He didn’t know the room’s location. But rather than inquire at the Pit office, which would mark him as a rube, Newton asked a craps dealer on a dead game for directions. Though punctuality, except for making tee times, was never a priority, Newton made sure to arrive ten minutes early at this small instruction room housed beside what he assumed to be the Observation office, judging from the furtive looks of the two departing men who seemed especially intent on avoiding eye contact. He scanned the dingy ecru walls scraped in places with long black streaks. And the one whiteboard still speckled with the remnants of a dry erase marker. And the black and white linoleum floor whose seams, no longer aligned, curled up in a few places as if to intentionally trip intruders. Lastly, as he assumed a stool around one of the two tables, he noted the six people who had arrived before him and the others who filed in dutifully after him. It was a game he had played as a high school basketball player, the only team sport he had ever played, regarding the other other team during warm-ups to guess who were the starters. And most of all, who might be guarding him. Newton didn’t bother masking his amusement as the last two students entered the room and sat at the last two available stools. It didn’t matter what their current departments were. Slots? Security? Valet Parking? The competition, he thought, didn’t seem stiff.
Another cashier, when he learned of Newton’s acceptance, had described Albert Dudley’s demeanor as a cross between Keenan Thompson and Chris Rock. But as Newton regarded the two people beside him, the arm scratcher on his left and the bimbo on his right who had to be a cocktail hostess, he decided that Dudley, who now strode into the room right on the hour, exuded an older, shorter Dave Chappelle, especially when he paced the room for a full minute before introducing himself as the person who would be their mentor and tormentor for the next six weeks. It wasn’t so much a walk as a waddle, a gait Newton had never seen from someone not overweight.
Along with fourteen others, Newton had been assigned to the afternoon class, which would mean attending a three hour class five days a week for six weeks. This schedule, Newton calculated, would require coming to the Pinion Pines four hours prior to shift on his workdays but also to class on Tuesday and Wednesday, his normal days off. No big deal. This had been his goal from the start, the first time he saw money, serious money, being wagered inside the Reno clubs where it seemed everyone but him had been given a script. When the craps dealers at the Aces Oasis blew him off, unwilling to explain the bets, Newton wasn’t offended; he was impressed. Here was a job where apparently a person didn’t have to kowtow. Perfect.
The second thing out of Albert Dudley’s mouth was a directive to refer to him as Mr. Dudley. Always. Even outside his presence. He explained that while teamwork was an integral part of being a craps dealer, he wasn’t there to be their pal. In fact, he had too many friends already and was looking to rid himself of a few. Here, Dudley paused, scanning the room as if casing the joint to decide which of them he might also expunge. Newton could feel the cocktail waitress’s leg trembling. Here it comes, Newton thought, the rah-rah speech. What the company expects from you. What I expect from you. What you should expect from yourself. Rah-rah-rah. Motivational speeches always struck Newton as a sign of fear, of a coach’s distrust in his own preparation and his players’ abilities. Newton didn’t get it. If you couldn’t pump yourself up, then you had no business playing the game.
But Mr. Dudley didn’t tout the company line. Instead, he told them to rely on three things: their left hand, their right hand, and their crewmates. “Graduating from this school isn’t the finish line; it’s the starting line,” he said. “You’re still going to be two years out from being anywhere near good.”
Here we go, Newton thought. The platitudes. He tuned out Mr. Dudley, opting to scan the room, amused by the studious looks on everyone’s face save the skinny Keno goob who had interviewed before him, who was sitting erect as a scarecrow at the other table but, Newton swore, winking at him. Newton gave him the briefest of nods. Apparently, getting into craps school wasn’t all that difficult after all.
“Crane Newton!”
Newton jolted, saw his classmates searching the room, realized that Mr. Dudley was taking roll. He raised his hand and made reassuring eye contact with his instructor, hoping his confidence would allay suspicion.
At the craps table closer to the door, Mr. Dudley showed them the mechanics of cutting chips: how to cradle their stacks, where to place each finger, why it was crucial to keep their index fingers concave, not bowed. “I want you to cut chips, not pick them,” he said. “If you pick them, they will never heal.” He divided this class of fifteen into two groups, allowing them to decide which table to congregate. Not surprisingly, Winkieboy chose Newton’s table. For the next hour, Mr. Dudley had them practice drop cutting chips though spilling chips seemed a more apt description. Every individual scrutiny from Mr. Dudley resulted in someone’s hands turning to jello, causing that person to lose their grip and flay chips out onto the layout. Even Newton had lost it though Winkieboy, Newton noted, hadn’t.
Newton also saw that most of the others were sore from having to bend over the rail. Having practiced his putting for hours on end, bending wasn’t problematic. The key was to bend from your hips, not your waist. Still, Newton made a mental note to position himself from now on the inside of the game where the dealers normally stood, where the rail was lower. And just to let Mr. Dudley know he wasn’t a flake, he remained on the game cutting chips when Mr. Dudley let them out for a fifteen minute break
“Hey! You made it! I thought you might.”
Newton knew without looking who it was. Newton stood up, took in this spider monkey who was the only person in the class taller than him. Newton peered into his face then at his moussed blond hair that reminded him of some picture of wheat on a brand of bread he never bought. He nodded, went back to cutting checks.
After class, his head swimming with all the bets and their attendant payoffs that Mr. Dudley had described, Newton now believed it just might take two years to become proficient, let alone accomplished.
“So what do you think?”
Again, the goob.
“What do you think?”
“About what, Gumby?”
“You know.”
Newton didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of acknowledgment but couldn’t stifle the exasperation that shot out of him like a sneeze. “I don’t know,” he said. “I’m trying to read your mind, but you’re not giving me much to go on—Gumby.”
“Hey. There’s no need to call me that.”
“You’re right,” Newton said. “We should do this like the Indians and wait for a name to pick you.” Newton paused. “See you tomorrow, Bores Strangers.”
Over his shoulder, he heard his classmate reply, “Game on, Has No Friends.”
Michael Darcher 