Gambling Man

I never played craps. I never got into cards. Sure, like all teen-agers,
I was taught blackjack and poker by my “elders” (i.e., high-schoolers as opposed to us grade-schoolers). I promptly forgot how to play these games of chance. I simply didn’t enjoy gambling. Never have.

I’ve never been to a horse race (or dog race, for that matter). I never joined the office betting pools during March Madness, the World Cup, or the baseball, basketball, hockey and football play-offs. I don’t play the lottery. I never thought Ed McMahon would knock on my door.

I drove to Vegas to see what the hoopla was all about. That was first in the early 70’s, I'd guess. I arrived shirt-less, barefoot and quite the longhair. I was not welcomed (then again, very few establishments were inclined to welcome people such as I). I quickly decided to simply keep on going...(there is a great, big ocean just a day's drive west, after all...). But I remember this scene vividly (it is 3 AM):

A man in a stylish tuxedo is sitting on the curb, head in hands, crying. More than crying…wailing. At that very moment, a Vegas cab cruises by, roof-top billboard flashing horse race results, and megaphone blaring: “Ain’t we having fun!?!”

I chewed on that for a bit. “No.” This wasn’t fun. This is something
I can never understand. Gambling away your fortune, perhaps your life, just doesn’t seem like it’s all that much fun.

* * *

OK. I’m not a gambler. So riddle me this: Why did I gamble everything…my possessions, my fortune, my heart and very soul, on the love of a woman? (More than once, I might add).

I’m not a gambler, I say. But, I went all in, I bet it all and lost…repeatedly…for love.

Who’s the addict with the problem?

* * *

Gratuitous non-sequitor: Origami intrigues and delights me.

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