My life is full of gambling stories. Some are funny, some are sad, some other almost tragic. I enjoyed and was fascinated by many of your stories here and decided to share some of mine in a series of short stories. Here's the first one:
My gambling addiction goes back a couple of decades. I was 16 when I started playing slots (nobody bothered to check my age back then) and as soon as I turned 18 I started visiting casinos, playing roulette at first and then, later, black jack. I was completely addicted by my early twenties. Addicted to the point where I was late on my rent and had literally nothing to eat on many occasions. It was horrible and I sometimes resorted to actions that I never though I was capable of. Actions that I was often ashamed of. At one such occasion my rent was overdue and I asked a friend for a loan. There was no one else I could ask for help.
I emigrated when I was 20 and was all on my own in a foreign country, with a bad, bad gambling addiction. He agreed to loan me money for my rent, but knowing of my gambling habit, he warned me not to gamble, but to pay my landlord immediately. I didn’t appreciate him telling me something that obvious. Of course I wasn’t going to gamble with that money! Why does he have to rub it in, I thought to myself. What an *******! Of course I was going to pay the rent. What was he thinking? That I would gamble away my rent money now that my rent is overdue? He just wants to rub it in, that’s all.
Not the friendliest thing to do, but I have only myself to blame. Anyway, I was going to pay the landlord. Had somebody asked me what I thought the odds were of me stopping at the casino on my way home and losing all that money, I would have said less than 1 in 1000. And I really wasn’t gonna stop at the casino. No way was I going to do that. I knew I had to pay the rent and I knew that if didn’t the chances were I would end up on the street. Homeless. No, I wasn’t going to take that chance; I was going to go straight to the landlord and pay my rent.
But then I realized something. My buddy loaned me 375 fl. (guilders, Dutch currency before introduction of the Euro) and my rent was only 360. He didn’t have change, so he gave me 3 hundred fl. bills, 1 fifty fl. bill and 1 twenty-five fl. bill.
That extra 15 fl. opened a myriad of options for me, endless possibilities. Not only did I now have money to pay my rent, I also had 15 fl. above and beyond that. 15 fl. that I was going to parlay into something meaningful. I was loving life. Not only was I not getting evicted, but with some luck I was going to have 50 or maybe even 100 fl extra and treat myself to something nice. Something I was long due, something that I deserved. Maybe a steak, french fries and some snacks for later. I had been eating crap for months. Blood rushed to my head. I was excited, ecstatic even, thinking of what I could do with 50 fl. And parlaying 15 to 50, although not likely, is possible. 1 in 3 odds. I can do it. I was due a break.
And if I lose the 15 fl? Too bad, but I didn’t count on that money anyway. I knew there was no way was I going to lose more than 15. Worse comes to worse I’ll lose the 15, go home and pay the rent.
After some consideration I decided to play a single hand of Black Jack first. I liked Black Jack and had just learned the basic strategy. I bet 10 fl. and was dealt 11 against the dealer’s 7. For those of you not familiar with Black Jack, having 11 against the dealer’s 7 is a fairly big advantage. I was tempted to double down. Double down I did, adding another 10 fl. and I lost. Now I only had 355 fl left, meaning I was 5 fl short on my rent. Not the end of the world, I knew, the landlord would understand it and wait a couple of days for 5 fl. But, instead, I decided to chase the 5 fl. with 350 fl.
Short story shorter, I lost it ALL.
That was probably the worst night of my life. I knew I was going to get evicted. I walked home, a long, cold walk through rainy weather. I was happy it was cold and I was wishing it would rain harder. I wanted to be punished. I arrived home and I didn’t know what to do. I lied on my bed. I thought about my options and quickly realized I had none. I was so poor, I had no valuable belongings that I could sell, I couldn’t ask my friend for more money because he wouldn’t give it to me, I knew the landlord wouldn’t be too sympathetic and I had gotten fired from the restaurant I was working at, a week earlier.
The near future looked grim. I was lying in my bed motionless, inspecting my surrounding. I was tired, but I was afraid to fall asleep. I was afraid to fall asleep for I knew it would be a night full of nightmares. I had been there before. But it was never this bad. I looked around me in desperation. My shabby belongings, my worn-out shoes, a few books, my walkman, a couple of t-shirts and underwear that I hung to dry. One object caught my attention though. A roll-on deodorant.
Then, I don’t know how or why, an idea formed in my head. I don’t know where it came from or what led to it, but I suddenly found myself grabbing the deodorant (it was made of glass) and started banging my face. I hit myself hard, inspecting for bruises after every blow. No bruises appeared at first and I kept on banging my head with the deodorant bottle relentlessly. It hurt, but I deserved it. And besides, I wasn’t doing it to hurt or punish myself. I was doing it as a way out. A shameful and disgraceful way out, I knew; but still better than the alternative of becoming homeless.
I stopped hitting myself after a few minutes and waited. My face turned first pink then blue. I overdid it. My entire face was swollen and looked terrible.
I went to bed and fell asleep. I slept like a baby for I knew my problems would go away. At least for the time being they would.
In the morning I saw the landlord and told him what happened. I was mugged by two guys in the park. And they robbed me. They robbed me of the rent money I was going to give him that day. He was very sympathetic and said he’d wait till I’m in a position to pay him. Told the same story to my friend and he loaned me another 375 fl a couple of days later. This time I made it home.
It wasn’t until 20 years later that I told my friend what really happened that night. He and I have been through thick and thin together and he is the closes friend I have. Even so, I felt really uncomfortable coming clean about it. If you dine with the devil, bring a long spoon
