Yippee! I just hit Powerball!

I’m not much of a gambler. That’s because I hate to lose, and in spite of your friends’ boast of great booty, everybody loses when they gamble — the house always wins…eventually. Okay, some folks can walk away with a win (temporarily), but I can’t. I can’t walk away with a win because I never know when I won. How much constitutes winning? No matter how much you win, there’s always more to be added to the largess — one more hand, one more pull, one more game, just one more bet on how many times the batter adjusts the family jewels.

However, I always know when I lose…because I’m broke. Being busted is a definitive outcome I can fully appreciate, a penurious state of affairs that is familiar ground, and although I may not be happy, I’m comfortable knowing I left no money on the table. I may be penniless, but I carry no anxiety or recriminations over not finishing the job. I finished it brilliantly!

And I seldom play the lottery, an even more surefire way to lose your money. I only do it occasionally when I’m in immediate need of an extra couple of hundred mil. And I only play Powerball because it has the longest odds of cashing in, by far, so I don’t have to waste a lot of time and angst over how much I won.

Comfort. It’s a beautiful thing.

There was a time in my life, though, when I thought I was a pretty cool, consummate gambler. I write about it in my forthcoming book, How to Sell the Plague (and yes I know, it’s been forthcoming since before the Jets had a winning season — a long, long time ago, Howie). I was selling yellow pages advertising in South Jersey, and on May 26,1978, the day Resorts Internation opened its door in Atlantic City to usher in casino gambling for the first time outside the state of Nevada, a couple of my workmates and I couldn’t resist the siren’s call of certain insolvency, so we packed it in early on that eventful Friday and made our way down the Atlantic City Expressway with visions of sugar plums dancing in our heads.

My buddies, Frick and Frack, were both married with wives at home waiting for them to arrive after work, and I had a girlfriend who I was supposed to meet for dinner. We were already in the doghouse because the previous Friday we had played poker at Frick’s house until four in the morning, pretty much ruining weekend plans and subjecting we three to the ire of thee three scorned women. So we were loath to tell them we were in Atlantic City gambling, and instead, told them we had to work late, always a good excuse until the freakin’ media rears its ugly head.

All the local TV stations from Philly were there trying to capture the frenzy of self-indulgence in at least three of the deadly sins, and wouldn’t you know it, one of them captured us. Oh yes, there we were, beaming into your living rooms in living color and having a grand old time for all the viewers of the Delaware Valley to see, and of course, Frick’s wife was one of those viewers.

What were the odds? Probably less than ours at the crap table. But then again, three smartly dressed young men in thee-piece suits, gleaming white shirts with gleaming gold stick pins, well-groomed and looking to the world like we had it schussed — who could resist?

”They come runnin’ just as fast as they can, ‘cause every girl’s crazy ‘bout a sharp-dressed man.”

Anyway, Frick’s wife calls Frack’s wife and my girlfriend and we’re back in the stew again with the burner turned up to max.

“A man should never gamble, more than he can stand to lose.”

Since then, I’ve eschewed most gambling, not because of the painful results of our excursion, but when all was said and done, I would have rather spent the bill I lost on a nice dinner and a little cuddle with my girlfriend. After all, if I’m getting screwed, I’d prefer to do it with a smile on my face.

Now don’t be calling and bothering me about my winning Powerball. I’m going to take some time to decide what to do with the four bucks!