Where I'm from originally, barbershops have always been viewed as the poor man's psychologist. You sit down, talk your trash, complain about life and try to come across an epiphany or two. Since moving to Las Vegas, I have found this same type of therapy with the poker demigods who manifest in my office every night.
The poker demigods are hard to categorize. They come from as far as Siberia, or as close as Las Vegas. Some are dashing fellows in stunning suits, while others are ugly phantoms with strange charms tied around their necks and wrists. They seem to come out only after sunset, and always have a new woman by their side. They rarely smile, but if they do it's just an illusion. They don't show you anything you aren't meant to see.
They tell stories of murder and money-laundering, of hitting bottom and clawing back up through the poker underworld. They talk of finding God and conspiring with the devil. The only ones who don't talk, I've found, are the women demigoddesses who typically wear dark sunglasses and diamond-encrusted jewelry.
You'll see some of them on the World Series of Poker. Every night, they put in 10 or 11 hours. For many of them, life is just one continuous poker game with pit stops for food and cursory love. Only two of them that I know are married. Still, like the others, they appear with a new woman every night.
In the beginning, I felt sympathy for those whose money they captured on a nightly basis, but then I realized they're like any other thing in Vegas; they're tiny casinos luring you in and breaking you in half. It's your own fault for thinking you ever had a chance.
I interact with them from a safe place, far away from the poker table. Some of my duties include getting them hotel rooms, reserving limousines, making sure security is provided if they should win a hefty sum at the tables, and opening safety deposit boxes for them. I have seen them stuff everything from banned weapons to satchels of loose diamonds inside these silver boxes. On occasion, I'm asked to phone working girls for them. There's an unofficial list of phone numbers that the casino is not tied to in any way. Allegedly.
Aside from poker, each one of them hustles outside the casino. They know this city inside and out. If you want to buy a car, get a car fixed, get a car stolen, or become an apprentice under a car thief, you talk to the poker demigods. If you want reliable hookers, drugs, fake visas or black-market guns, you talk to the poker demigods.
They give advice too, and seem fond of us little casino workers who have memorized their names. Every time I come into contact with one of the international demigods, I ask him to teach me another word in his native language. I study it and use it the next time we meet. This always impresses them, ensuring a tip. The tips are usually $1. Sometimes they're $5. On lucky occasions, I might get a $20 or a $100 bill. No matter what the denomination, I store it away in a steel box inside my attic. I also keep any matchbooks or pens they leave behind, careful not to rub off their magic. Currently my tip box contains $790 and some change. When I reach a thousand dollars, I plan to enter the first Hold 'Em tournament I can find. I will light my cigarettes with these blessed matchbooks of theirs. I will buy in with their sacred chips, and do my best to become one of the exalted.
I am fully aware that my chances of beating any of them are slim. Still, I'll take my shot. It's their money turned against them. I feel this gives me an edge.