I was excited about going to a casino, especially a casino in the Bahamas. I had never been to a casino anywhere, and all I knew about them I had learned from watching James Bond movies. I was excited at the prospect of playing roulette and baccarat surrounded by beautiful women. I was going to have a martini, shaken not stirred.
The day finally arrived, and I flew to the island. I was there for a meeting and although I spent the long, first day in meeting after meeting, I paid little attention to their substance. My mind was already mingling in the crowd of international gamblers and spys in the casino awaiting me some 15 floors below.
Finally the meetings ended, and we all dispersed to our rooms. Some of the guys had brought their wives, but I was single so I was alone. I showered, shaved and carefully put on my tuxedo. I thought for a few minutes how lucky I was that my sister had mentioned to me that there was a casino on Paradise Island, and asked if I had a tux. Of course I didn’t have one, so the tux I was putting on was a loaner from her husband. It was just a little large, but it was OK.
Before leaving my room, I paused at the large mirror. I looked pretty damn impressive in my black tuxedo. My shirt was crisply pressed, and my bow tie was striking. It was February, so I was pale as a sheet, but I looked sharp. I felt fresh after my shower, and as I looked at my self in the mirror, it showed. I sniffed the air and I could smell the Old Spice aftershave I had liberally applied after my shave. My hair, appropriately slicked with Vitalas, was neatly combed. My Dunhill cigarettes were safely stored in a silver cigarette case. My lighter, freshly filled and sporting a new flint, was a Zippo. My watch was a Timex, and my tux, even if a little large, was perfect. I was ready.
It was early evening when I took the elevator down. I followed the signs in the hall to the lobby and then to the casino. I paused before entering to savor the moment. I looked sharp. This was going to be fun. I could smell cigarettes before I went in, and I could hear the sounds of the one-armed bandits. I imagined the elegant crowd of international gamblers I was about to join. I took a deep breathe and I took out my lighter. I confidently flipped my Zippo open, lit a cigarette and discretely checked out my debonair pose in the large mirror on the wall. I was Bond. I walked in to the brightly lit room like I owned the place. Through the haze of smoke, and the sound of bells I surveyed the scene.
It was a huge room, covered with a very thick carpet and sporting a very high and ornate ceiling. There were slot machines with their flashing lights and ringing bells everywhere. There was a crowd at some of the poker tables, but most were empty. The craps tables were loud and wild. It was kind of cold in the casino, and it smelled of stale smoke and nervous perspiration. There was a low rumble from the conversations going on, and everyone was in Bermuda shorts and halter tops…..Bermuda shorts….and halter tops.
Everyone, that is, except me.
A older lady with garish makeup and a neon jogging suit approached me with a tray of poker chips. “Hold these, sonny”, she rasped through her cigarette and she entered the ladies room. I stood there taking in the scene, holding the tray of chips. The only people in tuxedo’s were the people who worked at the casino. Everyone else was in very casual attire. I realized, I had been had. After returning the chips to the bathroom lady, I went to the bar, removed my jacket, and sat down dejectedly. The bar tender came over quickly and, thinking I was an employee of the casino, urgently said “You know you can’t sit here.”
“I don’t work here”, I replied. and after ordering a drink,I told him the whole sordid story. From how I found out there was a casino on Paradise Island, and having all my casino knowledge originate with James Bond, to how my sister had been so helpful with the tuxedo, I shared every detail. I explained how I got a hair cut the day before I came to the island and that I had showered after my meeting ended today. I shaved, and put my cigarettes in the silver case. I showed them my zippo lighter and pointed out that it was freshly filled with fuel and had a new flint. The bartender and the strikingly beautiful, and obviously wealthy young lady across the bar found the story very funny. I wasn’t amused. I was a bit pissed until I realized that I was sitting at a bar in the casino on Paradise Island Bahamas, smelling good and wearing a tuxedo, telling a beautiful woman a funny story, and she was enjoying it. We began to chat, and she moved to the bar stool beside me. For a long time we chatted, and I bought drinks.
After buying about 3 or 4 rounds of drinks, I was having a pretty good time. It occurred to me that this might be my lucky night. Her hair was auburn, her eyes were blue, and her accent was almost, but not quite German. She was slender, but shapely and very fit, probably an athlete. I thought she might be a tennis pro, but I didn’t ask. If she were some international tennis star, I didn’t want her to ditch me thinking I was hitting on her because she was a international tennis star.
This woman, Chelsea, was as interesting as she was beautiful. She grew up in Europe, but now she spends the winters in the Caribbean and the summers on the Mediterranean. She had a degree in accounting, but found accounting boring. Yes, she did play tennis, and she spoke 4 languages, but said that I shouldn’t be impressed. Many European languages are very similar, and being constantly exposed to several languages made it easy to learn them. We spoke for a long time. Finally, after furtively glancing around the bar as if to check that no one was watching, her eyes sparkled as she leaned over to me. My heart beat quickened. She looked deeply into my eyes as she pulled me close so as to whisper something in my ear. I was excited. I may have been hyperventilating. I was hoping she was going to suggest we retire to her international tennis star deluxe hotel suite because I don’t think I had left my room in a presentable state. I wondered what kind of suite an international tennis star gets at Paradise Island.
With a light German accent and in a soft, sultry and very sexy voice she gently whispered in my ear “You realize I’m a working girl, don’t you?”
There are moments in your life when you learn things. I learned that if you are a 23 year old goober from Arkansas drenched in Old Spice wearing a somewhat ill fitting, borrowed tuxedo sitting at the bar in a casino on Paradise Island buying drinks and talking to a woman who is clearly out of your league, understand that she’s not there for the funny stories.
You know you want it. Get the book.
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