The man at the Craps table, as someone once described me with less prudent diction, doesn't know his derrière from a hole in the ground.
It's a midweek night at the Atlantis resort, the epicenter of activity on the Bahamas' Paradise Island. Though it features all the bells and whistles of a Vegas or Atlantic City establishment, and many of it's patrons' eyes gleam with the primal hunger and steely resolve of the (Too) Serious Gambler, the Atlantis casino fosters a playful frivolity. 99.928 percent of the patrons, after all, are visiting this island with laidback enjoyment as the M.O., the casino serving as that extra little shot of 151 on the metaphorical piña colada of a vacation. Very few people are here to channel Matt Damon in "Rounders," or at least less people than you would find at casinos elsewhere.
And because the casino represents just one enticement of the resort destination smorgasbord, many previously uninitiated gamblers on the floor this night are simply sampling the vice, bingeing on the netflix-ready tv shows for the trial period knowing full well they'll be fine and dandy without splurging for a full membership. Water slides, snorkeling expeditions, sports gambling, price-gouged fast food, in-room Pay-Per-View, Dior outlets, and blended fruit drinks represent a fraction of this one-size-fits-all tropical Disney World's countless delicacies. Those who have not hemorrhaged hard-earned money on nonessential luxuries are the ones who have yet to step out of bed.
Enter, again, the man at the craps table, dressed to the nines, diaphoric with liquor sweat and unversed in the art of throwing dice at a table. In itself, not knowing how to play craps is hardly a faux-pas: no other game, in fact, boasts a higher ratio of success-to-game comprehension. But this dude injects his ignorance with an almost impressive absence of self-awareness. During normal conversation, he communicates at a volume level reminiscent of little kids trying to talk while wearing headphones on planes. He shouts for a 7 on every roll, even on the occasions when that's the obverse of what he wants. His hands dangle over the table, a big no-no. He yells a "LUCKY HANDS" and juts a wavering high-five out toward the shooter, whenever something positive occurs. He loses his chips with startling haste.
Soon enough, his antics draw exasperated, contemptful looks from Serious-ish Gamblers and the workers around the table. His wife, expecting and sober, has the mortified look of someone whose dog just pooped in a neighbors pool. As he blusters and backslaps his way through his maiden craps voyage, the man never seems to recognize his unwitting role as table jester. He laughs and laughs, oblivious or uncaring that he is the butt of the joke. In a few days, no one else will remember it.
