A four-hour drive in a comfortable car beats a four-hour plane ride any day, especially if you're with friends or family. Take turns driving, pause at a roadside rest stop when the mood strikes you, stop for brunch or dinner at the halfway point. There are no pesky luggage searches, we take our shoes off and leave them off -- not for national security, but because it just feels good. We bring all the liquids we want without having to wastefully toss them in a trash can at the departure gate. Sitting together, we can talk without having to shout over the sound of jet engines; we're not interrupted by airline employees barking about what we can, and cannot, do. The journey seems almost effortless -- even enjoyable. Four hours pass as though they were only one.
As we arrive, we're greeted with smiles everywhere, and we feel welcome. It's a bit chilly, but at least we're not dripping with perspiration before we reach the front door like we had out in the western desert of Nevada. Once we enter, it's another world. Like Alice stepping Through the Looking Glass, we're not in Buffalo, New York anymore, but someplace that seems a lot like a hotel and casino complex, and one of the better ones at that. Everyone has heard of Las Vegas and Reno, but for someone like me with very little gambling experience, Seneca Niagara seems like it must be one of those well-kept secrets you never hear about. It's bigger and better than I expected. I like this... who knew?
This time I might get up the courage to do some honest-to-gosh gambling, rather than merely gazing at the fountains or admiring the decorating scheme. Instead of just hanging out at the penny slots, I might actually approach a Blackjack table, if someone would only talk me into it... or tie me to a chair, something like that... yeah, maybe then I might do it. But, somehow I do it, without anything involving cattle prods, or duct tape and kidnapping. I get up early when most others are just going to bed, brush my teeth and head down to the tables before I have time to begin forming self-doubt. Like a child lost in the mostly-vacant casino, I wonder around with my hands in my pockets, looking for an empty table and a friendly-looking dealer who might not mind answering a lot of stupid beginner questions, like... "Is this a Blackjack table?"
I find one. A man at least my age, perhaps a bit older, and he's chewing something that might be tobacco, or maybe broken glass, I'm not sure. This is someone I can communicate with. I explain it's my first attempt at Blackjack, and throw myself at his mercy. He's kind and informative, sometimes too much so. He divulges so much information, I'm unable to absorb it all, or even retain small amounts. I ask him to alert me if the cocktail waitress passes behind me, I need a large cup of black coffee. After about two or three hands, he's tapped out and an older woman takes his place. She's kind, friendly and informative. She's, also, skinny and sounds as though she smokes about three packs of cigarettes a day. She appears drunk, or on medication. As she's dealing (or maybe shuffling, I forget) about four cards fly out on the table and she calls the pit boss over and confesses. They talk and work out a solution that sounds like some kind of magic card trick, and suddenly we're back playing. She gives advice and tells me "what the book says," and because I follow it, by the time the original dealer returns, she's managed to strip me of $110 at a $10 table. Two men simultaneously sit at my table, one on the left and one on the right of me, and because I sense I'll receive less instruction, I cash in my chips and move on.
Another table and the dealer is available -- a man who looks younger, and even more stupid than me. I can only hope. Yes, it's a Blackjack table (I'm still asking dumb questions) and as I place $90 worth of chips down, and he begins shuffling, I tell him it's the second time I've played Blackjack, and I've just lost $110. Also, because I'm feeling a little nervous, I inadvertently find myself in a rambling monologue that discloses all of my shortcomings and the major events of my life. Well, it was his own fault; it took a long time for him to shuffle the eight decks of cards that comprise the shoe he was about to deal from. Had it been a single deck, I could have shortened my story. Now, here's the kicker -- as soon as he finished, he was tapped out and a different dealer now stood before me. Is this a pattern, or just an indication of my bad luck? This guy was even younger, sported one earring, and he had a space between his front teeth wide enough to hold a dollar's worth of nickels. Even worse, he was fast, smooth, and smart. But bless the gods and saints of card players, he was friendly, and gave explanations as though I was playing with his money. I noticed that when I didn't do "what the book said," sometimes I did better.... sometimes not. Another player sat down at the table, and I "colored up." I read that phrase someplace, and since it sounded good, I used it.
A third table, and a dealer with a shaved head like mine is standing alone. I concluded this was either a good sign or a bad one, I couldn't be sure, but whichever it was, it was very much so. He was tall and thin, and he didn't look too smart. By now you'd think I'd know better... he wouldn't be dealing Blackjack if I was smarter than he was. Since I now had experience, I no longer asked stupid questions, but expressed myself in declarative statements. "Hey," I said with an air of confidence, "This is a Blackjack table." "This is Twenty-One, sir." I paused a moment, rolling the words over in my mind and while I wasn't sure at first, it now seemed that meant the same thing.
After an awkward moment when he jokingly asked me to assist him in mixing the cards, and I began to oblige (I knew I wasn't permitted to touch the cards, I just forgot) the game began. Like all the other dealers, he was an affable soul. He told me how "the book" said I should handle situations, and why. Some of his advice contradicted the things I thought I already knew about the game, and sometimes when I went against the prevailing logic, I did better than if I'd followed it... sometimes not. Another player sat down and I left with my chips. Crossing the casino, I paused at a row of slot machines and emptied my pockets to count my winnings. To my surprise, I was $45 ahead of the original amount I started with. I couldn't believe it, I had to count it three times to be sure. And, because the casino was starting to get busy and there were no more empty tables, and because I was ahead, it seemed like a good time to stop.
During our overnight stay at the hotel, we had a fabulous steak dinner, saw an entertaining magic show, and spent time at the in-house night club where we observed several well-known football players rubbing elbows with us common folks, all without ever setting foot outside of the building. We had a wonderful time, and to the best of my knowledge, we each came back still wearing our shirt. Thank you again Chris and John, thank you Danielle for watching "Morph the Wonder Dog" so we could all go, and thank you especially, to the Seneca Nation of Indians, Keepers of the Western Door, for your hospitality. I sometimes wonder, if Indians were in the White House instead of cowboys, might things have been handled better?
