Black Jack

A smoky Las Vegas casino. A bald-headed dealer who is kind of a jerk. He speaks in sharp snappy dialogue, deals and shuffles with confidence. A scantily clad waitress is overly nice to me; her lips curl up in a grin as she passes me my drink. A Jameson on the rocks in a short glass, the napkin sticks to the bottom as she moves it from her tray to the smooth green cloth of the table.

It is a wonderful thing to hit blackjack in Las Vegas, especially when you’ve bet big. The chips multiply into beautiful crisp stacks that I pull toward myself with two hands. Baldy is smug, like it was lucky, a one-time thing. But I know I had a hunch, a twinge of nervous energy somewhere between my ankle and my knee, that told me that was my hand.

I’m up $300 and feeling good.

It’s late, or early; in the casino it’s difficult to tell precisely and I sigh; it’s been a long day.

“Beautiful Darling,” a documentary about Warhol star Candy Darling, that I edited, screened today as a work-in-progress at the 2009 CineVegas film festival. I spent the morning waiting for my bags to arrive from the airport, still wearing an old green t-shirt and jeans. Finally, a much anticipated knock at my door, a quick change and I raced back to the Palms, where most of the CineVegas events are taking place, getting there just before being late.

The director, executive producer and I mill about in the filmmaker lounge for a little while before being brought over to the theater for photos and the screening.

It’s helpful to see it on a big screen, with an audience. It’s hard for me to watch because of how technically rough it is, with temporary voice over and score that don’t work as well as they could and an unmixed sound track that at times is hard to hear.

But people seem to like it, for the most part, and see its potential. Many come up to me after the screening to chat.

Later in the day, I stumble upon a pool party as big as spring break going on right outside the hotel, almost deafeningly loud. I’m dressed in a black suit and severely out of place and I wonder how all of these people got out here without me noticing them. I go back inside.

It’s late, or early, and I run my fingers over the pile of chips in front of me. They feel more like tokens at an arcade than money. And there it is again, that feeling, the nervous energy somewhere between my ankle and my knee. I know it as clear as day. I should walk away. If it’s about winning, now’s the time to cash out.

But I’m with friends and having a good time and I decide to keep playing and you all know where this is going now.

It’s a wonderful thing to hit blackjack in Vegas, especially when you’ve bet big. Busting, on the other hand, might be one of the most terrible things in the world.

Over the next few days, I gradually lose all of the $300 I was up, cashing out with $100 in chips. Exactly what I started with.

From what I hear, that’s a fairly successful trip to Vegas.

- Zac Stuart-Pontier