Topic: Luck

Author: Chris Dunn

I am what is called a lapsed catholic. I supposed I lapsed sometime around 1980. It was all so dreadfully boring, and when my mother had said, “You don’t have to go to church, if it’s not doing anything for you.” I took, what I realize now to have been, one of the bravest stands in my life. “I don’t think I’ll go then. I don’t believe in any of this.” Though a bit shocked, mom stayed true to her word and – outside of school-required services, wedding and funerals – I never went to church again.

Aside from the boring, droning, repetitive, stand-kneel-stand-kneel-sit-stand dance which is the weekly service and the YOU-ARE-NOT-WORTHY bleakness of the overall message, catholicism (sorry spellcheck, I don’t see why that word should be capitalized) is a pretty easy religion, and not without it perks. My favorite perk was always the annual church festival. It sucked that it was only an annual event, but every church had one, and Cincinnati had plenty of catholic churches. As the early days of summer came around, we were climbing into the car practically every weekend heading to one or another decorated parking lot. Why? Gambling!

Sure, there was drinking too. This is the other perk of catholicism – I did say “perks” - all events are made better with the inclusion of alcohol. But as a twelve-year-old, the wonder of beer had yet to strike beyond the occasional “swig” you got when you brought my dad his favorite sudsy beverage. And the dunking booth and the gold fish toss only took up valuable space from the important attractions: Jumbo Poker, Bars and Bells, Hi-Lo and my all-time favorite the Big-6 Wheel.

Jumbo Poker was just the classic game without all the messy, time-consuming betting. You paid ahead for your seat. Then five cards were flipped before each of the congregants. The house took half the money and the winner got the rest. While intriguing and worth a play or two to see if that was the way my luck was running that particular festival, only one winner… The odds were always too tight. Big thrills, to be sure, but too few and far between.

Bar and Bells were little tear off slot machines, the ultimate analog version of the one-armed bandit save perhaps manually shaking a trio of large baskets filled with fruit. Three plums won you two dollars. The dream payoff was twenty-five dollars, but I forget what fruit you needed to triplicate. We were assured there were two big winners per bag of cards as they were added to the mix periodically, but I never saw one. I loved choosing my car from the immense bucket, searching for one that glowed or somehow stood out from its fellows marked as lucky, and I loved pulling open the tabs to reveal each new fruit, but ultimately, the thrill was too brief.

Hi-Lo was my dad’s game. He had a fool-proof system that never seemed to work. It was essentially craps without the shooters. The dice were kept in a large hourglass and flipped as rapidly as the bets could be turned around. The margins on craps are fairly low, so here volume was key. It was that very volume that Thom Dunn thought to exploit. You could make all the standard craps bets, doubles, 7 or 11, things like that, but the main game was as advertised: would the dice land HI (above 7) or LO (below 7). Dad’s secret strategy - as was whispered to me in utmost confidence and is now revealed to the world here in this story – was to wait and watch for clusters. Five LOs or HIs in a row, before he put a coin down, then you hit the opposite number and hit hard. If LO falls again, stay HI and double your bet. Repeat until you win. As sound as this system seemed to a kid - completely ignoring the gambler’s fallacy and the existence of the number 7 – it took too long. Clusters of five in a row were rare! And sitting waiting for them on a hot summer day, your icee melting over your already sticky hands, was nearly as bad as church. Before even three fell, I would be lulled into betting or I would be drawn away by the siren call of MY game.

Buzzzzzzzzzzz-tock-tock-tock tock… tock, went the Big 6 wheel. Every spin a carnival! Every tense moment of anticipation, as the numbers blurred to a meaningless black then slowed to reveal the truth of that spin, was exhilarating. The wheel featured picture of dice trios, each die face a number between 1 and 6. Doing a little research now, I find the standard wheel has 54 segments, but in the day, it felt like thousands. The wheel would spin forever and its furious vibration would echo through my chest. Pure luck, of course, but winning was only part of the draw. I would take my two or three dollars, break them into quarters and watch my stack rise and fall with each mesmerizing spin. At points I would be up, the pile of quarters to tall to fit towered in my folded fist. At others, it would run low and sadness would creep into my game. Each occurrence awoke the voice of reason in the back of my mind. “Walk away! You’re way up.” And “Walk away! You still have enough money to buy a coke.” Sometimes I would listen briefly, and wander the festival grounds searching the concrete for fallen, bars and bells cards, but the roar of the wheel was thunderous. It could be heard at the farthest reaches of the grounds, and it would not be ignored. The only times I ever made a cent, were the days my parents finished their socializing early enough that house odds hadn’t eaten my entire stack and I was in a rare, up moment. But even on those days when I sat crestfallen in the car mourning my lost quarters and their soda purchasing potential, I knew there was always next weekend. Buzzzzzzzzzzz-tock-tock-tock tock… tock… tock