Press, press, look.
Press, press, look.
Not exactly the most intellectual game going, but frighteningly enough there was an undeniable appeal to it. It was sort of like participating in a lottery – even though you were fully aware the odds of winning big were almost zero, each time you pressed that second button you felt like this could be the time you won the jackpot.
I must have been having a bit of beginner’s luck, because 15 minutes later I was up to 120 credits. The Vulcan in me spoke up: Now would be a logical time for you to quit and cash out a winner.
“Are you kidding? I’m on a roll! Nothing can stop me now!”
But the odds are stacked against you, so if you play long enough, you’ll be guaranteed to lose.
“No way, killjoy - I’m red hot! I’m going all the way!”
Suit yourself.
I continued playing.
Five minutes later I was down to 30 credits. A waitress came by.
“Would you like a drink, sir?”
I hesitated. Drinking and gambling are two activities that probably should not be combined.
“No, thank you.”
“Coffee and pop are free,” she added.
“Do you have decaf?”
“No.”
I knew if I had a cup of regular coffee this late at night I’d be up for hours. I’m sure there’s nothing a casino likes better than an insomniac playing one of their slot machines.
“No thanks.” As she turned to go I asked, “Any idea what time it is?”
“Sorry, I don’t have a watch.”
I caught a glimpse of the wrist of another casino employee who happened to be passing by. No watch. I scanned the walls. There wasn’t a single clock in the entire room. There were no windows, either – all the lighting came from artificial sources. Background music was curiously absent. The only sound was the trance-like drone of the slot machines. It was almost hypnotic. No clocks, no windows, perpetual light and continuous white noise. Whoever designed this room obviously wanted to make its occupants as oblivious to the passage of time as possible. The Room That Time Forgot. Talk about the ultimate gambling environment. I returned to my game.
A short while later my credits ran out. Without even thinking, I fished out another bill. I was about to slide it in when my inner Vulcan murmured: Are you sure you want to go down this road?
I thought about it for a spell, then stood up.
The player to my right squinted at me dully. I noted with some disquiet that we bore a passing resemblance. In addition to looking like he was half in the bag, he was tethered to his machine by one of those creepy Frequent Gambler umbilical cords. I wondered if somewhere out there a family was waiting for him to come home. Hoping and waiting. Night after night.
“Ya done already?” he slurred.
“Yep.”
“Well, dat’s how it goes, eh? Ya put yer money in da @$#% machine, ya press da button and it eats yer @$#% money!” He leaned over to my freshly vacated slot machine, dropped a couple of tokens in and pulled down the lever. Three different icons tumbled into place. He shrugged, turned back to his own unit and resumed playing.
Out-bluffing the Kids
Our friend Gord is an ER doc in a nearby city. Last winter we invited him to visit us in our small town. One of the things he and his two sons mentioned they wanted to do during their stay with us was go sledding. A few hours before they arrived, Jan inspected our sliding paraphernalia. The crazy carpets were fine, but our sleds were in woeful condition. She drove to Canadian Tire and returned with two new GT racing sleds. They cost $50 apiece.
Assembling things like GTs greatly exceeds my virtually non-existent mechanical capabilities. Luckily for me, when Gord got to our house he offered to help. We sat on the kitchen floor and surrounded ourselves with a slew of sled parts. After 30 minutes of head-scratching and tinkering we managed to put together a pair of GTs that looked more or less like the ones on the covers of the boxes. We both felt that applying the decals would take more time than it was worth, so we skipped that step.
The last thing we needed to do was fasten a slender tow-rope to the front of each sled. The instruction sheets didn’t offer any helpful hints as to what type of knot to tie. The company probably figured if you couldn’t come up with an effective knot, either you still drank from a sippy cup or you were just too damn stupid to own one of their sleds. Unfortunately, Gord and I both happen to be severely knot-challenged. We can intubate, throw in chest tubes and do spinal taps, but knots? Fuggedaboutit. What do we look like, sailors?
I was seriously considering giving up when an ancient memory of a knot I learned in Cubs decades prior lumbered out from some forgotten corner of my brain. I hastily replicated it before the memory receded.
I looked over to see how Gord was making out. I guess he never attended Cubs. He had tied a hideous Spanish Inquisition-looking knot on his sled. He was staring down at the tangled mess despondently. I couldn’t resist: “Avast matey! That's quite the Frankenknot you've created there!”
“You can say that again,” he said. “Oh well, no one said it had to be pretty. Let’s go tobogganing!”
It was an ideal afternoon for sledding – only minus 10 degrees Celsius, a cobalt sky and tons of fresh powder. Best of all, we had the entire hill to ourselves! No hot-dogging snowboarders attempting death-defying grinds and shreds. No snowmobilers paying homage to Saint Knievel. No tinnitus poster boys with portable boom boxes blasting out their favourite speed-metal arias for our listening pleasure (Hey buddy, did it ever occur to you that maybe the rest of North America doesn’t want to hear Napalm Death at 10 billion decibels?). Just two middle-aged guys and their kids. We had a great time.
Two hours later one of my daughters announced she needed to go to the bathroom. It was about time for supper anyway, so I told Gord we were going to head back home. He said he and the boys would go down the hill one last time and then meet us at our house. I gathered up as many of the sliding accessories as I could handle and walked home with the girls.
Gord and his boys arrived not long afterwards. We washed up and had supper. After supper the kids played games until they were exhausted. At bedtime Gord read them all a story. When the last child finally drifted off to sleep, Gord, Jan and I went to the kitchen and raided the fridge for beer and snacks. We stayed up chatting until midnight.
After breakfast the next morning we asked the kids what they wanted to do. Their answer was unanimous: sledding. Gord was the first to get his snowsuit on. He went outside to round up the gear but returned shortly afterwards with a quizzical look on his face.
“I found all the crazy carpets, but there’s only one GT outside,” he said. “Where’s the other one?”
“Probably in the garage,” I replied.
“No, I already checked in there. Do you remember where you left them when you got home last night?”
“Them? I only brought one back. Didn’t you bring the second one? It was tied to that bench near the top of the hill.”
“I must have walked right by it. I guess I figured you had taken both of them with you.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. “It’ll still be there. This is a friendly little town. It’s not like anyone’s going to rip off a GT.”