Brigit's Flame Week 2 - A Fool and His Money
o/` "Ev'ry gambler knows that the secret to survivin'
Is knowin' what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
'Cause ev'ry hand's a winner and ev'ry hand's a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep." o/`
-- "The Gambler" performed by Kenny Rogers
I've always loved Blackjack. It's one of the first card games I learned when my grandfather was trying (unsuccessfully, it turns out) to demonstrate the concept of a number which could have two values. I never did master the complexities of pre-calculus, but I got damned good at predicting card variables and winning the game. I didn't get the chance to put it into practice until I went away to college.
Located in the resort town of Durango, Fort Lewis College had one other thing to recommend it: it was within a few miles of the Mountain Ute Indian Reservation and they had a casino. Of course, as a student I didn't have much money but that didn't stop me from going out there and trying my luck. By purchasing much-used books that semester and contenting myself with eating ramen noodles for most meals, I managed to save a small sum. It probably would have been better spent on a dozen other things I desperately needed or even on one thing I wanted, but I had my heart set on visiting the casino the moment I came of legal age to do so.
I turned twenty-one on an unusually humid August evening. I had wanted to dress the way I thought someone who was going to a casino would dress but, lacking the formal black slip dress and diamonds, I settled for a clean pair of jeans and a new slinky lycra blouse in a black-and-white zebra print, and my best turquoise. We piled into our car and headed out.
The desert night embraced us, swallowing all traces of passage, as we drove out to the reservation. A bare difference in blackness demarcated the cold, star studded sky from the towering mesas. The headlights showed ten feet of withering sage and scrub brush at a time. We thought we'd gotten lost when the road went from pavement to gravel to dust, but eventually a neon smear on the horizon assured us we were indeed come to the right place.
Indian casinos differ from others; there's a sort of surreal atmosphere, something quieter and more dignified, which makes it seem cozy. They are not allowed to serve alcohol* and so the louder-than-necessary voices of the drunkards never interrupt. Instead there is only the soft clinking and ringing of the slot machines, the steady rumble of voices, and a sort of deadly seriousness about the various players. I noted that we were just about the only non-reservation folk present; the majority occupying the stools in front of the slots or taking up chairs at the poker and Blackjack tables were either Navajo or Ute. A collector and connoisseur of turquoise jewelry even then, I marveled at the plethora of pieces (some of whose creators were long gone along with their designs), and chatted up those who would talk about them.
When it's found in an antique mall or a junk shop, the whites call it "old pawn". After people watching for a little short of an hour, I began to realize just how some of those pieces left the reservations and the families who had treasured them. An old Navajo woman in her mid sixties had been sitting at the same bank of slots since we came in, her sun wrinkled hand wringing the arm of the machine over and over as the bucket of coins in front of her shrank steadily. As I stood beside my husband at the cashier's cage to buy chips for use at the blackjack tables, I watched her approach the next window. She did not offer money; she spoke in her own language to the woman at the counter, who signaled to a burly looking Hopi man wearing black jeans, white shirt, and a bolo tie. A squash blossom necklace which must have been at least thirty inches long and weighed about two pounds exchanged hands. He nodded once, curtly, to the cashier, who gave the old woman more coins for the slots, and then put the necklace in one of the velvet locking trays behind the counter.
He saw me watching, appraised my own wealth with a practiced look, and offered a sad half-smile. "What tribe?"** he asked.
"None of which I am aware," I replied, "I wear the turquoise because it feels good. These are nice pieces." We talked a while; it turned out that his grandfather was an experienced metalsmith and still used some of the older designs I found so appealing. He had the occupation he did because he had learned from his grandfather how to appraise the silver's value and how to re-market it appropriately if it wasn't reclaimed. Too much of it, he told me, went that way.
Suddenly, he seized my arm and took me aside. "Don't bet your jewelry," he said, his voice almost pleading. "Come in with a set amount and leave when you've lost it or doubled it. Stick with the Blackjack tables or poker if you're good at cards and stay away from the slot machines."
Only a fool would have ignored such advice from a man in a position to know what would likely happen otherwise. I adopted that as my gambling standard. I never take more than $20 into a game, and I stop when I've lost it or doubled it. It won't make me a rich gal, but it won't leave me a poor fool either.
* This event takes place in 1994 and it was common policy on all the southwestern reservations. I do not know whether the laws have since been changed or not
** I used to get asked this a lot when interacting with the Hopi, Navajo, and Utes. Decades later I learned the truth. I'm Osage.
Is knowin' what to throw away and knowing what to keep.
'Cause ev'ry hand's a winner and ev'ry hand's a loser,
And the best that you can hope for is to die in your sleep." o/`
-- "The Gambler" performed by Kenny Rogers
I've always loved Blackjack. It's one of the first card games I learned when my grandfather was trying (unsuccessfully, it turns out) to demonstrate the concept of a number which could have two values. I never did master the complexities of pre-calculus, but I got damned good at predicting card variables and winning the game. I didn't get the chance to put it into practice until I went away to college.
Located in the resort town of Durango, Fort Lewis College had one other thing to recommend it: it was within a few miles of the Mountain Ute Indian Reservation and they had a casino. Of course, as a student I didn't have much money but that didn't stop me from going out there and trying my luck. By purchasing much-used books that semester and contenting myself with eating ramen noodles for most meals, I managed to save a small sum. It probably would have been better spent on a dozen other things I desperately needed or even on one thing I wanted, but I had my heart set on visiting the casino the moment I came of legal age to do so.
I turned twenty-one on an unusually humid August evening. I had wanted to dress the way I thought someone who was going to a casino would dress but, lacking the formal black slip dress and diamonds, I settled for a clean pair of jeans and a new slinky lycra blouse in a black-and-white zebra print, and my best turquoise. We piled into our car and headed out.
The desert night embraced us, swallowing all traces of passage, as we drove out to the reservation. A bare difference in blackness demarcated the cold, star studded sky from the towering mesas. The headlights showed ten feet of withering sage and scrub brush at a time. We thought we'd gotten lost when the road went from pavement to gravel to dust, but eventually a neon smear on the horizon assured us we were indeed come to the right place.
Indian casinos differ from others; there's a sort of surreal atmosphere, something quieter and more dignified, which makes it seem cozy. They are not allowed to serve alcohol* and so the louder-than-necessary voices of the drunkards never interrupt. Instead there is only the soft clinking and ringing of the slot machines, the steady rumble of voices, and a sort of deadly seriousness about the various players. I noted that we were just about the only non-reservation folk present; the majority occupying the stools in front of the slots or taking up chairs at the poker and Blackjack tables were either Navajo or Ute. A collector and connoisseur of turquoise jewelry even then, I marveled at the plethora of pieces (some of whose creators were long gone along with their designs), and chatted up those who would talk about them.
When it's found in an antique mall or a junk shop, the whites call it "old pawn". After people watching for a little short of an hour, I began to realize just how some of those pieces left the reservations and the families who had treasured them. An old Navajo woman in her mid sixties had been sitting at the same bank of slots since we came in, her sun wrinkled hand wringing the arm of the machine over and over as the bucket of coins in front of her shrank steadily. As I stood beside my husband at the cashier's cage to buy chips for use at the blackjack tables, I watched her approach the next window. She did not offer money; she spoke in her own language to the woman at the counter, who signaled to a burly looking Hopi man wearing black jeans, white shirt, and a bolo tie. A squash blossom necklace which must have been at least thirty inches long and weighed about two pounds exchanged hands. He nodded once, curtly, to the cashier, who gave the old woman more coins for the slots, and then put the necklace in one of the velvet locking trays behind the counter.
He saw me watching, appraised my own wealth with a practiced look, and offered a sad half-smile. "What tribe?"** he asked.
"None of which I am aware," I replied, "I wear the turquoise because it feels good. These are nice pieces." We talked a while; it turned out that his grandfather was an experienced metalsmith and still used some of the older designs I found so appealing. He had the occupation he did because he had learned from his grandfather how to appraise the silver's value and how to re-market it appropriately if it wasn't reclaimed. Too much of it, he told me, went that way.
Suddenly, he seized my arm and took me aside. "Don't bet your jewelry," he said, his voice almost pleading. "Come in with a set amount and leave when you've lost it or doubled it. Stick with the Blackjack tables or poker if you're good at cards and stay away from the slot machines."
Only a fool would have ignored such advice from a man in a position to know what would likely happen otherwise. I adopted that as my gambling standard. I never take more than $20 into a game, and I stop when I've lost it or doubled it. It won't make me a rich gal, but it won't leave me a poor fool either.
* This event takes place in 1994 and it was common policy on all the southwestern reservations. I do not know whether the laws have since been changed or not
** I used to get asked this a lot when interacting with the Hopi, Navajo, and Utes. Decades later I learned the truth. I'm Osage.