It was dayshift in the craps pit. This guy had been at the table for a couple of hours. He was a nice enough guy, laughing and joking with the dealers, and other players. His wife had been to the table a couple of times to try and persuade him to go to the beach with herself and the kids, but to no avail. He was in for probably two grand, which he had dropped a couple of hundred at a time. The dice had been very cold.
He was the shooter. He had fifteen on the line with fifty odds. He had all the place bets pressed up to green and black, from an original fifty-two across. It was turning out to be a pretty good roll. Now all he had to do was start collecting money on the bets he’d pressed.
He threw the dice quite hard, one of them bouncing off the wall and landing in the place bet area at the other end of the table. One die was sitting in the field, showing a two The other die was leaning up against some chips, what we call, a cocked die. From where he was standing all he could see was a four. It was a relatively new stick man, on the floor for just a couple of weeks. He wasn’t quite sure what to call, so he just stood there.
“Six!” The player shouted.
“Seven out!” I yelled, leaning to see the five, on the top surface of the dice.
The dealer on the end of the table where the dice had landed had already started clearing the layout. He was an experienced dealer, and didn’t need anyone to tell him it was a seven. The dealer on my end however, froze.
“It’s a six!” the shooter argued.
“Seven out!” I yelled again, back-handing the base dealer into action. He quickly picked up the pass line. “Dump the bowl!” I ordered the stick-man.
“That’s bullsh*t!” the shooter shouted. “It was a six!” He was red in the face.
I picked up a die, and balanced it against two chips to show him, that although he saw a four, when I pulled the chips from beneath the die, it actually fell flat and the five was on top. He was having none of it.
“That was a f**king six!” he screamed at me.
“Sir, it was a seven.”
“You’re a real f**king bitch! Ya know that?” he apparently did not like my decision.
“I’m just doing my job sir.” I held up my hands.
“You see this? You see this?” He yelled, pointing at his own face. “This is you!”
He then punched himself right in the face.
I’m going to repeat that.
He then punched himself right in the face. Hard!
There have been very few times when I did not know what to say, and this was one of them. My jaw dropped open. This guy actually punched himself in the face, and made-believe it was me. Really?
“Sir you’re right!” the floorman interjected. “She is a real bitch! I’d punch her again if I were you!”