After thirty-four years of hard and loyal labor, my mother retired on a modest pension, social security, and, due to all the lint she had inhaled, a portable oxygen tank that she was forced to use whenever she got angry, nervous, or excited. And, believe me, that was a good ninety-percent of the time. It was fairly easy while at home, but when she was on the road, it was part of her attire, just like her oversized handbag and her odd assortment of frumpy hats.
Her first four years of retirement were ordinary and humdrum, or, as she phrased it, “this is boring me out of my frigging gourd!” But all that would change, in the blink of an eye, when an Indian casino sprouted from the happy hunting grounds a few miles out of town. The tiny reservation had been there for years, far off the beaten path, with a handful of rust-eaten trailers and some ramshackle homes. But when the Indian casino boom took hold – starting with Foxwoods in Connecticut – the tribe had started its long, legal battle for federal recognition. There were beaucoup millions to be had and they wanted their fair share, plus some.
I'm not quite sure when my mother got hooked, but it happened, and with a suddenness that put my head in a spin. Pulling a slot machine lever became as commonplace to her as engaging the flusher on her toilet or fingering the little number pads on her remote control. When the pension and social security checks arrived, she was in seventh heaven, off in a flash to the bank, where she ignored her checking and saving accounts in favor of cold, hard cash. 'What bills? I don't have any bills.' A quick call to Daisy DeLuca and Mavis Beecher, her gambling cronies, and off they would head to the Lone Wolf Casino.
I was on winter layoff from my construction job when I received an urgent phone call from my mother, early on a chilly morning in mid-February. It seems that her clunker of a car wouldn't start and the Three Musketeers needed a lift to the Lone Wolf. I attempted to reason with her, advising that she spend her money to repair the car instead of feeding it into the bottomless pits of the slots. But, as expected, she would have no part of that absolute foolishness. After playing on my sympathies that I was her only child still living in-state, I headed for her place, anger thumping in my temples.
When I arrived, I found Mom busily primping herself in front of the bathroom mirror. After all, a woman had to look her absolute best while the casino was fleecing her for every cent that she carried.
“C'mon, Ma. What say I take you out for a nice lunch and we can catch a movie of your choice. My treat. To hell with the Lone Wolf.”
She shot me a look that could have spot-welded two pieces of scrap iron. “Oh sure, ruin my day. Why should an old lady have any pleasure?”
“Wait a second. Spending some quality time with your son isn't a pleasure?”
“I spent enough quality time with you when you were a kid.” Her mouth puckered up as though she was sucking on an extra sour lemon. “Worse yet, when you were a teen.”
“Well, thanks a heap, Ma. All what I was trying to do was stop you from blowing all your money at that damn casino. The Indians get richer and you get poorer. How about the electric, cable and telephone bills? Food? Your blood pressure medication and oxygen refills? And, God forbid, those repairs on your car?”
“Go ahead, go ahead. Deprive me of all my fun.”
“Squandering money is fun? Why don't you take up something like bingo or crocheting?”
“For thirty-four long years -----.” She held up her arthritic hands, wiggling her gnarled, knobby-knuckled fingers. “----- I worked these poor hands to the bone, ten hours a day, so my kids could have food in their mouths and clothes on their backs. Thirty-four years! And, now, I supposed to sit around the house and do what ----- maybe cut out paper dollies and string them along the ceiling?”
“C'mon, Ma.”
“And squirrel away every red cent so you and your siblings can live it up after I croak.”
“I'm not like that, Ma, and you know it. I hope to hell you live long enough to attend my funeral.”
“Oh, sure, sure, break an old woman's heart.” She started to gasp for air and dashed to her portable oxygen tank, placing a forked, clear rubber tube into her nostrils. “See – huff, puff – what you've gone and done? Got me all riled up – huff, puff – and I can't catch my breath.”
“Okay, okay! Have it your way!” I shouted, flinging my hands in the air. “Feed those one-arm bandits so the two-arm bandits can live in the lap of luxury! That is absolutely, okey-dokey fine with me. I have no problem with that at all. Uh-uh. Not this guy.”
She had her hat and coat on in a flash, tilting her oxygen tank onto its wheels and hurrying for the door. “Let's get this show on the road. We got to pick up Daisy and Mavis.”
Five minutes later, I pulled up in front of a sprawling brick ranch and honked the horn. Daisy DeLuca, all three hundred pounds of her, came surging out the front door, smiling and waving and waddling down the walk. Her dark little eyes had always reminded me of two raisins pushed deep into a mound of dough. When she plunked herself down in the back seat, I heard my suspension groan, followed by a long, whooshing gasp from my shock absorbers.
“Hey, Mary Elizabeth!” she boomed. “How's it going, Howard?”
“Fine, Daisy. And you?”
“Wonderful!” She adjusted her weight, the under-carriage of my car screaming in distress. “Thanks for giving us a lift. We would have had to call a taxi otherwise. Ten percent of my winnings will go to you.”
“Maybe I could retire, huh?”
“Good chance.”
I cut over six blocks and found Mavis Beecher anxiously awaiting our arrival on the front porch. She was the exact opposite of Daisy: a small, frail, reed-thin woman, with a mop of frizzy, snow-white hair and the inevitable cigarette drooping from the corner of her mouth. She smoked four packs of cigarettes a day and how she had ever managed to reach the age of seventy-two was one of the mysteries of the world.
“Howdy, girls!” she exclaimed, giving me a swat across the back. “And you too, Howie!”
“Good to see you, Mavis. How's everything?”
“Ah, you know. George nags me over the yellow curtains and my doctor says that my breathing sounds like the African Queen. Otherwise, I'm just peachy. And ready to win a bundle!”
My mother took a long drag on her oxygen tube as Mavis fired up another butt. “Yes indeed! We're going to break the bank today. I can feel it in my bones.”
“That's your rheumatism, Ma.”
Ten minutes later, I dropped the Three Musketeers off at the front door of the casino and found a parking spot as close as possible. I located them, standing in line, waiting to swipe their cards through one of the dozen computerized terminals not far from the entrance. The Lone Wolf sent thousands of these cards out through the mail, enticing their customers with the chance to win money or cars or homes or all-expense-paid trips around the world. The catch was that you had to be at the casino in order to win, and, while you were there, chances were you would get the urge to squander away a few of your hard earned dollars. My mother swiped her card and a “Sorry. Please try again on another day” flashed across the screen.
“Well, doesn't that figure. I've never won anything yet.”
I barked a laugh. “And, chances are, you never will.”
“Thank you so much, mister know-it-all.”
“It's nothing but a gimmick, Ma.”
“You're an inspiration, Howard, you really are.”
I heaved a weary sigh.
“Just like when you were born. You were an inspiration for me not to have any more kids. But did I take heed?” Mother rolled her eyes. “Oooohhhh noooo.”
“You know, Ma, you can be so terribly cruel at times.”
“At times,” she said, with a cackle. “I must be losing my touch.”
We made our way into the hustle and bustle of the casino. All I could hear was the ping-ping, ding-ding, and ting-ting of thousands of slot machines. I noticed that a good eighty percent of the people were sixty-five and older. Hurrah for social security! The casino was decorated with eagles and wolves, feathers and beads and dream catchers. Chuckling to myself, I wondered why not a few wampum belts. Roulette, blackjack and crap tables were in full swing, waitresses plying the players with drinks to dim their common sense.
We decided to rendezvous by the huge bronze wolf at precisely three o'clock and the three women went their own separate ways. I tagged along with my mother, watching as she exchanged two twenties for four rolls of quarters and sat down at a bank of slots, placing her handbag on the chair to her left and her hat on the chair to her right. Sweet Mary and Joseph! If one wouldn't take her money fast enough, she was going to try her luck at three! She slipped her comp card into a slot on the machine and attached it to her wrist with a long, telephone-like cord. There were points to be made for meals, lodging and goodies at the gift shops, and she wasn't about to miss out on them. Five minutes into her ménage a trois, a young guy came along and attempted to feed three quarters into the machine with her hat, but she slapped his hand, knocking his coins to the floor.
“Hey, lady! What gives?”
“That happens to be my machine, sonny boy. You want to deprive an old lady of her livelihood?”
“Uh -- geez -- I'm sorry.”
“And well you should be.”
Snatching up his quarters, the guy beat a hasty retreat.
“For crying-out-loud, Ma! You embarrassed the be-Jesus out of me.”
“Oh really? Well, not half as much as you embarrassed me in the delivery room.”
“You know; I'm getting mighty sick and tired of being your whipping boy.”
“La-de-da.”
I stomped off, thoroughly disgusted, and tried to kill time until the rendezvous at three. I nursed a beer at one of the bars, wandered the casino from one end to the other and even tried my luck at a roulette wheel. Finally, we met at the wolf at three and I could see by the sour expressions that greeted me that all three of the Musketeers had lost.
“How'd it go, girls?” I asked, feeling a bit smug that I had been right.
Mavis lit up a cigarette and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Hey, you win some and you lose some.”
Daisy shrugged. “As they say, Howard, the red man's revenge.”
My mother wasn't quite as whimsical. “Sometimes I think those goddamn slots are rigged.” She took a long inhale of her oxygen.
“Let's get out of here before I puke.”
We headed for the exit with Mavis in the lead, her cigarette spewing smoke like a steel mill's chimney. And, then, as we were taking a short cut through a small eating area, I saw my mother snatch a dill pickle that had been left on a plate and conceal it in her fist. I was about to ask what was up when she flashed me a warning look and jabbed me in the ribs with an elbow. But it wasn't long before her game became all too clear. In an area where the carpeting turned to hardwood, she released the pickle, stepped squarely on top of it and went down in the best choreographed fall I had ever seen. A Hollywood stuntwoman couldn't have done a better job. And there she laid, moaning and groaning and wheezing for air, as patrons, security guards and management gathered around. The woman should have won an Oscar!
“What in the hell is going on here – huff, puff – leaving food all over the floor? My back, my back! Oooohhhh!”
A tall, gray-haired manager bent over with a look of concern. “Are you okay, ma'am?”
“Do I look okay, you idiot!” Huff, puff, puff. “Call me an ambulance! The pain! I think I've blown a disc!”
The events that followed happened so quickly that I could barely keep track of them. My mother was transported to the hospital where she met up with an ambulance-chasing lawyer by the name of Milton Gottlieb, and, nearly as fast, a two million dollar lawsuit was filed against the Lone Wolf Casino. Listed on the suit were negligence, pain and suffering, mental anguish, the worsening of a preexisting lung ailment; the whole enchilada and much more. A mere three weeks later, the casino, fearing a long, drawn out legal battle and oodles of bad publicity, anteed up a cool million and a half towards my mother's retirement fund! It was a fortune to her, but pocket change for them. And, of course, twenty percent went for the services of good old Milton Gottlieb.
And the ball kept right on rolling. Within a month of becoming a millionairess, my mother sold her house and furniture and car, donated whatever remained to charity and settled up with two months of back payments with the paperboy. Then with little more than an “adios”, she caught a flight to Phoenix, where she hoped that the dry climate would help her lungs and to be near my thrice divorced sister, Miriam, and her seven kids.
I went to visit her just before Christmas, where she was living the high life in a brand new condo, and discovered that she had recently purchased a candy-apple-red sports car with a state-of-the-art sound system and plush leather seats! And, to top it off, she was dating a guy nearly ten years her junior, a gigolo who favored a pony tail and oodles of turquoise jewelry! His name was Gordon Youngblood and you could have knocked me out of my shoes when I found out that he was a full-blooded Pima Indian! Native Americans seemed to be playing a very important role in my mother's newly-constructed life!
Jealous and feeling a bit left out, I hit the Lone Wolf at least three times a week, searching for my own bag of riches. I'd try my mother's fake injury scam, but there wouldn't be a chance in hell that I could pull it off, especially when they found out I was her son. So I play the slots, hour after hour, hoping that my one big hit was just around the corner.