It’s been a little while since I’ve been back from Vegas, but a combination of getting sick, prioritizing getting photos processed and out the door, and simply catching up with post-holiday/vacation life, I simply neglected to write about it. But aside from the Pedro Griffin trolling story, there was another time at the blackjack tables, where I felt awesome, and remembered a story that I wanted to write about but forgot to, so better late than never.
As is often the case with a Vegas trip, this past one was just the same in the fact that I could have actually made it home having made money – if it weren’t for that last day. It’s pretty typical for me that it’s the last day in which Vegas not only catches up with me, but manages to make sure that I don’t leave with all of the money I brought in which to play with, and this last trip was no exception to that rule. I had been gambling shrewdly up until the last day, and it was naturally on the last night, in which I watched the house money diminish, and then some of my own money subsequently. Regardless, it’s not a big deal, because it’s money that’s accumulated for such frivolous purposes, and it doesn’t affect my bottom line or any financial responsibilities otherwise.
Anyway, aside from Pedro night, it was the night prior in which I was having a particularly good time at a table, and managed to walk away with a little bit of a cherry on top. I was gambling at Paris, where I was pleased to have found a single-deck table that also was being dealt by one of the sexy lingerie-clad dealers that seems to be the fortuitous norm for the Planet Hollywood/Paris/Bally’s troika of casinos these days.
Regardless, as aesthetically pleasing as the view is, being the gentleman I always pretend to be, I’m not one to creep on or unabashedly flirt with and hit on the sexy-clad dealers, because I’m sure they get it enough, and I have no game anyway. To no surprise, such a mentality typically warms most of them up to me, because I’m not such an obvious sleaze, and ultimately my goal is play blackjack, not get reamed, and get as many free drinks as I can in the process; the view is just a bonus.
Back to the story, I don’t hide the fact that I like to, and I try to count cards when playing blackjack; being a single deck, it’s not at all complicated to do, and the fact that with typically 3-4 players at the table at any given time, two hands is about the norm per shuffle, so it was pretty much bet minimum on the first hand, and bet accordingly based on the count going into the second hand. It was doing very well for me, and the sexy dealer obviously knew what I was doing, but she didn’t care because I wasn’t going nuts with the bets, and I was being polite and amicable to her and the other players at the table.
It’s amazing how easy it is to impress people who don’t count cards, when I’m hitting three times on a 12 and manage to land a 20, because the count was negative and leaned towards there being way more small cards than faces. I ended up having to do this more than I’d actually have liked to, but luck was on my side that night, and I was winning a lot more of these “hard” hands than I was busting them. All while the other players as well as the dealer smirked and chuckled at my incessant hitting but managing to survive more often than naught.
But the coup de grâce was one particular hand; the first hand dealt was this aberration where just about every low card in the deck was dealt and maybe two high cards were used. The count after the hand was a +8, which on a single deck is pretty extreme, and basically said that there was nothing but tens and aces left in the remainder of the deck. Strategically, it’s in these counts to really up your bet(s), as your chances of getting dealt a blackjack or a 20 are statistically higher, so I quadrupled my bet. I got a blackjack, and I was feeling good.
Unfortunately, when a count goes high, the dealer is as likely to get a strong hand as all the players are, and in spite of my blackjack, the dealer showed an ace, which is pretty much the last thing any player wants to see, even me. If the dealer ends up having a blackjack as well, then it’s simply a push for me, and I make $0 dollars on a highly favorable hand. It’s at this moment where dealers then offer the table insurance, which is widely perceived to be the sucker bet of all sucker bets, since then, if taken, you’re basically believing the dealer HAS a blackjack and inadvertently now rooting for everyone to lose to it.
I have a belief that I should take insurance if my hand is strong, or a good hand to split or double-down on, because the pessimistic karmic belief that a potentially fortuitous hand MUST be cockblocked by a dealer blackjack. I’d say eight times out of ten, I don’t do it, because I’m shrewd about taking a sucker bet, or I’m simply not buzzed enough to do it before not thinking about the consequences of losing on it.
Fortunately for me, I was a little buzzed, I was feeling a little cocky at this point, and with the knowledge of knowing the deck was at a +8, the statistical probability that sexy dealer had a face card under her ace was high. So I blurted out that I would like to take the even money bet, and anted up half of my initial bet next to my cards. Sexy dealer actually asks me if I’m sure if I want to take the insurance bet, it’s that much of a universally perceived sucker bet, and I smile and I say to her that “I KNOW you have a blackjack,” with a probably horribly-executed wink.
Sexy dealer smirks and proceeds to check her cards, staring only at me while she does it. Cards goes under the hole, cards come out of the hole. Sexy dealer looks back up at me, and drops the pretenses.
“Wow, you’re good,” she says, as she flips the other card, revealing a 10. Everyone at the table groans in defeat, while I clap once and raise my arms like I’m signaling for a successful field goal.
I don’t get the 6:5 bonus due to the fact that dealer blackjack pushes my blackjack, but because I bet on the insurance, I still made money, and a good bit since I had bet so high to begin with. And everyone else loses, which is kind of like the cherry on top.
But being able to call that kind of shit, yeah I kind of felt like Rain Man for a little bit there. Overall, a little bit of a cold spell stifled my overall winnings on that session, but when I walked away from the table, I was still overall up and leaving with house money, and I had had like seven beers at that point, so it was a pretty fine gambling session as far as I was concerned.
