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quarters. The slot machine tootles and bleeps; it may even speak; every casino has at least one bank of slot machines that scream “Wheel! Of! Fortune!” day and night. You put in a coin and push a button. (No one pulls the “arms” of one-armed bandits anymore; most slot machines still have arms, but they seem to be vestigial.) The computer program spins some apples or cherries or sevens or stars around, the machine tootles and bleeps or wheel-of-fortunes some more, and then one at a time, from left to right, the apples or cherries or sevens or stars stop spinning. And you’re out a quarter. So you put in another quarter in hopes of winning your last quarter back. Repeat.
    I lost about a hundred dollars in one hour the first time I played slots, which for sentimental reasons I did at Circus Circus. The whole time I was feeding quarters into a slot machine, I somehow couldn’t shake the feeling that maybe this slots stuff was for suckers. Or clowns. People do win money playing slots, of course—there are pictures of them on the walls in some of the casinos. Still, more people lose money than win, as any fool knows. You can’t tell this by listening to slot machines, however. The noise when someone wins is loud—slot machines don’t actually drop coins into the stainless steel trays underneath them. They spit the coins into their steel trays. The coins hit the trays with a loud clang that can be heard all over the maze, bolstering the hopes of losers like me. (“People are winning! I might be next . . . must . . . keep . . . gambling . . .”) Your perception is warped, of course, because none of the slot machines makes any special sound when someone loses a quarter or a silver dollar or, over in the high-stakes slots area, a five-, ten-, or twenty-five-dollar slug.
    So what’s the appeal of slot machines? Familiarity would be my guess. At every casino, the slot machines are laid out in a confusing maze of dead-end streets, spirals, and cul-de-sacs—a lot like the suburbs most gamblers live in. Like the suburbs, slot machines are isolating; you don’t have to interact with other gamblers or a dealer to play the slots. The only person you have to interact with is a cocktail waitress. Someone may be playing the machine right next to you, but you’re supposed to mind your own business, just like you would in the ’burbs. Craps and card tables, on the other hand, are intimidating urban areas, at the very center of the casino, laid out in a grid. You’re jammed elbow to elbow with strangers at card tables, and while you avoid making eye contact, as you would in a subway or crosswalk, at the same time you keep close tabs on what the people around you are doing. Craps and card tables, consequently, can seem intimidating to new gamblers—especially suburban gamblers—while the maze of slot machines seems familiar and homey. What’s more, today’s slot machines are almost all computers—and what could possibly be more reassuringly familiar to American workers than sitting in front of a computer all day? At work, we’re paid to sit in front of a computer. In Las Vegas, we pay to sit in front of a computer. And at home or in Vegas, we rely on alcohol to get us through.
    But there’s a price to pay for the comfort and familiarity of slot machines. The odds are stacked against the gambler at the slot machines. Of course, the odds are still stacked against the gambler at the gaming tables, too, they’re just not stacked so high. Since my odds of winning at slots were less than they would be at any other game, I would have to learn some of the other games in the casino. Or try to.
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    I thought about playing craps, which according to the gambling books I was reading presents the knowledgeable player with his best odds of winning. Unfortunately, becoming a knowledgeable craps player takes twenty or thirty years. Trying to learn the game at