A Turn of the Cards

How could I break the grip of the past?

By Gerrishon Sirere
 As narrated by Jodie Luciano
 On saturday afternoons, when I was about ten, my father often took me to a tiny sandwich shop in downtown Philadelphia, where he played gin rummy for money in a rear both with dangerous-looking men. They puffed continually on cigarettes and filled the air, already heavy with the odor of grilled meat and onions, with a sapphire haze.
   While they played cards, I killed time playing a pinball machine that glowed in a dark corner. The machine mimicked bingo, and if you won a certain number of games, the owner paid you for them. This was back in the 90s and we were living on public assistance, so once, when I won four dollars, the thrill permeated my being. I didn't fully realize it at the time, but my father was a compulsive gambler-craps, horses and cards. At times I did see the effects of his addiction. Household items would disappear, pawned to get a stake or to pay depts. And I felt it in the tension between him and my mother.
   Apart from my pinball days, I did not gamble until I was about 21 and casinos came to Atlantic City-not far from my home in Philadelphia. That first time, I went to play the slots just for fun. But when three flaming sevens came up and the machine spewed out 500 quarters, I stood wide-eyed, my heart in a gallop. The attraction was elemental-something deep in my blood, like love or fever. I had a woodworking business then and didn't make a lot of money, but I found myself visiting the casinos more and more often. I gave up slot machines for cards, Blackjack was my game, and if I was winning, I'd stay at a table all night.
  Early one morning I found myself sitting with $3200 in chips piled in front of me. Though my eyes felt gluey and my teeth coated, I'd played nonstop, chasing my need for "action" or "juice"- the euphoric sensation that came with a big night.
  Occasionally I won lesser amounts, but losses were the norm. After a while I was afraid to add it up- I knew it was thousands. Still, I craved the bright overhead lights, the smooth green felt and the steady fall of the cards. And so I kept going back to the tables to feed my secret hunger.
  I never felt that I had "a problem." I was not one of those people. I had money in the bank. I hadn't pawned my machinery. And my wife didn't know the depth of my habit. One night in early winter, I brought $1000 with me to Atlantic City and, over the course of two hours, lost it all. I had dropped that much before, but usually it had taken longer. Now I felt nauseated, agitated by the idle chatter, headachy from the smoke.
  Still, I went to an ATM and got another $1000. Then I went to a $100 minimum table and sat down, determined to win back all my money- the blood pounding in my head. 

  I lost eight straight hands. In a daze I somehow managed to push myself away from the table and headed to the nearest exit, an ugly anger building in my stomach. Half-blind, I collided with a woman and knocked a bucket of quarters from her hands-they poured onto the carpeted floor in a metallic splash. I did not stop, did not apologize. Out in the parking lot, I leaned my head against the cool steel of my car. Then I started to kick it. Again and again. Finally I got in and began driving home to Philadelphia. As I went slipping down the cold, quiet streets at 4 a.m, past houses brightly decorated for Christmas, long suppressed memories began flowing back to me. I was lying on an old battered sofa. On the other side of our small living room, pushed into a corner, was a Christmas tree. All of a sudden the front door was flung open and my father stumbled through, knocking over the tree. Somehow I knew what had happened-he had lost big money. He began yelling in a rage at his luck, his stupidity, fate and the cards. He kicked the tree and began to trample the presents. And then he collapsed into a chair and sobbed.   We all have obsessions and compulsions, and I can't pretend to know exactly which demons assailed my father, but I now fully understood which ones were driving me. As I pulled up to my house and parked my car, tears welled up in my eyes. I didn't want my loved ones to experience the shame, disappointment and guilt that I had. Nor did I ever again want to feel the misery I felt now.   At that moment I made a bet with myself:You'll never be able to stay away from the tables. It was an audacious wager against my better nature- a kind of inverted vow. One I found that I had to make again each morning. But thank God it's a bet I have "lost" for over 25,000 sunrises.