Vladimir came to America from Russia in 1998.
“All of my buddies, they gambles.”
And tonight, he is my Lyft driver.
“You gamble?”
“No.”
He twists around in his seat to look at me, and the black, leather seat cover winces into a squeak. Vladimir is a ginger, stubbled brick of a Russian man. He is incredulous that I have never played the odds.
“You never gamble? That’s incredible. Well I got one piece advice for you. Never believe in beginner’s luck.”
We merge onto Venice Boulevard, flowing east, on my route to Zebulon LA to see a theremin player. I’ve been anticipating this show, but now my mind is completely synched with the rasp and gargle of Vlad’s monologue. He begins talking about his regular client, who flies in from New York to work in California. This man always stops first in Las Vegas to gamble, then gets car service to LA.
“One time I drive him. He come to Las Vegas, tell me to take him to the casino. He lose 60K in forty minutes, hahaha!”
“What did his company think?”
“He works for big cosmetics company. They never notice the expense.”
Vladimir asks how I want to get to where I’m going. No Lyft driver has ever asked me that, as we are all beholden to the ways of Waze, or other ordained prophets of Skynet.
I pause. “Well, it’s Easter Sunday evening; I don’t think any way is going to be too bad.”
Vlad agrees. We motor forward, on the trail of the blue lines on the mounted iPhone map.
For the rest of the ride from West LA to Eagle Rock, Vladimir regales me with his own life story of gambling losses and windfalls.
When Vladimir moved to America, he didn’t have much, but he soon found the chips. For some reason they called to him, and gambling became a way of life. An American way of life. He always had steady jobs—he’s been a professional driver for 20 years—but the tables were never far. Sometimes it was thin living. He tell me about how he went for days without eating in order to have cash for the tables. How he was living in cars with his friends, fellow gamblers. How his friends told him they should not go get food because “look at you, you so fat, you need to lose weight anyway.”
How he hit a streak, drank all the best liquors, got on his feet, and pulled the lever again.
How he won $7,000 and lost it all in one evening.
How he and his buddy always split all their winnings, and one night they left Vegas with ten grand each in their pockets. Vlad told his friend they needed to get out of the city before they spent it, but his buddy wanted to stop at a restaurant. Wouldn’t be a crazy idea, except that Las Vegas likes to get its money back. There are slot machines everywhere.
At the time of this ride with Vlad, I’d only been to Vegas once, and only the airport. It’s a dry desert outside, but inside, the air was humid with the wash of bells. The moment I stepped through the tunnel from the airplane into the terminal, I was the honored guest of the glittering dopamine kingdom. There it all was, lined up, the chrome, twinkling, slot-machine infantry.
I did one machine. Made a few dollars in quarters and wondered if I could make a few more…then I quit.
I don’t have the betting gene.
But Vladimir and his buddy do.
So Vlad’s friend convinced him to stop by this restaurant. They went in. Vlad didn’t give me the details, but the upshot was they never even got to eating, because by the time they’d left the restaurant, they only had enough money for McDonalds.
I ask if he stopped after that.
Vlad is incredulous, again, at the thought. “Oh no.”
“Did you ever win big?”
“Oh yeah. Real big.”
We’re on the East side by the time he starts in on his last tale. The time he and his buddy went to Vegas with 15K and bought a house. They signed the paperwork but had not paid yet, so of course they went out partying to celebrate.
They ate, drank, and gambled away half of their money before they’d closed the deal. Vlad’s friend implored him to stop, because they still had to get the house. Vlad kept going and going, and he was about to place another $1000 bet, when his friend stopped him.
“My buddy, he say, ‘Hey, you loose all that money I take you out and sell you. I’m gonna put you out on the street and sell your ass to the first taker.’ And I don’t want him to sell my ass, but I just have feeling about this one, you know? I tell him, ‘I have a lot of feelings about this.’ He say ‘Fuck your feelings, I’m gonna sell your ass!’ But I was so drunk, and you know, I really have the feeling.”
So Vlad placed that last bet, and he watched a graphic of a train choo-choo across the screen.
He won $975,000.
“My buddy, he begin to kiss me. I say, ‘Hey! You know I don’t go like that, even if you were going to sell my ass. I don’t like the men, haha!’”
So Vlad and his buddy called up the house seller at 3am, drunk, and told him they still wanted the house.
And also the two houses on either side.
My restaurant is in view now. Vlad hangs a U-turn to pull up in front.
I pull on my jacket. “So that was your windfall.”
“One of a few.”
The car comes to a stop.
“Do you ever worry about tapping out completely?”
“No…you can always begin again.”
“I thought you said there’s no beginner’s luck.”
Vlad laughs. “I’m no beginner.”
I slide my arm through my purse strap and unlock the door, but before I exit, Vlad reaches into the back seat.
He hands me a casino chip. He smiles.
Raya Yarbrough is an award-winning singer, songwriter, composer, recording artist, and writer born in Los Angeles. She has been recognized for her narrative lyric style, drawing on the tradition of jazz vocalese, honest storytelling, and free verse poetry. While she’s best known for her vocal work on the hit Series Outlander and Battlestar Galactica, she has been captivating audiences with her original music for years.
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