I’m sitting outside the “gaming” room of my local pub, reading the paper and having a quiet drink. The ATM is nearby. Over the course of about thirty minutes, one guy comes out of the room four times to go to the ATM.
I think to myself, “How much money do they have to go to the ATM four times in thirty minutes?”.
……
Few years ago.
I’m inside the “gaming” room of the same pub.
My idea of “playing” a poker machine is to stick whatever dollar coins I may have in my pocket to see if I can win the cost of a couple beers back.
Mostly it doesn’t.
I shove a few coins in, staying standing, I won’t be there long. There’s a guy next to me. He says “Look” and I do, and he’s won a “jackpot”, about thirteen thousand dollars.
“Shit!”, I say, “Well done”.
My couple of dollars spent, I go to the bar, grab a drink and one of the papers they leave out for patrons, and go outside.
About twenty minutes later, I go back inside to return the paper (the “Courier Mail” doesn’t take long to read, believe me). The guy who won thirteen grand is still there, playing another machine, five bucks a spin.
……
Couple of years ago.
I’m in the “high-roller” room of a Gold Coast casino. A mate of mine makes in-house training videos for the Star City casino in Sydney, and he’s been asked to make one for this place and he’s asked if I’d like to be in it. “500 bucks for the day’s work and you get fed”, he says. “Done!”, I say, and then arrange to take a day’s leave from my “real” job.
You know what a “high-roller’s” room looks like?
A 150 buck a night motel room. At least this one did.
We’ve been assigned a couple of floor staff to look over us as we go about our business, make sure we don’t pinch anything.
“What is that worth?”, I ask one of them, pointing to a flat, embossed piece of plastic about the size of a slimline calculator under glass at a table.
“$50,000”, comes the answer.
“Shit”, I reply.
“These people”, I ask, “These people who spend fifty grand on just one bet. Do they actually enjoy it? I mean, are they having a good time?”
“They’re very serious about it. No. I don’t think they’re having fun. Not in the true sense of the word”.
“So what’s the bloody point?”
“They have money. That’s all.”
This video we’re making, it features a number of potentially troublesome scenarios that the casino floor staff need to be able to deal with. The woman who’s been playing for twelve hours straight and has soiled herself. The aggressive fucker who thinks a particular machine is his and his alone and abuses anyone who’s got it before him (that was one of my parts). The guy who’s trying to sell his mobile phone for a few extra bucks …
“Really?”, I ask the minder.
“Yes. Mobiles. Coats. Shoes.”
“Shoes?”
“Yes. Shoes.”
“Shit”, I respond.
I tell her that a few months previous, I shoved a couple coins in a machine and it went on a roll and I ended up with three hundred bucks.
“That’s how it starts”, she replies.
“No”, I say, “I took the money and went shopping. Bought a new bathmat and some luggage. And an electric toothbrush.”
She laughed.
……
Christmas, last year.
I’m in Sydney, visiting the parents, catching up with some friends.
They live in Sydney’s south-west.
I go up to the local pub one morning about 11.30. It’s a shithouse of a pub at the best of times, and certainly one to be avoided at night. My father told me that one time in the 1970’s he saw a guy get beaten to death with a pool cue one night in this place.
I have to walk through the “gaming” room to get to the bar. There’s hardly anyone there. Ideal. A quiet drink and a read of the paper on a nice, warm morning.
I order a drink.
And then …
In the corner.
That’s the machine for me. It’s practically got my name on it.
I drop six bucks in.
Bliss.
It’s an “Addams Family” pinball machine. With two levels of multiball!
This is the first pinball machine I’ve seen in a pub in maybe a decade.
And it’s been about that long since I’ve played one.
After two games, my 52 year old wrists feel like they’re about to crack in half.
And I have seven games left to play.
“This is how it starts”, I think to myself.
I play the seven games.
……
Last night. My local pub. Early evening. The “gaming room”.
I grab a beer, get a buck change, walk over to a machine and drop it in. Nothing.
I get a paper off the bar, take my drink and go outside.
A guy comes out.
“Winning?”, he asks, just making small talk while he has a smoke break.
“Not playing”, I reply.
“They’re bastards, those things”, he says, “that bloody Red Barron machine, mate, two hundred bucks, mate. Two hundred fucking bucks it got outta me. Fucking thing …”
They used to call them “one-armed bandits”.
Then they took away the arm, and called it a “game”.
He stubs out his cigarette, goes to the ATM, takes out some cash and goes back into the room.
To “play”.
To “play” a “game”.