On a spur of the moment road trip with my friend and a few of her extended family members, I made my way south of the border—the Idaho border that is. It was no spring break in Mexico, but I did incur some equally unique situations.
We piled in the car and started the journey to Wendover, Nevada (a short 5 hour trip from the Boise homestead) to see a concert we had scored tickets to. Who might you ask was playing? Oh, you know, just the Temptations.
Though my first thought was of utter shock at the fact that the Temptations were A) Still alive and B) Still performing, the more I thought about it, the more excited I became. I mean, we could be witnessing their last show ever!
Three and a half hours or so into the trip we stopped at what looked like a junk-yard-turned-general-store. Confused, yet intrigued, I entered with my fellow travelers. Wandering around the aisles filled with everything from tractor parts to gummy snakes, I stumbled upon the find of the summer, and maybe even of the year.
I found myself surrounded by boots and as expected, felt an instant rush of excitement. I know what you are thinking—“don’t do it, you’ll get stuck again,” but don’t worry, these were not the style of boots I am usually attracted to. These were genuine cowboy boots.
Fascinated by the styles, colors and let’s be honest, the idea of someone actually taking me seriously at a rodeo, I browsed around at my options.
After ruling out the pink pair and the bedazzled pair I had fallen for at first glance, I reached for something more practical. They were perfect (well, as perfect as I knew a cowboy boot to be anyway) and the brown, classic embroidered style made them easy to rationalize.
And to top it off, as I loudly (of course) and proudly pointed out to my friend, the style of the boot was called ‘Justin’ just one ‘e’ away from my name. Holy irony! This was meant to be.
But as the ultra-serious boot salesman quickly and sternly corrected me, ‘Justin’ was actually the name of the boot manufacturer, not the style. Minor detail, right?
Before we knew it we were there and only an hour away from show time. We made a quick stop at the bar for a glass of the house red, and thanks to Juan the bartender’s nice pour, never had to return.
The Temptations rocked the house and we were so pleased with the show, we rushed the stage for an encore. We didn’t exactly get one, but we were lucky enough to catch a drumstick. I’m still debating on whether or not to sell it on Ebay.
Post concert, I made my way to the blackjack table. I had my new boots on for good luck and was feeling so good about them I almost sat down at the $10 minimum table.
After a few bad hands, a dealer with no patience and a creepy guy with an Eastern European accent ‘accidentally’ touching my leg a few too many times, I decided it was time for a change.
I found a quiet table, waited for a deck change (apparently this is good gambling etiquette) and sat down. A few good hands went by and just when I thought I was making friends with the dealer, something terrible happened.
The game stopped and the dealer along with everyone else at the table was suddenly glaring at me. The dealer called over a giant man in a coat and tie (that didn’t fit him by the way) and whispered something in his ear. I looked down to see him pointing to the corner of a card that was bent at the edge.
Okay seriously, it’s not like I meant to bend it. I was just a little overzealous about the ‘hit’ motion. It happens to everyone, right?
After coming to the conclusion I was not trying to ‘mark cards’ the big guy (whose real name I truly thought was ‘Pit Boss’ until we were 2 ½ hours into our car ride home) finally left the table.
A few hands later, just when I thought I was getting over my card bending drama, out of nowhere a guy one seat down from me nonchalantly asked, “So, how did you break your nose?”
Is this guy for real? I hoped to God that wasn’t his pick-up line.
Shocked for a moment by his downright rudeness, I was speechless. But don’t worry, it didn’t last for long.
I put on my sassy pants and promptly informed him that I had never broken my nose.
Acting like what he had just blurted out was no big deal, I of course felt the need to share with him the impoliteness of his behavior. Unfortunately, the poor guy could not understand why what he said was so offensive. After more than a few words and me almost being dismissed from the table, I think he got the picture.
(Photo from 'Jesus V' via Flickr)
Just as I was re-gaining my focus, the cocktail waitress approached our table. She offered everyone at the table a drink and all welcomed the proposal with the exception of the guy to my left who was drinking a giant Slurpee.
I turned to him and jokingly said, “Geeze, maybe I should try Slurpees instead of beer when I gamble—I might come away with more chips!”
The man looked at me, turned up his nose and in the most serious voice I have ever heard said “I don’t drink—I’m LDS.”
Seriously dude? Are you really going to judge me for drinking a beer when you are sitting at the same blackjack table as I am? A sin is a sin brother.
Since what I would have said in response would definitely have warranted exiting the table, I decided to say nothing and focus on my chips instead—believe it or not, I was ahead.
But after some bad luck and a dealer change, I decided it was time to cash out for the night.
As my friend and I were on our way to the room, we made a quick stop at the casino bathroom. On our way in, I saw who I thought was my dealer from earlier in the evening and proceeded to yell his name and wave obnoxiously to get his attention.
“Mario! Mario!” I yelled to him, waiting for him to recognize me from earlier.
I stood in sheer embarrassment as who I thought was Mario, my beloved dealer, looked right at me and said “I’m not Mario,” and continued walking.
Bummer.
In my defense, all the dealers A) had on the same black pants, white shirt and blue vest B) were for the most part of Hispanic decent and C) it was 2:30 a.m. An honest mistake, right?
The next morning before departing the wonderful town of Wendover, I once again returned to the blackjack table. Strangely enough, I ended up winning back all the cash I had lost the night before, but in the process learned a very valuable lesson.
Apparently aces can be worth 11(high) or 1 (low), which I had gone my entire gambling career (of one whole year) without knowing.
I threw the dealer a chip for sharing his wisdom and left feeling like I had just won a million bucks.
