Workman Chronicles
By Morris Workman
"Slot Machines"
Published in the Desert Valley Times
May 3, 2005
First the disclaimer:
To my friends back at
Gamblers Anonymous and my boss’s bosses back in
First because I’m a newspaper writer, which means my paycheck barely covers such luxuries as food and gas.
Second because I really suck at it.
But I have been known to drop a few quarters into the occasional slot machine.
Not any more.
Tri-Properties, the company
which owns
In particular, they’ve upgraded most of the slot machines, particularly at the ‘Riv.
The new machines and the atmosphere are beautiful.
(That sound you may hear in the background is me, kissing up to the biggest advertiser in our paper.)
But to be honest, I’m not a big fan of the new one-armed bandits.
They are now coin-less.
They will only take dollar bills.
This doesn’t work for me, because I’m a cheapskate.
I may be willing to put four quarters into a machine, but I’m not going to put in a whole dollar!
Also, again because I’m a cheapskate, the machines always reject the foul, crumpled one-dollar bills I’ve been hoarding and squeezing since Reagan’s first term.
So I no longer have a place to get rid of my itinerant loose change.
Another thing I don’t like is that you put money in, but they never give money out.
And I’m not talking about my usual prowess, which resembles the same likelihood of hitting the jackpot by sticking quarters into a parking meter.
When you win, you don’t get money anymore.
You get a slip of paper with foreign symbols on it.
Then, unless you’ve accidentally mistaken it for your dry cleaning slip and retrieved your best suit with it, you are supposed to stick the slip into another slot machine, or a change machine.
I miss the clanging cascade of quarters ringing against the metal drop trays, although some of the computerized machines have been programmed to play a recording of that sound.
Also, when I win, I want everyone to know it.
Instead of using one of the cute little plastic buckets, I like to fill both pockets with change then go jingling-jangling-jingling around the casino like a dusty-spurred gunslinger at high noon.
My favorite part was trying to pay for my meal at the buffet with fistfuls of quarters.
It’s all different now, because you can’t use the little slips to buy anything.
It also adds another sobering trip to the change machine.
I’m going to miss the change girls who used to pop up for the bigger payoffs (so I’ve heard, since I’ve never hit a jackpot big enough to require human intervention).
At first I was worried about their careers, envisioning lines of out-of-work change girls holding plastic buckets labeled with signs like “Will convert quarters to nickels for food.”
However, they will have a chance to move on and up in the gaming world.
(Excuse me, someone’s at my front door. Pretend you’re listening to “On hold” Muzak until I return.)
(I’m back. It was a nice lady in a red long-sleeved shirt asking for someone named “Keno…Keno…”)
I know I’ll eventually get used to the new technology.
And I do see the advantages of eliminating all the finger-blackening coinage from the equation.
Besides, considering my meager pay, the casinos are an integral part of my retirement program.
I figure that, in the next
25 years, I should be able to rack up enough points on my