Dealing craps is right up there with "toll-booth attendant" as one of the boringest jobs in gambling -- no, not just gambling, but on planet earth -- and the bored looks on the pale faces of men decked in wrinkled polyester with bow ties can't hide the fact that there's hardly anything more depressing than watching idiots waste good money on bets with negative expectation. 40 hours a week. 52 weeks a year. Dice rolling over and over and over and over and over. Pure monotony. Pure fucking hell.

 

It's 3:20 am. That's three-twenty in the morning.

I'm sitting here in the coffee shop at the Four Queens in Downtown Las Vegas. Can't sleep. Hungry. So, I'm in a place called "Magnolia's" waiting for scrabbled eggs, bacon, hash browns, and two slices of buttered wheat toast.

I've got nothing to read, so I'm sitting here bored out of my skull. Imagine that -- bored in Las Vegas. It happens. I always need something to read when I'm alone, and now without a magazine or a newspaper with me, I look around for other ways to pass the time while I wait for breakfast.

I soon find a source of amusement -- a place where fortunes are won and lost, where lives are transformed, and where illusions are crushed.

Directly beneath me is a craps table. The coffee shop at the Four Queens overlooks the main casino floor. Most of the slot machines are empty on this late Sunday night, early Monday morning. But, there is a craps table with about a dozen people standing around it all caught up in the majesty of rolling red cubes and flicking multi-colored chips onto the layout

The sound of dice slamming against the jagged walls at the end of the table makes a thud. It's the sound of chaos. I don’t need to see the numbers to know what's happening. The sound of hands clapping or voices groaning tells me if the players are winning or losing.

I have nothing to record the following thoughts that come to mind, so I grab a keno sheet and a crayon on the table (common in Las Vegas) and begin taking mental notes -- which you now read.

To the far end of the table is a couple, in their early 40s. The man is the shooter. His wife or girlfriend is standing beside him, looking bored and seemingly not understanding the rules of the game. She watches him as he flings the dice, then looks away at other distractions around the casino when they hit the other side of the table. By the look of things, this couple has either just started dating, or has been married for at least ten years (perhaps much longer). There's no "in between." She either doesn't care about what happens because -- (1) they aren’t really a couple anyway -- just dating, or (2) they have been married so long that she knows she can't change him and his behavior. If it's the later, he's probably made many trips to the craps table before and she knows what the end result will be. That's the look of spousal boredom.

There is an Asian man standing beside the couple. He's dropping chips onto the felt as fast as he can and covering all the numbers. The Asian player has lots of green ($25) chips and appears to have been winning. But you wouldn't know it from his face. He doesn't smile. He moves his hands and arms constantly, placing more bets or collecting winnings that it actually appears he's "working."

There's another man beside the Asian -- drinking a Budweiser longneck and looking around for the cocktail waitress to order another.

Then, there's the bored stickman -- barking out numbers like he's at a carnival and pushing dice 40 hours a week, while most of the time he's actually dreaming about blondes with big tits and wondering if his child-support check made it to his ex on time this month. Dealing craps is right up there with "toll-booth attendant" as one of the boringest jobs in gambling -- no, not just gambling, but on planet earth -- and the bored looks on the pale faces of men decked in wrinkled polyester with bow ties can't hide the fact that there's hardly anything more depressing than watching idiots waste good money on bets with negative expectation. 40 hours a week. 52 weeks a year. Dice rolling over and over and over and over and over. Pure monotony. Pure fucking hell. At least the toll booth attendant gets to see the sun.

When the dice eventually "seven out" the next man in the row of what will all be losers leaves, slamming his hand down on the empty rail. Where colorful chips once decorated the wood, now there is only empty space. A void. The money's gone. Hope is crushed. Another loser bites the dust. The casino wins again!

There are three girls circled around the right corner of the table. The heaviest girl seems to know the most about the game, as she instructs the others on what to do. They are playing white chips ($1) and seem to be enjoying the game for what it should be -- entertainment.

But the next fellow in the chorus line of suckers takes the game much more seriously. He's the only player at the table sitting. He has a bat stool so he can see the action. He's high in the cat-bird seat. He bets, and presses when he wins. Eventually, most of his bets lose. He appears to keep hoping for the once-in-a-lifetime "hot roll" when some lucky shooter holds the dice for an hour and he can get rich. Sure, it happens sometimes. If a dice player is pressing his wins (letting the wins ride) and the dice stay hot for a while, he can break a table. It's called "breaking the bank." I've seen is happen a few times, and when the pit bosses start reaching for the phones and whispering while the gamblers are cheering like it's New Years Eve. Those moments are intoxicating. But they are exceptionally rare in a casino. The numbers roll in sequence. The dice player wins his first bet. So, he lets it all ride. The shooter rolls another 5. He has won again. Now, there are several green chips where there were red before. Then, the inevitable 7 comes and the table groans. The greens are rudely scooped into a pile and stacked up with the casino profits. Before the chips are against the rail the dice player already has his next bet down.

Breakfast is served.