(Scrolling back to 1949 in this memoir will provide baseball junkies with the very essence of the game and the father/son relationship to it)

                                                DRINKING AND GAMBLING II

1968, South Lake Tahoe

     Now, when I got off work at eleven, I talked to nobody after sousing up my drink tickets at the Keno bar and went straight to the Harrah’s blackjack tables. One of the bartenders I worked with informed me that over 50% of what Harrah’s employees earned in salary and tips were lost to the casino, or casinos down the street. I gambled small, with patience, counting cards. Right off, I won $400 and gave it to Joe for my next 4 months rent, and he called me the “latest red-hot gambler and red-hot lover” in Tahoe, as he still hadn’t seen a woman come out of my apartment come mornings, only a hungover wretch sitting under a shade tree with the Siberian Husky beside him.

     Nights I was broke I ran a tab at a neighborhood bar a mile from my place on the California side. One of these nights a young local cook, after touching my thigh, invited me to his apartment.. I smacked his hand off and gave him a look. He smirked, implied since I couldn’t get laid he could show me a much better time than any woman. I got up and stumbled home.

     One night I cashed my paycheck and sat down at a table and ran my chips up to a grand! A crowd formed. I was in white heat, felt this jolt of adrenalin infused into my every pore. I ran my streak up to fifteen hundred and kept tipping the waitresses for free drinks and then suddenly I got cold and lost it by betting big, impatiently and stupidly while remaining frigid. I lost it all. I took out my tips and lost them. I borrowed twenty from a bartender at the Keno bar and lost it. I went outside into the blinding morning sunshine and got in my VW bug and drove to the bank and found out I had drained my account and showed up a few minutes later at the electric company to take out my deposit, which I took to the casino and ran up to three hundred before losing it. I went home, showered, shaved, dressed, went to work, impressed the bartenders with my good humor and occasional clowning, made $40 in tips, lost it at the tables, borrowed more from the bartenders and lost until they all cut me off and told me to go home and get some Goddam sleep for Chrissake!

      I abandoned my writing regimen. Without power, I ate to-go garbage. At the casinos I sat at the tables with my tips and bet small, trying to last, boozing. When I built my winnings, the jolt of adrenalin returned. I was captive of the mesmerizing highs and lows. One high for every five lows was enough to keep me gambling, no matter how far I fell behind—it was my single thrill and obsession. Even after I returned home drunk and broke I could not shut down the excitement coursing through my body like a current. I wasn’t eating or sleeping and was losing weight and whenever I lost my last dollar I was so demoralized I kicked and jumped on my VW in the parking lot at Harrah’s and came home to gaze in the mirror and ask myself why this was happening to me and what was my life coming to and I hated the sight of my face in the mirror, and I’d spit on the mirror and cuss the face and the person and call the face and person a worthless come-to-nothing piece of shit and punch the face and it felt good to see stars and I’d punch the face again harder, never in the nose which had been busted twice playing football and brawling in the army, no, I punched the forehead and jaw and cheeks, and soon the bruises swelled and I lay in bed trying not to cry while trying at the same time to climb out of my skin, because it was torture being Dell Franklin, son of Murray Franklin, and I dreaded coming out of the house and facing my neighbors and going to work and having my supervisor and fellow bartenders seeing me this way as I played the good time untroubled Charlie, always up, kidding, clowning, showing everybody there was nom pain, man, no pain at all, knowing that at least I’d take my tips and maybe eat enough to stay alive but certainly hit the tables.

      Had I not paid my landlord 4 months of rent, I’d have been homeless in the woods.

     (Next Sunday Installment: Big Moe Takes Charge)