IN AMERICA: Standing Alone

See that black and white picture of me? That was taken near the pool at the old Flamingo Hotel in Las Vegas. I was sixteen or seventeen years old. Sometime around 1950. I can't quite remember. I can remember why I had a Stetson on, though. I thought it'd make me look like a big shot. I was a gambler – albeit, a small-time one. The same with those two-tone shoes. Where did they come from? And where did they go? Maybe I thought they'd look good when I ran away from Toronto and got to kick the world in the ass. Of course, the ass-kicking capital of the world was America. I have no idea who took the picture, or even what the occasion was. Or why I still have it. What I do know is that it's the only photo of me under the age of seventeen. Maybe that's why I hung onto it. There was certainly nothing else in my life I wanted to hang onto. Especially the memories. Perhaps I was just trying to hang onto me.

Everybody I know has childhood pictures; certainly, baby pictures. Even if they had lousy parents, or divorced parents, or were being put up for adoption, there was someone who cared enough to welcome them into the world with just a snapshot. Even if it wasn't going to be a welcoming world, there was this photographic proof that they existed. Or even mattered.

The only other pictures of me under the age of twenty are in someone else's possession. The first, if it still exists, would probably be gathering dust somewhere in the archives of Adam Beck Public School in Toronto's east end, which I haphazardly attended for seven shaky years, (having skipped a grade) under the non-birth name of MacLaren. One or two more photos would be headshots taken by the Toronto Police Department on Main Street. Later versions of those two same poses would be in the possession of US Immigration at Terminal Island, San Diego, long after leaving Las Vegas. I do remember the suit, though. It was soft blue; the only one I had. I should have been smiling because, by God, I was so happy to be away from a home that would have to be seriously mended just to be called broken. I was also happy to be out of the reach of some angry cash-short card players who didn't believe a teenage kid could fleece them fair and square.

My hands were in my pockets; one of which had a serious hole in it. The other had the six hundred dollars left of my winnings, after buying the train ticket and the used wardrobe, except for the kick-ass shoes, which were new. I look like I was wondering how long that money would last. Or how long the two-tones would last before they got holes in them. But the holes in my wardrobe were nonexistent compared to the hole in my soul.

I planned on going to Vegas because, to the addicted gambler that I'd been for two years, Vegas was the Vatican. My habit was so emotionally hopeless, even as a kid, I'd have to cut down just to be a junkie. I once stood under the maple tree in our front yard in autumn and bet my favorite and only hockey stick against my neighbor-buddy-adversary, Mel Nixon, on which leaf would fall first. I lost. Of course. Gamblers always do. But I didn't know that then. Vegas was where I wanted my financial prayers to be answered.

If I didn't have to stay there to make the easy money I envisioned, I might have gone to Hollywood. After Canadian winters, I loved the thought of picking an orange off a tree in December. And, in Los Angeles, with mostly sunny days, my blue suit wouldn't have to go to the dry cleaners so often. Those thoughts about the Golden State came to me around the age of six. In Toronto, with little to go home to, from that age on, when not at a rink, I would spend a nickel and hours sitting through two double-features at the Manor Theater on Kingston Road. The end of every film, of course, said, "Made in Hollywood." That's the place where the movies told me the rainbow ends and dreams really do come true. But I had to earn a living; so, Las Vegas was it. At least I thought it was, especially after learning how to gamble properly.

For the two years prior to boarding that train, the first time I'd ever paid to ride one, every cent earned working as a coal-shoveling fireman on the Canadian National Railway or bussing dishes at Kresge's or delivering mail at the Parliament buildings downtown, or borrowed, begged, or stolen, all four of which I was very adept at, I lost in marathon midnight-till-morn gambling orgies. I was the youngest loser in a group of usually eight. The two oldest were in their forties. One was a soldier; the other a truck driver. If I ever won, I stayed until I lost it. I had nowhere to go, so I figured what the hell, it was as good a place to be as any. It was usually poker, but sometimes it was craps. I was always the first to lose, and the last to leave.

I couldn't understand why I didn't do better because unlike those guys, I wasn't distracted by drinking and smoking. I was a clear-headed and clear-eyed loser! They didn't have any trouble getting my money, so when they were pushing drinks and cigarettes at me it was because they wanted me to be more like one of the boys.

One night they pushed me to the point of rudeness for my disinterest in imbibing or inhaling, asking if I was some kind of religious nut; I told them there was a reason I didn't smoke or drink. In one of the convenience stores I had worked part-time, I once stole a carton of cigarettes. I was so afraid of getting caught I tried to smoke them all, one after the other, and got sick. So, I never smoked again. Then another time, I confessed, I stole a carton of beer. And again, to hide the evidence, I drank them all and got even sicker. Then I pulled out a large pack of condoms and put them next to the chips, and said, "A year ago I stole a carton of condoms. I still have six left!" They laughed and never again offered me a beer or smoke. Thereafter, they started every session asking how many condoms I still had.

Hearing them laugh got my mind separated from the game; it was then I realized I wasn't really there to make money; I was there to make friends. But in reality, these guys were not friends; just acquaintances. My needs weren't monetary; they were emotional. So, I thought, if I'm going to gamble, which I did enjoy, obviously too much, then I'd better learn how to do it properly. I got two books from the library. One was called, Scarne on Dice, the other was called Scarne on Cards. Here was an expert who laid out all the mathematical odds on all the possible combinations and permutations of every bet on any pull of any card or roll of a die. When to press or when to back off. When to double; when to fold. What games offered the greatest odds of winning, and why. In two weeks I memorized nearly every page. If I'd been Kenny Rogers, I would have written a song about it.

I started my next midnight session with under forty dollars and played every night for a week. I found myself no longer needing to be in...