Slots on a TV Show

I spent the last few days in Atlantic City, NJ on business and pleasure although I am not sure where business began and pleasure ended. My mother and I took the road trip together. Comp rewards encouraged her to book a free two night stay at the Showboat Casino. I attended a most enjoyable and informative conference held at the nearby Atlantic City Convention Center during business hours on Friday. In between time, my mother and I cherished quality time together. I ate till my heart was content and gambled responsibly if there is such a thing.

I am a slots player by default because serious gamblers abhor a novice card player sitting at their gaming table with money on the line. In trying to pick out my first kind slot machine, I avoided the lure of the I Dream of Jeanie slot machines. For any hot-bloodied male, a slot machine that has animation of a scantily clad genie who submissively calls you “Master” is a definite allure. I made it until Friday night before Barbara Eden’s seductive voice got the best of me. I am only human. She took me for everything I had!

On Thursday night, however, I ask a floor person if the Showboat carries Ripley’s Believe It or Not slot machines.

“We have only four left.” he replies. “We are waiting on the newer models to come in. Follow me. I’ll take you to them.”

“Are they .25 cent slots at least, I’m on a budget? Staying two nights, got to pace myself.”

“Nickels, sir.”

“Even better.” I say as we walk down the rows of glitz, bells and whistles set in a Mardis Gras theme.

The Ripley’s slot machines were located clear across the casino floor so we had time to chat. “What’s with the weird attraction to the Ripley’s slot’s?" he innocently asks.

“I was on the TV show. Figure on turning the Misfortune 500 club to the Fortune 500 club, if you know what I mean.”

He gives me one of those “Sure you were on the TV show" looks but he doesn’t argue with a paying customer. I didn't owe him further explanation either.

“There.” He points to four occupied slot machines bearing the name I have come to recognize in my travels. “Sorry, looks like you are going to have to wait, if you really want to play this game. Full house.”

His voice is loud and it booms over to the patrons playing the Ripley’s Believe It or Not machines. A middle age lady swings her head around long enough to see my frown.

“Do you want my machine?”

“Yes, I do." I answer with the perk of coffee. "I would like that very much. But are you ready to leave?”

“Let’s just say I am willing to get up. I have been sitting in this seat for about six hours.” she explains.

My brother Anthony, who traveled down to AC to join the gaming festivities, finds me in the row. He sees me trying to worm my way into the lady’s seat. As the kind-hearted lady gets up, I notice a bulky manual in her lap.

“What is that?” I ask her.

“Oh, I wish I could leave this with you.” she gestures. “It's the manual for all of the bonus questions on the Ripley's slot machine.”

I sit in her seat, she moves to a standing position. “You’re kidding me right?” I ask.

“Not in the least. I downloaded it off the Internet. It's the main reason Ripley’s has devised a new model. I'm playing night and day before the new machines come in. I’m up about $600.00 on this machine today. Take good care of it. It will be good to you, although I wish I hit her jackpot today.”

“Can I see that manual?" She must recognize my brother as not a representative of the Casino Gaming Commission because she obliges. Anthony leafs through the manual with bewilderment. “I want to see if my brother is a question in this slot machine."

My brother and the lady proceed with intercourse on how my appearance on the Ripley’s Believe it or Not TV show could have landed me a trivia question on a slot machine. I seize the opportunity to play the slot machine. My first nickel yields nada ching. My second nickel causes quite a commotion and mega ching ching. I see the machine registering a big payday. I hear my lady friend yell something incredulous behind my back.

“You just hit my jackpot!”

“I did?” I say cooly and coyly.

“Yeah, that’s about 2000 nickels. Geez, I was waiting for that all day.”

I apologize profusely about my Midas Touch. My brother figures my windfall is as good of a time as any to hand her the trusty manual back. I ask my brother to take a picture of me by the slot machine. The lady hangs around in disbelief. Her short-lived huff surrenders to a warm caress on my back. My brother snaps a photo and a guard immediately appears. She is of Asian descent and stands 5” nothing. I realize immediately that her sudden appearance has nothing to do with providing security for a nickel jackpot and everything to do with the photo shoot in session.

“You no allowed to do dat.” she barks.

My brother confuses the breach with a game of hot potato because he quickly passes the camera back to me. I oblige the rules of the casino and tuck my camera back into my fanny pack. The guard gives my brother and me the evil eye one last time before disappearing into the night. My brother begins to play the machine to my right, a non-themed .25 cent stock machine with regular bells and whistles. My winning streak continues as I multiply my earnings. Anthony hits paydirt and encourages me to cash out with him. I watch him press a single button and a receipt of his earnings is conveniently printed out. Monkey see, monkey do. I tap virtually the same button and twenty pounds of nickels comes pouring down to the belly of my machine. Another patron hands me what amounts to a Dixie cup before my brother procurs a voluminous container. Over to the Coin Redemption station we head. My brother carrys the weightless receipt from a .25 cent slot machine while I lug twenty pounds of nickels in a KFC bucket. Go figure.