(I’m working housekeeping in a casino. This mostly means cleaning ashtrays, spills, and bathrooms. We have carts we push around with some sprays and wet rags to use. I’m coming up to a bank of machines when a guest spots me and comes to cut me off.)

Guest: “Excuse me. I would appreciate it if you kept about 100 feet from my bank.”

(I’m used to guests asking me not to clean because I might “wipe off the good luck,” but just keeping away from the bank is a new one. I try my best to sound courteous and professional, but I think my confusion creeps into my voice.)

Me: “Oh. Okay, sir.”

Guest: “I know you buy your luck-stealing chemicals from the Illuminati and I get it! I understand it’s how you guys keep in business. I’m happy to keep quiet about it; I just want you to keep them away from my bank.”

(I’m smiling now, barely keeping myself from laughing, but he doesn’t seem to realize I think he’s a little “off.”)

Me: “Ah, I see. Well, we thank you for your discretion, sir! I’ll be sure to let the other housekeepers know.”

(I took my cart maybe twenty feet around his bank of machines and he grinned huge, happy to know that none of our “luck-stealing chemicals” would be anywhere near him. I let everyone else on shift know, both housekeepers and security. We all had a good laugh about it.)

(I sell bets on horses in the restaurant at my local casino. On race nights, minors are allowed in the dining room via the family entrance. We card many people just to be sure that they are old enough to wager on the horses because anyone can get in. I look very young for my age and often use this as a joke when I card people who appear to be the same age as me. I just finished serving a table who had some kids with them.)

Me: “Any other bets?”

Kid: *no older than eleven* “Can I bet?”

Me: “Sorry, but you have to be nineteen to bet.”

Kid: *smugly* “But what if I am nineteen?”

Me: “Then you’d need ID to prove it. Sorry, bud, but if I look like I’m twelve, you’re at least seven.”

(I work in a casino in Las Vegas, a city famous for its casinos… and prostitutes. A guy walks up with a group of friends and starts talking to me. He says I am beautiful, asks what my sign is, and informs me that he “won big at the casino and is moving to Vegas.” I am unimpressed.)

Me: “Winning big can mean many things. One thousand dollars is winning big.”

Guy: *laughs* “Would a thousand dollars change your life?”

(I ponder my upcoming phone bill, and rent, and union dues, so, yes, a thousand dollars would change my life for about a month.)

Guy: “If I gave you a thousand dollars, could I f*** you?”

Me: “I AM NOT A PROSTITUTE!” *walks away*

(He tried to apologize, and his friends told him to just leave me alone. He claimed I “misunderstood.” No, I understood, and I am not for sale!)

(Once I am legally able to gamble, my dad takes me to a Las Vegas casino so I can try it out.)

Dad: “Here’s how they get you and you lose your money. Say you use a quarter on the slots.”

(I put a quarter in and I get a few spins for it. I win $0.50.)

Me: “You call this losing?”

Dad: “No, no, watch. Try again.”

(I reuse the $0.50 on more spins. I win $1. He continues to try to show me how I’ll lose my money on the slots, with me adding smart aleck comments, as my winnings jump to $3, then $5.)

Me: “Boy howdy, you sure do know how to teach me the ways in which slot machines will s*** me over.”

Dad: “It seems that way, but winning and losing can come in streaks. And the losing is what eats up your money. Just keep trying.”

(Long story short, the slot machine continues to grant me little winnings in chump change. I finally call a stop when I have about $25, and cash it out.)

Dad: “Fine, so, that machine was out to prove me wrong. Let’s try a different game.”

(We went to the Keno counter and got a ticket each. Dad lost. I won a few hundred dollars. We tried blackjack, and I won a number of rounds there, too. That trip became a family legend, as I left with roughly $2,500 in winnings from Dad’s attempt to show me how someone can “lose all their money.” I do know that gambling can be an addiction, and that it can break somebody very easily, but that one day the entire casino seemed to conspire to troll my father!)

(It is a busy Friday night, right after I’ve turned 20. My family and I have just moved to a small gambling town for job prospects about a month prior. A pair of brothers own about half the town, including the casino I am hired onto about a week after moving in. Due to my ability to deal with rude and borderline belligerent, drunk people and my sunshine personality, I am assigned to cashiering at one of the buffets on the nights and weekends. In my first several days of training, it is stressed to me that I must ask for ID from every customer, every time, if they make a credit or player’s card purchase, even if I know them.)

Me: “Okay, sir, I have [number] adults and [number] children. Your total is [amount], please.”

Guest: “Sure, no problem.” *hands me credit card*

Me: “Thank you, sir. Now I just need to check your ID real quick, please, and we’ll have you on your way.”

Guest: “Seriously?”

Me: “Yes, sir. This is as much for your protection as the casino’s.”

Guest: *looks at me incredulously* “Do you have any idea who I am?”

Me: *smiles wide, and calls on all the high school theater I can muster* “No, sir.” *leans in and drops to a conspiratorial tone* “Do you know who I am?”

Guest: *stops, confused* “Well, no.”

Me: *grins again, straightens up* “Great! So, we’re even! ID, please.”

(The guest continues to look at me like I’ve grown a second head while I compare his name and ID… and realize his name is the same as one of the brothers who owns my casino.)

Me: “Oh, dear sweet baby Jesus.”

(The owner started howling with laughter, and refused to accept my apologies, stating that while I “probably should know who my bosses are” he was glad to know that his assets were so hilariously guarded by smart-aleck cashiers.)