Suitedjustice's Ongoing Mid-life Crisis

I have so little left that one very bad poker session will ruin me, so I've been sticking to low-variance slot plays to try to build up the roll. Today I took in $150, but I'll still need a Big Score if I'm going to pull out of this dive.

I may have mentioned this before; for slots, I buy in for $100 and keep the same ticket until it reaches $300 or more, at which point I cash in the ticket and buy in again for $100. This $300 max helps to keep hand pays down to a minimum, as any cashout of $1200 or more requires a slot attendant to pay it by hand. Those instances are time-consuming, and they generate unsolicited paperwork, and one feels compelled to tip. So, keeping $100-$300 on a ticket is going to result in fewer hand pays compared to rolling around with, say, $950 on a ticket.

Also, I have forgotten to cash out and left machines with all of my credits still in them at least a half dozen times over the past few years. I've run back to the machine within 2 minutes to find the money still in there every time so far, but one of these days the money is just going to be gone, and I'd much prefer not have $950+ on the missing ticket when that day comes. It's been around 8 months since I've left credits in a machine, so I may have finally plugged that leak, but who knows? My history necessitates eternal caution.

Today, I was cashing in $350.80, and the change machine paid with seventeen $20s and a lone $10, which discombobulated me. It should have given me at least two $100s, if not three, but it must have been out of hundos. I snatched the thick tile of bills and quickly scampered off to a slot machine to buy in (and immediately cash out) for $100, as well as to sort out the rest of the money.

Now, the change machines no longer give out coins; instead, they print a ticket for anything less than a dollar a few seconds after they spit out the bills. Alternately, one can opt to donate the change to charity. I always take the change ticket and add it to my next new $100 buyin. This time, I'd forgotten to grab the belated 80c ticket, so once I'd sorted the bills and the new buyin, I went back to the machine, and I found a lady in her early 80s standing at it, and no change ticket in sight.

I asked the lady if she'd found an 80c change ticket sticking out of the machine, and she gave me a very brief, guilty-looking side glance, and then she ignored me.

And damn: that old lady stole my 80c change ticket and didn't have the moxie to at least acknowledge me and try to lie to me about it. I stood there and went deep into the tank. What's the play here; it's 80c. Am I going to be a Larry David/Seinfeld character and make a stink over "principle"? Haven't I already given her 80c worth of trouble by just asking her about it and making her stand there for half a minute shivering like a baby rabbit, praying that I'll move on without making too much trouble?

Spoiler

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After a long tank where neither of us moved, I deemed it possible that I could have accidentally hit the charity button, given my discombobulation—charity is a bright, solid green color button, and the do not donate button is a faded red—and I could be standing here terrifying this lady for no reason, as opposed to a mere 80c being the incitement, and I remembered that my mom is in her 80s, and that I would not want her to go through something like this, so I walked away.

This incident reminded me of Douglas Adams' superb Train Biscuit Story from So Long and Thanks for All the Fish.

“Tell me the story," said Fenchurch firmly. "You arrived at the station."
"I was about twenty minutes early. I'd got the time of the train wrong."
"Get on with it." Fenchurch laughed.
"So I bought a newspaper, to do the crossword, and went to the buffet to get a cup of coffee."
"You do the crossword?"
"Yes."
"Which one?"
"The Guardian usually."
"I think it tries to be too cute. I prefer The Times. Did you solve it?"
"What?"
"The crossword in the Guardian."
"I haven't had a chance to look at it yet," said Arthur, "I'm still trying to buy the coffee."
"All right then. Buy the coffee."
"I'm buying it. I am also," said Arthur, "buying some biscuits."
"What sort?"
"Rich Tea."
"Good Choice."
"I like them. Laden with all these new possessions, I go and sit at a table. And don't ask me what the table was like because this was some time ago and I can't remember. It was probably round."
"All right."
"So let me give you the layout. Me sitting at the table, on my left, the newspaper, on my right, the cup of coffee, in the middle of the table, the packet of biscuits."
"I see it perfectly."
"What you don't see," said Arthur, "because I haven't mentioned him yet, is the guy sitting at the table already. He is sitting there opposite me."
"What's he like?"
"Perfectly ordinary. Briefcase. Business suit. He didn't look," said Arthur, "as if he was about to do anything weird."
"Ah. I know the type. What did he do?"
"He did this. He leaned across the table, picked up the packet of biscuits, tore it open, took one out, and . . ."
"What?"
"Ate it."
"What?"
"He ate it."

Fenchurch looked at him in astonishment. "What on earth did you do?"
"Well, in the circumstances I did what any red-blooded Englishman would do. I was compelled," said Arthur, "to ignore it."
"What? Why?"
"Well, it's not the sort of thing you're trained for, is it? I searched my soul, and discovered that there was nothing anywhere in my upbringing, experience, or even primal instincts to tell me how to react to someone who has quite simply, calmly, sitting right there in front of me, stolen one of my biscuits."
"Well, you could . . ." Fenchurch thought about it.
"I must say I'm not sure what I would have done either. So what happened?"
"I stared furiously at the crossword," said Arthur, "couldn't do a single clue, took a sip of coffee, it was too hot to drink, so there was nothing for it. I braced myself. I took a biscuit, trying very hard not to notice,"
he added, "that the packet was already mysteriously open. . . ."
"But you're fighting back, taking a tough line."
"After my fashion, yes. I ate the biscuit. I ate it very deliberately and visibly, so that he would have no doubt as to what it was I was doing. When I eat a biscuit," said Arthur,
"it stays eaten."
"So what did he do?"
"Took another one. Honestly," insisted Arthur, "this is exactly what happened. He took another biscuit, he ate it. Clear as daylight. Certain as we are sitting on the ground."

Fenchurch stirred uncomfortably.
"And the problem was," said Arthur, "that having not said anything the first time, it was somehow even more difficult to broach the subject the second time around. What do you say? 'Excuse me ...I couldn't help noticing, er...'
Doesn't work. No, I ignored it with, if anything, even more vigor than previously."
"My man..."
"Stared at the crossword again, still couldn't budge a bit of it, so showing some of the spirit that Henry V did on St. Crispin's Day . ."
"What?"
"I went into the breach again. I took," said Arthur, "another biscuit. And for an instant our eyes met."
"Like this?"
"Yes, well, no, not quite like that. But they met. Just for an instant. And we both looked away. But I am here to tell you," said Arthur,
"that there was a little electricity in the air. There was a little tension building up over the table. At about this time."
"I can imagine."”
"We went through the whole packet like this. Him, me, him, me..."
"The whole packet?"
"Well, it was only eight biscuits, but it seemed like a lifetime of biscuits we were getting through at this point. Gladiators could hardly have had a tougher time."
"Gladiators," said Fenchurch,
"Would have had to do it in the sun. More physically grueling."
"There is that. So. When the empty packet was lying dead between us the man at last got up, having done his worst, and left. I heaved a sigh of relief, of course.
"As it happened, my train was announced a moment or two later, so I finished my coffee, stood up, picked up the newspaper, and underneath the newspaper..."
"Yes?"
"Were my biscuits."

I'll wrap it up with one more story about being a douche: On my drive home today, I fought through traffic and bad Massachusetts drivers on the highways, and I finally made it to the back roads, where I could unwind and open it up a bit.

So I came roaring around a corner and a garbage truck—given plenty of time to see me coming and estimate how fast I was going—pulled slowly out of a side road in front of me and cut me off.

I didn't slam on the brakes, but I did have to apply them liberally. I was mad, and I beeped my Jeep horn at him. 100 yards (91 m) later, the truck and I passed a well-concealed cop car at a speed trap. Thanks to the garbage man, we passed the trap going the speed limit. Had he not pulled out in front of me, I would have been caught going at least 20 mph (32 km/h) over the limit and given a hefty ticket at a time when I can ill afford one.

I don't know if the garbage man was looking in his mirror after we passed the cop, but if he was, he would have seen me giving him a friendly wave.