“Oh, Okay ‘Mister Mystery-Man’, I won’t use any ‘C’ words, until I call you out for being a ‘cunt’.”

She lowered her voice almost to a whisper, a difficult accomplishment for her. “Lower your voice to somewhere around a three on your dial. What is that anyway, counting down the deck? What does it mean?” She demanded. Was that bullshit, or what? I have never played blackjack. “Hey! You said something about teaching me ‘counting down the deck’ in Blackjack. Then again, it could just as quickly and easily degrade into a ‘Fiasco’, a ‘ Waste of Time‘, an ‘ Exercise in Futility’, given Shonnie’s paucity of patience. An ‘Introduction’, or ‘Baptism’, or ‘Enlightenment, if you will. This was to be a training session and a trial run. I took Shonnie by the hand and we waltzed over to a blackjack table. One Saturday night after a not-too-lucky session at the craps table, I fell asleep in my car, which was always parked in the Union Plaza Parking Lot & Cow Pasture. Stranger things have happened, in the night, eh? Dean Martin, caught in a Gravity Storm. Why would I need a room? Too bad I was born too late to experience “The Rat Pack.” Maybe if I accumulate enough good Karma, I can come back as Sammy Davis Jr. But then, I never really slept while in Vegas anyhow. We’ll get to Vegas about sunrise.” Would just show up, never having the wherewithal or forethought to reserve a room so I’d just nap in my Tornado if necessary.

Once or twice with a female accomplice, but usually alone. Occasionally with a buddy or two after closing down a bar somewhere downtown San Dog. Here goes: Many a time while stationed in San Diego, I would make a spur of the moment decision to drive the five hours to Vegas. And pondering why I love the TV show, ‘Nashville’ so much.

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