I Love The Smell of Cigarette Smoke…In Casinos

 

How cigarettes, flapjacks, and cranberry juice with olives became my wellness plan

 

I love the smell of cigarette smoke. I love the way it gets on my clothes, in my hair and generally makes me feel filthy. But I only feel like this in a casino at 2 a.m. when I’m playing blackjack.

 

Nothing makes me feel more relaxed than sitting at a high limit table with a pit boss trying to distract me by offering me free breakfast coupons or another drink, anything to get me to go away because I’m winning. Add another player smoking a Marlboro or Camel and I’m in heaven.

 

I don’t do yoga or meditate to relax. I don’t go to therapy groups or breathe through my nose in a room full of crystals. I play blackjack.

 

Ideally I like to play alone, one on one with the dealer. At $100 a hand there’s no riff raff. I play through the shoe once, studying how the cards come out, watching the tempo. After that, if I feel it, I bet big and press as many hands as I can. The key is knowing when you’re in your hot streak — and even more important — knowing when the run is over and it’s time to eat your free flapjacks.

 

Playing at the expensive tables offers me a layer of protection. There are unwritten rules that most people follow – you don’t jump into the middle of a shoe without asking. You don’t hit 13 against a 5 – and if you do, someone like me will call you an idiot. No one splits tens unless it’s with the consent of the table to break the rotation of the shoe.

 

These tables are for seasoned gamblers, not amateurs named Trixy and Russ from Idaho. We have rules and etiquette. There is order — and you better know all of it before you sit down or we might intentionally hurt your feelings.

 

For most, the thought of losing $100 a hand would cause them to faint. What the high stakes table buys you is a sense of order and decorum that makes the experience perfect. It’s like shopping at Louis Vuitton — you’re loved from the moment you sit down.

 

I admit it, I’m a snob. I don’t play cheapie tables because I don’t want to see people clutching their lucky bucks or begging for drink coupons. I want the camaraderie of other players who have the courage to bet their kids’ college funds and be guilt free while doing it.

 

When the bar girl comes by and asks what I want, I ask for cranberry juice, heavy on the ice, and seven olives.

 

Occasionally I’ll get a stare. “Excuse me, did you say cranberry juice with olives?”

 

“Seven olives, thank you. And heavy on the ice.”

 

I don’t explain. I just sip it slowly like it’s the house specialty.

 

Craps is like the Chuck E. Cheese of gambling. It’s loud, there’s no social distancing, and I’m not convinced that everyone knows why they’re cheering.

 

I’ve taken classes and still can’t figure out the game. What makes me nervous on a craps table is how close your chips are to others. Do people steal? How would you know if you’re busy jumping around because someone rolled box cars, whatever those are.

 

You could play Pai Gow on propofol. If you can say this word — push — you can play Pai Gow. You can be completely ignorant and the dealer will set your hand. I don’t understand how anyone has fun at this game.

 

I find the poker room a terrifying stew of sunglasses, ski caps, and silent, rageful men who look like the Unabomber before the makeover. Poker players turn over their cards with surgical solemnity, which means in real life they may be accountants or morticians.

 

This is why a blackjack table is like a church pew. I understand the system, the other players, the dealer tells. I love watching the carpet shampooer guy who comes around the pit at 4 a.m. with his oscillating machine that jiggles his shoulders back and forth like a middle-aged dad at a church dance. Everything at a blackjack table makes sense to me.

 

Sometimes when I overstay my welcome and the pit boss wants to go home, the whole table — shoe, tray, dealer — everything will move. But because no one really wants to go through that hassle, the pit boss will start offering two free breakfasts if you promise to leave.

 

I don’t need to be bribed. I know when it’s time to go. When the cards stop talking. When the pit boss stops nodding. When my eyes blur and I’ve touched my face enough to get COVID. That’s when I walk away.

 

People say the house always wins. Maybe. But if you can break even for three hours, that’s called free entertainment. 

 

On my way up to my room, my hands feel dirty, my skin needs to be disinfected, and I suddenly remember I have asthma and can’t breathe, so I take a hit of Albuterol to clear the damn cigarette smoke out of my lungs.

 

And that is how you breathe.