handling of the matter.
So I don't go to Las Vegas anymore unless I have that special feeling that I can't lose. I don't get it often, but next time it comes around you want to be with me at the craps table betting on the pass line.
