BIG HIT AT THE LONE WOLF
Gerald E. Sheagren
My mother, Mary Elizabeth Frye, graduated with high honors from the University of Hard Knocks. My father – whom she affectionately called “honey bunny” – was killed at the age of thirty-one, having been crushed by a road-grater while his construction crew was working on the new interstate. Strapped for money – with little time to grieve – Mom had no other choice but to join the work force, taking a ten-hour-per-day job at Henderson’s textile mill in order to support myself, a younger brother and two older sisters. And – believe me – it was touch and go for a number of years with the very barest of essentials.
After thirty-four years of hard and loyal labor, Mom retired on a modest pension and Social Security, and due to all the lint that she had inhaled, with a portable oxygen tank that she was forced to use whenever she got angry, nervous or excited. And – believe me – that was a good ninety-percent of the time. It was fairly easy at home, but when she was on the road, it was part of her attire, just like her oversized handbag and her odd assortment of frumpy hats.
Her first four years of retirement were ordinary and humdrum, or as she phrased it, “This is boring me out of my frigging gourd!” But all that would quickly change when an Indian casino sprang from the happy hunting grounds a few miles out of town. The tiny reservation had been there for years – far off the beaten path – with a handful of tribal members living in rust-scabbed trailers and a dozen or so ramshackle houses. But when the Injun casino boom took hold – starting with Foxwoods in Connecticut – the tribe started its long legal battle for federal recognition. There were billions to be had and they wanted their fair share, plus some.
I’m not sure when Mom got hooked, but it happened with a suddenness that put my head in a spin. Pulling a slot machine lever became as commonplace for her as engaging the flusher on her toilet or stabbing the little number pads on the remote control. When the pension and Social Security checks arrived, she was in seventh-heaven, off in a flash to the bank, where she ignored her checking and savings accounts in favor of cash. Then she would round up Daisy DeLuca and Mavis Beecher, her gambling cronies, and off the three of them would go to the Lone Wolf Casino.
I was on winter layoff from my construction job when I received a desperate phone call from my mother – early on a morning in mid-February. It seems that her clunker of a car wouldn’t start and the Three Musketeers needed a lift to the Lone Wolf. I tried to reason with her, advising that she spend her money to repair the car instead of feeding it to the slots. But, as expected, she wouldn’t have any part of that foolishness, and after playing on my sympathies that I was her only child still living in-state, I gave in and headed for her place.
When I got there, I found Mom busily primping herself in front of the bathroom mirror. After all, a woman had to look her absolute best while the casino fleeced her for every cent she was carrying.
“C’mon, Ma – what say I take you out for a nice lunch and we can catch a movie of your choice? Everything’s on me. To hell with the Lone Wolf – it’s gotten enough of your money.”
She shot me a look that could have spot-welded two pieces of scrap iron. “Oh, sure, ruin my day. Why should an old lady have any pleasures?”
“Spending some quality time with your son isn’t a pleasure?”
“I spent enough quality time with you when you were a kid.” Her mouth puckered as though she was sucking on an extra-sour lemon. “Worse yet, when you were a teen.”
“Well, thanks a heap, Ma. All that I’m trying to do is stop you from blowing your money at that damn casino. The Indians get richer and you get poorer. How about the electric, cable and phone bills? Not to mention your blood pressure medicine and oxygen refills. And – God forbid – those repairs on your car.”
“Go ahead – deprive me of my fun.”
“Squandering your money is fun? Why don’t you take up bingo or crocheting?”
“For thirty-four long years —” She held up her arthritic hands, wiggling her knob-knuckled fingers. “— I worked these poor hands to the bone, so my kids could have food in their mouths and clothes on their backs. And, now, I’m supposed to sit in some sort of old age dementia and do what – cut out paper dolls and string them along the ceiling.”
“Jeez, Ma.”
“Or maybe I should squirrel away every penny so you and your siblings can live it up when I croak.”
“I’m not like that, Ma, and you know it. Hell, I hope you live longer than me.”
“Oh, sure, break an old woman’s heart.” She started to gasp for air and dashed to her oxygen tank on wheels, placing a forked, clear rubber tube into her nostrils. “See — huff, puff — what you’ve gone and done. Get me all riled up — huff, huff — and I can’t catch by breath.”
“Okay, okay - have it your way,” I said, taking a long, weary breath. “Feed those one-arm bandits so the two-armed bandits can live in the lap of luxury. That is absolutely okey-dokey fine with me. I have no problem with that, at all. Uh-uh. Not this guy.”
She had her hat and coat on before I could say “jiminy cricket”, tilting her oxygen tank onto its two wheels and heading for the door. “Let’s get this show on the road. We have to pick up Daisy and Mavis.”
Five minutes later, I pulled up in front of a brick ranch and honked the horn. Daisy DeLuca – all three-hundred pounds of her – came surging out the front door, smiling and waving as she waddled down the walk. Her little dark eyes had always reminded me of two raisins pushed deep into a mound of dough. When she plopped into my rear seat, I heard my suspension creak, followed by a long psssst from my shock absorbers.
“Hey, Mary Elizabeth! How ya doin’, Howard?”
“Fine, Daisy.”
“Thanks for the ride. We would have had to taken a taxi, otherwise.”
I had to laugh to myself. They had oodles of money for the slots, but a three-way split for a taxi was unspeakable.
I cut over three blocks and found Mavis Beecher eagerly awaiting our arrival on the front porch. She was the exact opposite of Daisy – a small, frail, wizened woman with a frizzly mop of white hair and the inevitable cigarette drooping from the corner of her mouth. She smoked three packs of cigarettes a day – four if she was on edge. How she had ever made it to the age of seventy-three was one of the wonders of the world.
“Howdy, girls.” She gave me a swat across the back. You too, Howie.”
“Good to see you, Mavis,” I lied. “How’s everything?”
“Ah, ya know. George nags me about the yellow curtains and my doctor tells me that my breathing sounds like the African Queen. Otherwise, I’m just peachy and ready to win a bundle.”
Ten minutes later, I dropped the Three Musketeers off at the front door of the casino and found a parking place as close as possible. When I found them, they were standing in line, waiting to swipe their cards through one of the computerized terminals set up near the entrance. The Lone Wolf sent thousands of these cards out through the mail, enticing their customers with the chance to win money or cars or all-expense-paid trips to Vegas. The catch was you had to be at the casino in order to win, and, while you were, chances are you would get the urge to squander away a few of your hard-earned dollars. My mother swiped her card and a “Sorry. Try again tomorrow” flashed across the screen.
“Drats! I’ve never won anything yet.”
I chuckled. “And you probably never will.”
“Well, thank you so much, mister know-it-all.”
“It’s nothing but a gimmick, Ma.”
“You’re an inspiration, Howard – you really are.”
I heaved a weary sigh.”
“Just like when you were born. You were an inspiration not to have more kids. But did I take heed?” She rolled her eyes. “Ooohhh noooo!”
“You know, Ma – you can be terribly cruel, at times.”
“At times?” A cackling laugh. “I must be loosing my touch.”
We made our way into the hustle and bustle of the casino. All I could hear was the ping-ping, ding-ding and ting-ting of thousands of slot machines. I noticed that a good eighty-percent of the people were sixty-five and older. Hurrah for Social Security! The casino was decorated with eagles and wolves, feathers and beads and dream catchers. Chuckling to myself – I wondered why not a few wampum belts.
We decided to rendezvous next to the huge bronze wolf at exactly three o’clock and the three women went their separate ways. I tagged along with my mother, watching as she exchanged a twenty for two rolls of quarters and sat down at a bank of slots, placing her handbag on the chair to her right and her hat on the one two her left. Sweet Mary and Joseph – if one wouldn’t take her money fast enough - she was going to try her luck at three! After taking a long drag from her oxygen tank, she placed her comp card into a slot, a long, telephone-like cord attaching it to her wrist. There were points to be made for meals, lodging and goodies at the shops, and she wasn’t about to miss out on them. Five or so minutes into her ménage a trois, a young guy came along and tried to feed three quarters into the machine to her left. She slapped his wrist, knocking the coins to the floor.
“Hey, lady, what gives?”
“That happens to be my machine, sonny boy. Are you trying to deprive an old lady of her livelihood?”
“Uh — jeez — I’m sorry.”
“And well you should be.”
Snatching up his quarters, the guy beat a hasty retreat.
“For crying out loud, Ma – you embarrassed the hell out of me.”
“Oh really? Well, not half as much as you embarrassed me in the delivery room.”
“You know – I’m getting mighty sick and tired of being your whipping boy.”
“La-dee-da.”
I stomped off – thoroughly disgusted – and tried to kill some time until the rendezvous at three. I nursed a beer at one of the bars; wandered the casino from one end to the other; even tried my luck on a few spins of a roulette wheel. When we met at the wolf, I could see by the sour expressions that nobody had won.
I just had to ask: “Well, girls, did anyone break the bank?”
“Hey, you win some, you loose some,” said Mavis, her cigarette spewing smoke like a steel mill’s chimney.
Daisy shrugged. “We’ll hit it next time. I could feel it in my bones.”
“That’s your rheumatism,” quipped Ma. “I think these damned machines are rigged.”
“Well, the next time the three of you need a ride, don’t call me. I don’t want to lay eyes on this place again.”
As we were taking a short cut through a small eating area, my mother glanced around. “You see any cameras, Howard?”
“Why?”
“Never mind ‘why’ – do you see any?”
“No.”
My mother snatched a dill pickle that had been left on a plate at one of the tables and concealed it in her hand. I was about to ask what was up when she jabbed in the ribs with an elbow. It wasn’t long before her game became all too clear. In an area where the carpet briefly turned to hardwood, she dropped the pickle, stepped squarely on it and went down in the best choreographed fall that I had ever seen. A Hollywood stuntwoman couldn’t have done a better job. And there she laid – moaning and groaning and wheezing for air. The woman should have won an Oscar.
“What in the hell is going on here –huff, puff – leaving food all over the floor. My back, my back! Oooohhhh!”
A tall, gray-haired manager leaned over her. “Are you okay, ma’am?’
“Do I look okay, you idiot! Huff, puff, puff. Call me an ambulance! The pain – the pain is terrible! Get me my oxygen tank!”
My mother was transported to the hospital where she quickly hooked up with an ambulance-chasing lawyer by the name of Leroy Barnes, and, nearly as fast, a four-million dollar lawsuit was filed against the Lone Wolf. Pain and suffering; mental anguish; the worsening of a pre-existing health problem; the whole enchilada. A mere three weeks later, the casino – fearing a long, dragged-out legal battle with oodles of bad publicity – anted up a cool two-million dollars towards my mother’s retirement fund. It was a fortune to her, but pocket change for them. Twenty percent went to Leroy Barnes.
Within the next four months, my mother sold her house, furniture and car, and with little more than a quick “goodbye”, she caught a flight to Phoenix, where she hoped the dry climate would help her lungs and to be near my thrice divorced sister, Miriam, and her seven kids.
I went to visit her just before Christmas – where she was living in her new condo – and discovered that she had bought a candy-apple red sports car and a closet full of designer clothes. And – to top it all off – she was dating a guy nearly ten years younger, who favored a pony tail and oodles of turquoise jewelry. His name was Gordon Youngblood, and guess what – the gigolo was a full-blooded Pima Indian. Native Americans seemed to be playing an important role in my mother’s new-found life.
Jealous, and feeling a bit left out, I started to hit the Lone Wolf at least twice a week – searching for my own bag of riches. So far, I haven’t had any luck, but Dasiy and Mavis tell me that a big hit is just around the corner.
