A Turn of the Cards
Gerrishon Sirere II
June 02, 2017
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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.
