July 26, 2020

The Jackpot

There was a golf course out near Naples Goldfarb liked to play. It was a pretty nice public course, nothing special, but it had been the only course where Goldfarb had ever broken 80, so he liked going back in the hope he might catch lightening twice.

I didn't mind the drive, but it made Lewberg crazy to drive two hours each way when we actually lived on a golf course.

“Are we at war?” he would say.

Now I love Goldfarb, he is one of my oldest and dearest friends, but he is a bit of a mope, especially because he has never once come close to breaking 80 since, and so the prospect of spending the entire day with him without having Lewberg as a buffer was not altogether enticing.

So I nudged Lewberg a little and got him to reluctantly agree to go one more time. We had a perfectly nice round, Goldfarb shot a 98, we had cheeseburgers and fries at the club, but Lewberg couldn’t stop complaining about the distance and made it abundantly clear he had no intention of coming back.

I didn’t really have a dog in this fight, but I pointed out it was only 120 miles and we would be home in well under two hours. And we probably would have, if Goldfarb didn’t have to go to the bathroom 45 minutes after we left the golf course.

Now the road between Boca and Naples, a highway known as Alligator Alley, does not have many rest stops, and Goldfarb’s pressing need was not one which could be accommodated by pulling over to the side of the road, so we took the first exit in search of that rarest of Florida attractions—a commode in the Everglades.

Lewberg, like a hound dog on the trail, sensed it before we saw it. A small neon sign on a post.

Casino—8 miles. Poker. Cheap Drinks. Swampland Jackpot now $50,000!!!!!!!!

The parking lot was full and the casino appeared like a mirage in the middle of the Everglades. Goldfarb, moving faster than we had ever seen him, made his way to the restrooms while Lewberg and I went to the bar. Lewberg, to his credit, knew that at $4 per drink, the vodka was not going to be Ketel, so we both got $2 Budweisers

We toasted Goldfarb’s bowels and surveyed the scene. The place was packed. We were literally in the middle of nowhere. Where had all of these people come from?

We were on to our second $2 Buds when Goldfarb came back and ordered a beer of his own.

We knew he was about to rate the bathroom and he made his proclamation after his first swig of beer.

“Eight,” he said.

An eight was huge for Goldfarb. An eight was Nirvana.

Lewberg suggested we play a few hands of poker. I said okay and Goldfarb, still basking after his successful expedition, surprisingly agreed.

The game was $3–$6 seven-card stud with a $1 ante.

Which was pretty normal.

What was not normal was that every poker table was outfitted with a poker slot machine. Set up just to the side of the dealer’s chair. After everybody anted, the dealer would push a button on the slot machine and the players would wait and hope to see if the five rotating tumblers turned up a royal flush.

It was fucked up.

But it was cool. I had never seen anything like it.

Lewberg, who loved all sorts of gambling, was ecstatic. He said, “We are only one hooker away from being in heaven.”

Goldfarb, who had an advanced degree in mathematics, was bemused. He recognized it for the scam it was. Because the casino took money out from each pot, and very likely much more, to fund each jackpot. A jackpot which almost never hit.

If the royal flush hit, every player who had played the hand, there were usually seven per table, would share the jackpot.

At $50,000, that worked out to about $7000 per player.

Not too shabby.

Which explained why the poker room was full.

They were pretty strict about having to ante in order to participate in the jackpot, so when someone went to the bathroom or for a walk to stretch their legs, he or she would arrange for the dealer to ante for them while they were gone. 

About an hour after we sat down, Goldfarb got up to go to the bathroom again. The look on his face made it clear that his digestive system had some unfinished business.

As he got up, the dealer, the name tag said Sonny Sarasota—Sonny was his name and Sarasota was where he was from—said, “I’ll take care of your ante, sir.”

And Goldfarb said, “That’s okay. I’m good.”

And Sonny said, “If you don't ante, you don’t participate in the jackpot.”

Goldfarb said, “It’s all good, Sonny. Just leave my chips alone.”

It’s not that Goldfarb was cheap. Although he was. It was just that Goldfarb was a numbers guy. And the numbers didn't add up for him. He didn’t mind paying the dollar when he was in a hand, but he was damned if he was going to pay while he sat on the toilet excavating his bowels. Lewberg and I knew that. It was why we kept our mouths shut.

He glared at Lewberg and I and pointed menacingly at his chips and said, “I know how much I have.”

Goldfarb left and Sonny announced, “Okay, everyone. Antes up.” And we all tossed in a $1 chip. Except for a slightly heavy middle-aged Chinese woman in an elaborate floral-pattern dress, who cursed the slot machine in Chinese every time its tumblers betrayed her. She was here for the jackpot. I’m not sure she even knew how to play seven-card stud. She threw in two chips and pointed at Goldfarb’s empty seat.

Sonny said, “Got it.”

The slot machine brought no glory, and we all quietly played out the hand. Goldfarb was still not back. I was feeling bad for him, but at least he had rated the bathroom an eight. 

Sonny announced, “Antes up.”

Once again, the Chinese lady threw in two chips and again pointed to Goldfarb’s empty seat. And then unleashed in Mandarin or Cantonese what I can only imagine was the most filthy and vile tirade at the slot machine.

I don’t know what she said, but the tumblers revealed themselves magically and methodically.

10 of diamonds.

J of diamonds.

Q of diamonds.

K of diamonds.

Ace of diamonds.

A royal flush.

The table erupted.

The Chinese lady, Gloria, kissed Sonny. Then she kissed the slot machine.

Just then, Goldfarb came back. He looked at the flashing royal flush, then at his undisturbed stack of chips. Then back at the royal flush.

I didn't have Goldfarb’s mind for numbers, but I could do the math in my head.

$7142.85 per person.

Without Goldfarb, it would have been $8333.33 per person. But not a single person begrudged the extra share. To a player, including me, and certainly Lewberg, who was now slow-dancing with the Chinese lady, we all believed the extra chip brought the luck we needed to hit the jackpot.

I believed it then.

I still believe it now

Lewberg and I would have been happy to let Goldfarb suffer for a few hours, but Sonny let him off the hook. He told him that Gloria, I guess she was a regular, had paid the ante and he would participate in the jackpot

Goldfarb, who really wasn't used to things working out for him, turned to Gloria and stood up very straight. He addressed her in a very formal manner.

“Madam,” he said, “your act was one of the kindest and most generous I have ever encountered in my entire life.”

The Chinese lady detangled herself from Lewberg, stood up very straight herself, and then spoke the first words of English we had heard her speak all night:

“You owe me $2, asshole.”

The end.