The Idiot Savant

The Idiot Savant

July 29, 2021

Hello, my name is Ogden or "Og," and I am what's commonly called a cooler.

What is a cooler, you might ask? In the gambling world, I am an individual who can de-rail a hot streak faster than licky-split. My services are on the decline because many believe my powers don't exist and are more mythical in nature; it's cool because I rather enjoy being semi-retired. I have always liked to putter and enjoy my own company.

But as I write this story, a surreal electric green light is sparking in my head, just behind my eye and the bridge of my nose. This is my signal that my energies are peaking. It's a perfect time to put the word out that I'm back in the game. People that know people in the gambling business I am hoping will be happy upon my return. Casino executives that still remember me can attest to my strange and unusual powers; I can indeed chill a hot streak just by looking at a person(s). In my career of nearly thirty years, I have never been spotted by an "other." Deep down in my heart, I yearn to meet this entity, imagining I would finally have a true friend.

An "Other "is a person who vibrates and modulates their energy, similar to my own. Others are always the opposite sex of the cooler. Never in my life have I come across somebody like myself. That was soon to change. Like life itself, change is the one constant that pervades our life from the crib to the coffin; when you stop experiencing change, your dead.

I am of average build and height. My presence is one that I am so low-key that hardly anyone acknowledges my comings and goings. I don't gamble anymore. There was a stint in my life when enormous pressures created a perfect storm. Gambling provided me with a respite from the world and all its difficulties. I never gambled to win but to find shelter from my emotional struggles. Still, I love watching a person in the company of a mythical figure, Lady-Luck celebrating their winnings. It is usually short-lived and only a matter of time before returning it all back to the house and, then, some.

I can tell you here, and now I have complex mental health issues, but the life-changing event in this life was being born dead. My mother (R.I.P. Mommy) had a tough time carrying me, and childbirth was the worst imaginable. I managed to wrap the umbilical cord several times around my neck. And to boot, I was a breach baby entering this sphere of existence ass-end first. My Dad always would say to me that everything I do is with my head up my ass. He was a good father but hyper-critical of everything around him. Excuse me, but I have a tendency to meander with my thoughts. My birth was performed by an old WW1 field army doctor. He managed to turn me around and deliver me. Only then was he able to get to the damned umbilical cord off my neck. I was a blue baby who probably hadn't breathed for several minutes. He pounded on my tiny chest until I began to live on my own. From that day forward, my physical wardrobe has a slight indentation right at the solar plexus; after being told this horror story, how bad it had been for Mom, how it marked me for life.

There is clinical proof that difficult births can be attributed not just to physical abnormalities but also mental. I was diagnosed as autistic that would need to be institutionalized for life. I believe my parents never understood how this abnormal condition prevents a person from having normal loving relationships. And most importantly, be able to live everyday life. Thank God for ignorance, for they treated me like any average child. They managed to push the most common attributes associated with autism aside, like choosing to be alone, being fascinated by tiny things for hours at a time, and, in my case severe, hypochondria. Long story short, I entered adulthood with a happy-go-lucky attitude, one I still have today. I do love in my own way. I like doing things for others; it makes me happy when not much else does. It occurs to me that maybe I have helped a gambling addict or two finally quit this adrenaline rollercoaster and take up knitting or something.

My Father is a pivotal player in my life drama. When I was very young, He liked discipline in all things and wanted to mentally challenge me to snap me out of my confusion and despair, always with a far-away look on my face. He didn't like me much and only hoped I

would be OK in the world, a world that was harsh and menacing as far as he was concerned. And I did progress into maturity with a knack for numbers and a net-net bottom-line business mentality.

My mother passed away suddenly, leaving Dad a sad broken man. This man I still had mixed feelings about was to become my patient of sorts. Imagine a father /son duo trading place. He became the child, and I, his Father. For nearly eleven years, as he slowly physically declined, we eventually became best friends. I can say that not many sons get to do this. When my Dad's Dad died, a very old man said with malice, "Thank God the bastards dead." When Dad passed, his last word was my name. I remember his Father telling me as a toddler, ("It's all a dream). I barely knew the man but feel we would have gotten along like two peas in a pod.

Considering I have lived my life as a strange man in a strange land, I believe and trust that I'm luckier than most people thinking I like myself and my life and will feel blessed when I play my last hand, metaphorically speaking. I hope to make some sense of why I think this story needs to be put to paper. I figure where else you will read something as farfetched as to be believable as a writing contest.

Well, here goes, the moment of truth.

I became aware of my cooler skills the first time I went to Vegas way back in the day. I liked to play blackjack and did rather well for myself. A croupier mentioned that the house seemed to have a much higher win margin when I was around. This coming from a pro took me back.

We quickly became friends, and she asked if it was OK to tell the pit boss of my strange abilities. Again, long-story-short, I retained a full-time position at the high rollers games. I would dress as a valet for big games that would go for days. It was how my presence was discreetly packaged for me to do my real job of cooling games down for the house when necessary between making cocktails, emptying ashtrays, and bringing hot towels to the players. I would look like a statue and work my magic. If games got too hot, I'd throw ice water on them. The house makes their money, of which I receive a percentage. I'm pretty cool if I say so myself.

It was just last week at a small Indian casino near where I live that I got the eye-opener of a lifetime. I was casually walking the casino islands, thinking thoughts of diving into cool, tranquil shimmery waters. This walking/meditative thought was a freebie for the house. I was grabbing a cheeseburger and coffee to chill out (pun definitely intended) When women of diminutive stature strolled on by giving a queer look, or so I believed. I am terrible at social cues, especially when in the company of women.

Her long, dark, mahogany, black hair glistened in the subdued casino light. Her facial features were maybe Aztec or Indian, with a slightly broad nose and full lips. It was her eyes that held my far-away gaze. Like green lights, they flashed at me. She tended to blink a lot making it more remarkable when she cast her gaze upon me.

Do I know you, she said?

Like becoming aware I was dreaming that I was dreaming, I replied.

Yes, yes… oh dear me, an "Other," I thought to myself.

She, too, began to surface from the quicksilver dreams she had dreamed for probably as many years like me. This is to say she seemed to be around the same age as me. If I think of myself as the fool on the hill, others also see me as I do when smiling at myself in the mirror. This thought has always tethered me to the whipping post, no matter how I see myself any given day.

She glanced over her shoulder, looking at the café. I could use a few shots of espresso looking back at me; join me, please.

Like a solemn sentinel of sorts, I followed near her side, keeping a comfortable distance. The lump in my throat began to go away, and I could muster a few words. Do you come here often?

I come only when I am invited by the house, just like you, I suppose.

Thank you, I whispered under my breath. My other so eloquently acknowledged what we both had stumbled upon and knew to be true.

As the café line moved along, she asked an attendant to reserve a table for four in the ornate casino's Pub & Grill.

We walked the casino aisles with carpets designed by somebody on psychedelics and slot machines, paying out small dividends to hypnotized patrons. We strolled around the casino, talking and getting to know each other better. For instance, her name is Fortuna but, she likes to be addressed by her nickname, Kizzy.

Kizzy was impressed that I caught on instantly that Kizzy was an abbreviation for Kismet. I even impressed myself a little. Kizzy's name was announced on the speakers. I was still hungry and biting at the bit to meet our two quests. As we were taking our seats, a middle-aged couple came up from behind. It startled me, but it brought laughs and kisses from Kizzy. What occurred to me there weren't any contentious or competitive feelings between Kizzy and me; it was actually was so perfectly normal having dinner with people I didn't know off the cuff.

The man pleasantly acknowledged me with a twinkle in his eyes. His wife (Or so I believe) was an athletic woman who was telling the group she was ravenous and could barely contain herself from eating scallion spears and pickled cucumbers, carrot sticks, and sliced spring sausage as we looked on in glee.

I now liked to call my new friend Kiz. My dinner date was blinking wildly, and she gently placed her hand on my forearm resting on the table. The four of us had a blast, all the food we could eat, but to my companion's dismay upon learning I could not imbibe along with them due to the anti-psychotics I take for the schizo-affective disorder (yeah, I know, bad luck or what): the two just don't get along.

As we were preparing to leave for the night, the middle-aged couple said welcome to the club Da cooler. I had Cued Father-Time and Mother Nature. I knew their true nature and how magnificent it was to break bread with them. It's true; I never had such an incredible feast of friends like I had that night. The only fallback was when I requested the check and was informed everything is on the house as it always is! All this time, I've paid for my cheeseburger and coffee, so W.T.F.? What am I chopped liver or what?

To be continued…