Twenty Seven Across

What isn’t there

is the sound of metal on metal.

Coins falling into silver trays,

scooped up into plastic buckets,

and carried down carpeted hallways

like found pirate treasure.

The excitement of counting,

one quarter at a time.

Hands on black handles.

Cheers rising into the air,

then dissipating leaving only the sound

of spinning and clicking.

What isn’t there

is women in sequins and boas.

Men in dinner jackets.

And the illusion of glamour.

What isn’t there

is my father,

standing at the crap table,

throwing hard on the come out,

then soft,

as he tried to “make” his number.

My father saying, “Twenty seven across,”

to the croupier,

then doubling up and up

till he either made a fortune

or they took it all away.

My father,

wearing his lucky red flocked paisley gambling jacket,

the one he was photographed in during

most of my childhood.

My father,

throwing for hours at the table,

thighs chaffed from rubbing together,

surrounded by crowds

who marveled at his fearlessness,

his technique,

his stacks of chips on the table,

growing higher and higher.

My father,

at the black jack table,

a bigger draw than any celebrity filming at the same time

in the same room.

My father,

who for over a decade,

was treated as a kind of royalty in Vegas,

and we, by association,

an extension of that royalty.

The First Family of craps.

Our every move eyed by pit bosses

who knew what we spent.

Knew my father by his first and last name.

Knew everything we wanted,

and gave us everything.

Free hotel rooms.

Free meals at the finest restaurants.

Free buffets. 

Tickets to the hottest shows.

Ringside seats for

Elvis and Diana Ross and The Supremes.

Shows my father would invariably walk out on

after just one song,

leaving my mother to sing, “Hound Dog,”

all by herself,

while he went back to the dice table,

to try his luck

one more time.

My father.

My all-powerful father.

On Sunday,

I was in Vegas again

for a wedding.

I hadn’t been there in over twenty-five years.

Whatever magic Vegas held for me as a kid

disappeared with the removal of the coin slot machines

and my father’s red gambling jacket.

Now, when I walked through the casino,

all I saw was one soulless person after another.

Desperate people and stupid tourists.

Not one of them knew how to play black jack

or how to twenty-seven across,

like he did.

Everything I loved about Vegas is gone.

Now, it’s just one lousy overpriced buffet after another.