“They’re talking about your shirt.”

Her voice pulls me out of a reverie. I’m focusing on the chips, on the table, on the dice. Now I’m listening to the midwestern girl next to me, almost laughing at me for not noticing the two dealers on the other side of the table talking and pointing to my shirt. I look down; I’m wearing my Hard Rock Paris shirt my brother brought back for me. I thought it would be fitting for my first day into Las Vegas to wear a Paris shirt. “Oh,” is all I can stumble in a dumb reply, when I’m thinking Why are the dealers talking about me, but not to me? How impersonal is this place?

Tedd showed me how to shuffle chips a few nights ago, and I take time out in the game to start shuffling on the cushioned bar of the craps table. Unfortunately, my once hard-to-hold stack of chips has been slowly returning itself back to the house. What I’m using to shuffle is about my total, and there are no greenies in my pocket. (The green ones are always for your pocket.)

It’s a new shooter, so I put a bet in the pass line. I feel a silent victory when the stickman calls out “FOUR.” Four is *my number*. It makes or breaks me. Odds on a four pay two to one, and I always play double odds on a four or ten. I throw a bet on the come line, and a bet in the field. Next roll is a 6. The six and eight annoy me, partially because they come up so often and because they pay so little odds wise. The girl next to me is buying the six and eight every shooter, and that’s about it, but I’m so engrossed in my own play I’m not noticing if she’s above or behind. Six also loses my field bet. I play one more come bet, this next roll being a two and losing that as well. I look at the table and realize that about half of my remaining money is on the table and I get nervous. I pull back and wait for the money to come in, reaching down the rail below me to get my drink.

“Seven out!”

Shit. I have seven weighty chips in my hand, but I lost that much on the last roll. It’s early yet, in the day and the trip, and I want to have some money to play later, so I back off. Where’s that cocktail lady? (Later in the trip, I discover the key to getting a drink when I want it – playing at a bar – but most of the trip my luck at getting cocktails at my table/slots sucks.) Since I’ve temporarily taken myself out of play, I get the chance to read the table. Tony is doing well, with at least his stake still out in front of him, and probably a few chips in his pocket. A flash of green pulls my attention down table where I see a guy cashing in a bunch of C notes. He puts a $100 black chip on each number. The next roll? A seven. I’m whining about losing $35, and he loses $600 just like that. On the very next roll. Daaamn. To my surprise, he cashes in more money and does it again. This time, he gets his eight. He does this a few more times, with wins and losses, and leaves in disgust, down on his investment. It puts things in perspective for me, being down just a few tens of dollars. I imagine if the table got hot, his $100 bets could have paid out, but I didn’t see it and neither did he.

I see enough play to think the table is turning. Most of the time, bets I would have made would have won, but I wasn’t playing to be conservative. I decide to jump back into the fray. It’s a nine, so I lay $5 odds. There are five red chips left in my hands, and I’m still rolling them around. The table clears before I hit my nine, and I’m pissed. I’ve made a too many bad decisions, $5, $10, $20 at a time. I throw my chip down on the don’t pass line. I usually never play the don’ts, but with the table being so cold, I figure maybe I’ll win back the money on the house.

The next roll, a come out, is a seven. No fucking kidding. When I play to win, they lose. When I play for them to lose, they win, and I lose. The key thing to get from that is, “I lose.” I’m down eighty, and I’m done. I scrap up my chips, and grumble away from the table. Josh was good enough to buy me a consolation drink at the bar.

I think Tony made money at that table, but when we met up with more people from our group later that afternoon who had played elsewhere, only Rich and I were down. Others were already even, or a little ahead. The good part of this story is I buy $10 of chips off Marc, and I have enough to shuffle in my hands, and pockets, and in the hotel room. I hold on to those chips for two days, before I blow them at blackjack.

I’m still surprised how in one little craps game my luck, my attitude about Vegas, my excitement all changed. But that’s Vegas for you, and I still have five days/four nights of entertainment ahead of me.