Skipping Towards Gomorrah by Dan Savage

connects the casino to downtown Dubuque was difficult; I was paying attention, I was playing basic strategy, and I was winning—and it was difficult not to attribute my little winning streak to an innate, freshly tapped skill, a heretofore undiscovered knack for playing blackjack. After spending one afternoon being coached by three card dealers, I was suddenly a card shark, if not a whale. That couldn’t just be luck, right? I mean, with the tools they gave me, I was able to build a small fortune, right? I did that—I won $410! Me! And if it was an innate skill, some sort of gift, that turned my $300 into $710, why shouldn’t I keep playing? And winning? Walking into the lobby of the Julien, I thought, Shit, they’re just giving money away on that boat. Why shouldn’t I go back and take some more from them?
    When I walked into my room, I flopped down on the couch to watch Angie Harmon work over a girl gangbanger on Law & Order, fully intending to head back to the casino when the culprit was safely behind bars. By the time the show was over, though, my moment of hubris seemed to have passed. In the hour I had to calm down, I remembered what my coaching staff tried to impress on me: The cards were just falling my way; I wasn’t skilled, just lucky; and getting up from the table when I was up by $410 was the smart thing to do. I was ahead.
    The bartender, the world’s oldest living smoker, and the man without a voice box were all in the tavern when I dropped by the next day. I had tipped the dealers last night at the Diamond Jo, so why shouldn’t I tip the dealers who really made my last gambling experience so profitable? I almost typed enjoyable, but even when I was winning, gambling didn’t strike me as much fun. It was stressful. Oh, sure, there was a moment of elation when you won a hand, but that moment was brief, and a second after it was over, it was time to make another bet, time to slide another chip out onto the green felt, and then you were back in Stressville. Would I get a good hand? Would I bust? What’s the dealer really got? Winning was better than losing, of course, but the actual minute-to-minute experience of it wasn’t that much different.
    I said hello, sat down next to the dealers, and the bartender came over and set a Hamm’s in front of me before he returned to his regular leaning spot, his butt on the back bar, and one foot on the cooler under the front bar. It was only my second visit to his bar, and I was already a regular; he didn’t wait for me to order a beer (at 12:20 on a weekday afternoon), he just brought me what I had the last time I was in. I told my three-man coaching staff that I won, that it went well, that I took their advice and it paid off. They were delighted—not at my skill, but at their own. I tried to give them each fifty dollars, but all three refused to take my money.
    â€œYou won it,” said the bartender, “it’s your money.”
    â€œWouldn’t feel right,” said the ancient smoker.
    â€œSpend it on your girlfriend,” said the man with the voice synthesizer.
    I asked them if I could at least buy them a round of drinks. That was acceptable, and I picked up their tab—which gave me an idea. Later that night, on my way back to the Diamond Jo, I returned to the bar. The dealer-turned-bartender was off, but his uncle, the bar’s owner, was in. I asked if his bar ran prepaid tabs. Indeed they did. I opened a two-hundred-dollar tab for the ancient smoker and the man with the voice synthesizer.
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    T he last time I walked into the Diamond Jo, I was on a streak. I went in with a strategy—my winning strategy. I played the exact same game I played the night before, the night I more than doubled my money. Before I arrived at the Diamond Jo, I made myself promise to rise graciously from the table and exit the casino just as soon as I doubled my money—I wouldn’t be taking the