How I Caught The Gambling Bug

By Will Veda

On a sweltering day in August 1996, I was strumming my guitar and between chords, I heard: “Scritch, scritch, scrutch, scritch scrutch, scrutch...” from outside of the front door.  I rose up looked out the peephole to see nothing but the neighbor across the hall’s shut door and went back to my guitar playing.   “Scritch, scrutch, scritch, scritch, scrutch...” returned with maracas rhythmic frenzy. 

“What the hell?”  I ran back to the noisy door and with the click of turning the lock, the scratching noise’s volume and intensity increased.  I turned the doorknob and began to slowly pull it towards me, but the door burst inward and knocked me into an open coat closet.  I fell, overpowered not from the door, but from the might of a zealous, black and white mongrel.  The dog buried its scythe-sharp claws into my exposed chest. 

The animal continued its torturous strikes that had already left at least twenty welts on my chest and stomach.  I finally noticed why the dog needed attention.  My next-door neighbor—the dog’s owner—was lying in her open doorway; covered in sweat with a secretion of foam at each corner of her mouth.  Her listless body jerked, as she lay there contorted in an excruciating seizure. 

 “Please, help me...help,” she said pulling on the dog’s leash.  He let out a choking yelp as I became free of its wrath.  “I’m diabetic and—” 

“I’ll be right back with some sugar,” I said, finishing her remedy suggestion sentence.  Her head nodded with approval.  The dog rushed into the kitchen behind me and tried another attack, but she tugged with all her strength to save her soon-to-be hero from the unappreciative animal.  When I returned with a tablespoon of sugar, I took control of the leash and fed it to her.  When I saw life coming back to her, I went in and called 9-1-1. 

I felt surprised and impressed when the competent 9-1-1 operator knew about my neighbor’s condition.  I stayed with her and watched in amazement as the sucrose elixir brought her strength back.  She calmed her dog and said, “I’m so sorry he scratched you.”  Her voice elevated with each word. 

“That’s quite all right, I needed a little excitement today.” 

The ambulance arrived in about five minutes; I wished her good luck, closed the front door, leaned against it and sighed.  I peered through the peephole until the rescue unit had her elevated onto a gurney and decided I had better take care of my wounds.  I should have opened the door and screamed, “Wait, fix me up before you leave.”  

In the bathroom, while I swabbed the stinging welts with peroxide, I looked at myself in the mirror.  My heaviest-of-my-life belly bulged over my puke-olive colored shorts, the waistband’s elastic stitches left an uncomfortable indention that circled my waist.  I tugged at the unyielding band, adjusted my package, then peered into the mirror again and froze with sudden insight.  I had just saved a human life; a rescue that unfolded like an outer-body experience.  Perhaps I sensed her soul watching from above and my soul joined as I helped bring life back into her body. 

 “Well,” I said to the mirror image, “ I’ve done my good deed for the day.  I think I’ll go to a church festival tonight and play Blackjack.  God will certainly reward me,”  I finished dabbing the welts with the biting, but soothing peroxide and drove to St. Mary’s Festival in Hyde Park, Ohio. 

Upon arrival, I entered the auditorium under a large sign with GAMBLING stenciled in blood red.  The stale auditorium accommodated a group of people playing cards.  Above the Blackjack tables I noticed a cryptic hand written sign that said: 

BLACKJACK RULES: 

Blackjack is an Ace and a face card only 

Dealer wins all pushes - except Blackjacks are ties 

Split hands can only be made once 

Double down on 10 and 11 only 

No double down after splits 

Bets are $1 minimum and $5 maximum 

“Fair enough,” I thought, bought ten dollars worth of tokens at the cashier table while hearing that a new table would open soon.  It filled up quickly and I sat at the last seat on the left.  The dealer—a gruff looking man wearing an old Allman Brothers T-shirt—seemed out of place—as did most of the patrons—at a Catholic festival. 

I won my first hand and like my first Blackjack win at Bally’s during a convention visit in 1990, gamble adrenaline flowed through my body.  I got excited, as my $10 soon became $17 with my $1 bets.  After playing for an hour in my same seat, a group of two couples sat down at the table.  Their boisterous mannerisms and shiny, expensive jewelry intimidated me, but I thought I would stick around for a few more hands. 

“Hey nice hit,” the ringleader of the bunch sitting next to me said after I drew a queen to go with my five and six, “but, why didn’t you double down?” 

“Uh, um, I wasn’t paying attention.” 

“Watch the dealer’s card, it’ll tell you what to do,” he said. 

“Thanks.”  I had no clue what he meant, however, his friendly advice shook off the intimidation and we began to have a little party with high fives and playful taunts for Mr. Allman Dealer. 

Yelps and rants abounded from our center-of-attraction table.  Soon a crowd gathered behind us with laughing onlookers and future players waiting for an open seat.  For the first time since I could remember—probably since my musician days—people seemed to be paying attention to me, as I became the ringleader inspired by my advice-giving friend. 

During a card shuffle, with the couples talking amongst themselves and the crowd dispersing knowing that we weren’t going to give up our seats anytime soon, I received a vision of divine manifestation.  From God?  Or from my guardian angel?  Or from a magical and spiritual entity?  I looked up at the Blackjack rules sign, now encased in neon lights; my mind’s ear heard slot machine noises; I smelled perfume from a beautiful cocktail waitress sauntering by; the concrete floor morphed into red carpet with images of cards, dice, and roulette wheels.  The church auditorium became a plush casino; my whole body tingled with excitement.  But the cards began to turn on me and my $7 profit turned into a $13 loss, so I decided to call it quits for the night.  When I rose out of the chair, my new friends begged me to stay a while longer.  “Sorry, but I have to meet some people at a nightclub,” I said and reluctantly left as the thrilling casino vision faded back to an auditorium. 

I realized that I needed a vacation.  A trip to where a lonely person could go and not feel alone: back to Las Vegas, Nevada.  A problem I have with myself is I never considered myself a lucky person, in the monetary-gain sense, that is.  I do have a strange ability of timing.  Not only do I almost always (99.99%) show up for appointments on time or earlier, I seemed to be at the right place, right time a lot.  I constantly find unbelievable parking spots, when I would just happen to drive near my destination and someone would pull out.  I regularly caught psychic coincidences, like feeling the phone about to ring.  I also could time some peoples’ moves; I looked at the world through their eyes. 

So, I knew that skill had to drive this new quest.  The next morning, er post-noon—thanks to all of the free our-hero drinks at the prior night’s bar—I awoke and decided to go on a search for information.   I visited Joseph Beth Books to purchase a tour guide for my revelation’s destiny.  I also decided to search for any available Blackjack reference books that could teach me the basics on winning.  Not sure where to go—and being male, I dared not ask for directions—I tried the section called Games.  Next to the shelves of chess and video game books, I nearly fell over upon discovering the amount of gambling books available, particularly for Blackjack.  How would I decide? 

After scouring the Blackjack-only books.  I chose a blue-cover book written by Donald Dahl, called “Progression Blackjack, Exposing the Card-Counting Myth.”  Not sure what counting cards entailed—seemed to be a lot of trouble or memorizing or being Rain Man—the book made the decision easier.  Plus it included a short section on progressive craps, a game that fascinated me on my first trip to Vegas. 

Mr. Dahl’s book juiced me up on Blackjack and I decided to continue reading gaming books and actually taught myself how to play—what ultimately became my passion—Craps.  I purchased books by John Patrick, Lawrence Revere, Frank Scoblete, Henry Tamburin, and many others.  I became a student of gambling, studying like I never had.  In high school, I had aspirations of being a rock ‘n’ roll star and decided that school work was nothing other than a detriment to my lofty goals.  Who needed to study?  But, with my newfound obsession, I developed research charts, devised personal strategies, and practiced and practiced and practiced.

For the rest of summer and most of fall, I continued to play Blackjack at the area church festivals, still playing only $1 a hand.  I now realized and understood that God’s Blackjack Rules were atrocious and only played at the festivals to perfect my future assault on the casinos. 

I honed my skills in preparation of becoming the Blackjack God of the Universe and started traveling to many casino destinations, mainly in the mid-west.  Not only did I become an expert at the games, I also found a new personality that ultimately became my casino-enthusiast alter ego: Will Veda.