ILLUSIONS

      One way or another, it seems that we are constantly reminded that man cannot live without illusions.  From the time of ancient myths and medieval tales, philosophers, minstrels and teachers have let us know that dreaming is every bit as important as food or drink.  Even Elvis crooned: “you can burn my house, you can steal my car, you can drink my liquor from that old fruit jar, but don’t you step on my blue suede shoes.”  I guess if a little footwear could lend a feeling of grandeur it is only normal that the resorts lining The Las Vegas Strip arouse extraordinary images of what might be.

 

The trick is to keep things in proportion.  Rather than discard a fantasy (“lose your dreams and you will lose your mind,” according to the lyrics of a 1960s Rolling Stones song) or allow reverie to dominate our every waking hour, can we not attempt a balance between what is practical and what is fantastic?  Easy to say!  Not so easy to accomplish.

 

Lest one think that Las Vegas is unique in offering smoke and mirrors, allow me to remind you of the many television programs featuring variations of poker.  More than any other game, Texas Hold ‘Em has captured the hearts and minds of people throughout the country.  As could be expected, nobody is more susceptible to the lure of playing poker for a living than young people.

 

 So here I was last weekend on a visit to Albuquerque, New Mexico where I dropped into a Native American Casino nearly as plush as those on Las Vegas Boulevard.  Besides slot machines, craps and blackjack, there were a number of tables offering No Limit Texas Hold ‘Em.  Brother, it was no easy feat getting a seat.  The list of potential players kept growing until the wait was more than an hour. 

 

Finally seated at a $2-$5 no limit table, it did not take me long to remark that the quality of play in the heartland was definitely as good as that of any big time casino.  I’m telling you those people knew how to bet and bluff, when to call and when to fold.  Equally astonishing, other than a gentleman in his forties, none of the seven others at my table could have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three.  Where the heck did they get their money?  Unlike myself who bought in at the $200 minimum, these youngsters were all sitting with chips triple and quadruple the size of my pile.  Two of them were young ladies, pretty at that, while two of the men were Native Americans, and another was of Chinese descent.  That left a pair of callow country bumpkins who were clearly familiar with one another as well as with the different dealers, floor men and other players.  That’s right, I soon learned, all of them came to the casino just about every evening.

 

Nobody wiggled his ears when I said I lived six hundred miles up the road in Las Vegas.  (The only reason I noted the mileage was so that they did not confuse my Nevada hometown with Las Vegas, New Mexico.)  If I thought the mention of Sin City was going to impress them, I had another thought coming.

 

“I get up there pretty often,” said one of the country boys.

 

“Really,” I said.  “Where do you play?”

 

“Upstairs at the Bellagio is what I like best.”

 

For those who are unaware, the upstairs room at the Bellagio is to poker aficionados what Yankee Stadium is to a sandlot ballplayer.  If one can single out any spot on the globe where an unknown can make a quick ton of money, Upstairs at the Bellagio has got to be the place.  Of course you have to be exceedingly skillful, totally indifferent to the value of money and wildly lucky to stand a chance.  But then, isn’t that what Las Vegas is all about? 

 

“There are some damn good games at The Commerce Club near L.A.,” said his friend.

 

“I like high stakes games at The Wynn,” said one of the girls.  “I’m moving to Las Vegas next month.

 

“We’re all moving to Vegas,” said one of the Native Americans.  “Except for Harry,” he nodded at the Chinese lad.  “He’s going to Macau.”

 

“No way,” said Harry.  “I’d just as soon play at Foxwood.”

 

They all laughed before returning to the serious business at hand.   I got lucky holding wired nines.  A nine appeared on the flop accompanied by a pair of sevens.   Harry was holding the ace-seven of hearts.  Unperturbed by the dent I made in his chips he came back a few hands later raising on a flush draw.  I went all-in with two pairs.  Harry called.  The club he was hoping to find turned up on the river.  Wiped out, I left the table without saying a word. 

 

Twenty minutes later I stopped for gas.  Still upset by the hand I had lost, I hardly realized my tank was empty. 

 

“So those kids are going to Las Vegas,” I thought to myself. “Poor bastards!  Like countless others, all they are going to do is chase after phantoms."

 

            As for me, I had a better idea.  For a simple dollar I could buy a dream worth considerably more.  With the powerball jackpot at the multi-state lotto up to $100,000,000, I went inside and bought ten tickets.  You know what?  Once I collect my winnings, I just might try my hand upstairs at The Bellagio.