The sour blend of entering my first casino and my legally immature age triggers sweat beads I can no longer mask with Cool Water cologne. The bouncers in tuxedos intimidate through calves the size of my neck, biceps as large as my head. The cracking they could cause, I think. A Herculean ID checker scans my body, glances at the concert of people yet to come, and waives me through. I walk up the carpeted stairs, a circus of noise parades into my head.
People collectively crank handlebars, yelling, hoping to sway odds.
Playing cards shuffle. Gold splashes the carpet, employee attire, the cushioned stools as if an underground lair of Aztec treasure spilled over into the casino. The most beautiful shade of bold green mats every blackjack table, magnetizing my mind. All chatting, laughter, yelling reduces, becoming restaurant ambiance that is heard, not listened to. Risking and surviving, like striking a match in woodshop.