It was getting late in Vegas and I was on my way back to my room at The New Frontier when I happened upon a small cluster of tables still dealing.

I took a seat next to a bloke in his mid-thirties with his girlfriend hanging off his left shoulder. Greeting them both, he replied in mid-western colloquial as the hands were dealt. Given a few minutes I couldn’t help but appreciate the caricature nature of this couple. He was sporting a “trucker hat” advertising stock car motorsport and had patchy skin, partially covered by a few days of motley facial hair. A mullet haircut protruded from the back of the cap, blonde in parts. Bones pushed against tight skin and there was hardly an ounce of fat on him. She was equally malnourished, likely visited the same hairdresser and used clothing sparingly.

He was very pleasant to me but there was certainly some aggravation between them. She on the other hand was not outwardly interested in anyone, or it seemed anything within her immediate vicinity. The gum just periodically snapped in her mouth. Reaching forward she picked up a couple of chips and headed off towards the slots having survived unwelcome glare from brazen action.

The cards were good to us all, and with the table playing sensibly we were doing well. The chips started to mount. The stacks in front of him had more than doubled, quickly. Upon her return he was greeted with a little kiss of appreciation and encouragement. It wasn’t exactly the Manhattan skyline he was building here, but it was beginning to look a bit like Brooklyn. It didn’t take long and she was bored again, this time getting a bit more bullish as she reached forward for float. He chose to ignore this indiscretion; she skipped away, unscathed.

Unfortunately things turned for the worse. I cut my bets in an attempt to ride through, but he was hell bent on chasing the last lost hand. His mutterings were becoming briefer and more colourful as the dealers switched, but prospects remained the same. Brooklyn was falling.

A half hour later she returned and quickly took stock of events within the interlude. Steam started coming out of her ears. They were both now firmly back in the “flyover states” with a stack of chips that resembled a corn filed. He had undoubtedly seen this coming and half turned within his seat, raised a finger that suggested domestic violence and commanded:

“ Don’t you go a hatin’ “

Silence ensued, but I couldn’t help but chuckle to myself. To this day when I find myself in a situation where the steam starts to rise, I hopefully manage to catch myself prior to “ goin’ a hatin’ “ and it’s usually a quite chuckle that helps return me from the Frontier, back to common sense reality.