If I Win Tattslotto....

 written 16 September 2010

If I win Tattslotto …

My name is Morris.   When I turned seventeen I was still virgin.  I had better supply details to prove this statement. I am an only child, male, of a stiff-lipped father and an ever-fussing mother.  I started life in a rented ramshackle house in Lower Bluecreek (to this day an undesirable neighbourhood), but now we live in a three story (counting the basement) villa in a fashionable outer suburb. 

My father looked at me sternly whenever I left to go to school, or to go out into the yard to play, or to visit friends, and he looked at me again sternly on my return. At the evening meals he would quiz me on my day’s activities.

My mother would always touch or pat me, on leaving or returning, to straighten the collar of my jacket, or brush my hair back. She had a sunny smile. When my father’s evening inquisitions were unduly extended she would fain a yawn and mumble: “No … not tonight.   It would be … too much!”

Now you may argue that this visual cum tactile leave-taking does not explain my abiding virginity.  However when I tell you that my father had made me read two books on unprotected sexual intercourse and my mother (ever so subtly, she thought) routinely enquired whether  I had met some nice people, possibly nice girls, at this or that party, you will understand.

This near monastic upbringing was periodically laced with urbane wisdom by the visits of Uncle Betya.  He is my mother’s brother, but he never married and stayed a playboy.  Uncle Betya gambles, places bets on horses, and he has a gold pass to the casino.  He acquired his nickname when he was my age, seventeen.  In his final year at school he spent more time phoning bookmakers than swatting text books.

When staying with us Uncle Betya was accommodated in the guest room on the second floor.  After school I would knock on his door, ask for permission  to enter, and then have the time of my life listening to his stories of his travels and the people, black, white, yellow, that he made friends with, and of course his gambling exploits.

On that subject he invariably introduced a cautionary note: “Remember, my boy, what you’ve lost – it’s gone for good; what you’ve won - keep at least half!”  He repeated this injunction when talk around the dinner table touched on poker machines.  The newspapers were reporting on the incidence of interference with the working of these machines, control wires having been traced from the machines to a secluded office in the casino.

“Well, that proves it, if proof were needed!” said my father with a satisfied smile, “gambling is immoral and leads people astray.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the culprits who fixed these machines, were in the pay of the casino management, you know, to increase revenue …”

“Not on your blinking nelly!” said Uncle Betya, “If the gaming authority found a whisker of evidence that somebody in the management knew, it would be the end, I say, it would be the stone end …” Uncle Betya nearly choked, as he had been provoked while his mouth was full of T-bone steak.  He swallowed, downed half a glass of water, and continued: “It would be the stone end of the Government Gaming Authority renewing the licence for the Casino!”

“I couldn’t wish for a happier outcome!” said my father, still grinning.

“Alex!” said Uncle Betya.  My father’s full first name is Alexander. He does not like it abbreviated to Alex.  And Uncle Betya knows that. “Alex,” repeated Uncle Betya, “the casino is one of the safest places in this town, a great venue for a night out for us living here, a great attraction for tourists, clean, healthy in all respects!”

“Ah, go on!” said my father, “Clean! Well, maybe … but healthy? Where did you get that idea?”

“It has to be that, clean and healthy. It’s one of the requirements for a casino licence, you know!”

My father opened his mouth, then shut it again, and contented himself with a head shake signifying utter disbelief.

“You may shake your head, but it’s true! There is nothing remotely unsavoury about the casino.  It’s fit for all ages, has wheelchair access, lets in young people above the age of …That gives me an idea.  I will take Morris to the casino, and I bet you, he will return unblemished, untarnished …”

There followed a dispute sometimes approaching an altercation, when my mother had to intervene.  It lasted well beyond dinner time, threatening to have us retire at an unduly late hour. Then my mother proposed a compromise.

“Lexi,” said my mother, at the same time patting my father’s hand.  Lexi, another version of Alexander, is a time-honoured term of endearment between my parents.   “Remember when you were worried about Morris taking up smoking!  You were very worried! And then you had this great idea: you made him smoke a cigarette, the two of you sitting together on the couch.  And while Morris thought that smoking is an elegant way to show one is grown up - his words, you remember – you asked him what it felt like in his throat, in his chest, and you told him what unpleasant things could happen to one …well, he never smoked again, did  he?  Therefore …”

“Therefore what?” asked my father, his mien and his voice sullen.

“Let’s all go to the casino, the four of us!” my mother said.

This time there was no altercation, but absolute silence prevailed. My father put on a mask of complete inscrutability. Uncle Betya twirled a teaspoon between thumb and middle finger.  My mother had the vestige of a sunny smile on her face. Finally I broke the silence.

“I … I rather … I rather like the idea …” and turning to my father continued, “don’t you?”

I have noticed that there is always a time when my father gives in, but I have yet to work out when that is.  My mother knows.

“Well, alright!” grunted my father.

And that is how it came about that the four of us marched into the casino. My father, looking stern, wandered up and down the aisles, sceptically eying mounds of coins swallowed up by the machines, even more sceptically watching winnings erupt like lava into the bottom trays.  My mother had found a low stake poker machine and was happily feeding it. I tried my luck on the machine beside hers and speedily lost the sum that I had vowed to myself I would not exceed.

The clock advanced.

Father:  “Isn’t it time to go home?” 

Mother: “Well, not yet. Maybe another quarter of an hour …?”

The clock advanced further. 

Father: “You know it’s well over a quarter of an hour …”

Mother: “Just let me …” She turned to me: “Look, this is quite a cooperative machine. You have a turn!”.

My father looked more sullen than ever: “Really! You get this boy to gamble with your money …”

I had already stepped up to the machine, retrieved a coin from the tray, loaded the machine, and pulled the handle. The five reels fluttered and came to rest, showing identical symbols. A siren began to blare, rising to a crescendo; lights flickered on directing their beams straight at me, three men in casino uniform advanced towards me: “Congratulations, Sir! You’ve won the jackpot!”

There was a lot of handshaking and kissing and a very formal handover of a bank cheque.  All this time my father stood aside, wiping the sweat off his brow.

I had noticed two girls in rather short skirts watching this commotion.  As we turned to leave one of them stepped forward, gently but firmly put her hand on my father’s arm and said: “We have seen you, your family, …so successful …that was a great win …surely you are going somewhere to celebrate and my friend and I would love to join you!”

For once Uncle Betya piped up: “Now, what a marvellous …”

But his sister with the sunniest smile cut across him: “No … not tonight.  It would be … too much.”  And I thought that you can take a mother out of Bluecreek, but you cannot take Bluecreek out of a mother.