So when my cousin Phil told me about his three
days in Las Vegas, I believed him. It sounded like a movie, but it happened to him.

It starts like this: Phil is a junior executive at a big company in Chicago. One day his boss called him in and told him he was going to represent the company at a trade show in Las Vegas. Pretty exciting feather in his cap. He’s single, got a nice little apartment, and just bought a luxury car. He’s doing well—very well.

So, he packed his fine Italian suitcase, which he bought with bonus money his firm gave him, stuck $400 in his wallet, and took off to Sin City, deciding to drive and see a little of the country.

In Denver, he found a book called Beating the Games 
in Vegas. He stayed up most of the night reading it. As he got in his car in the morning, he decided that his game would be “21.”

He detoured to visit Provo, Utah. He liked the name—Provo—there was something about it that made him smile. While there, he found a book that appealed to him as much as the name Provo. It was simply titled Moe on 21. “The book,” the cover said, “will make you a winner at the table.” Phil memorized nearly every line in the book. He arrived in Vegas early in the morning, got some sleep, went to the trade show, checked in and shook some hands, then went to the casino. He got a hundred dollars worth of $5 chips, then strolled along the 21 tables, watching players and reconnecting each of their “moves” to what “Moe” had written. Most of them, he found, obviously did not know how to play the game.

Phil sat down at a table and put a $5 chip in the card box. He won immediately, doubling his bet. He then lost six hands in a row, picked up his remaining chips, and left the table. “Dealers can get hot,” Moe had written. “Never forget, it is gambling.”

Phil played some more and won back his losses. This went well into the night. By 3:00 a.m., he was ahead. Now he sat alone at a table, just Phil and the dealer. He was 
soon joined by a seedy, elderly man with a soiled tie at half mast, badly in need of a haircut and shave, with two $100 chips. He pushed them into play. His face card was a six. 
He asked for another card and turned over his hand. He 
had 26. He busted out.

Phil couldn’t resist giving this unfortunate man some advice. “The dealer had a five up,” he said. “You shouldn’t 
hit on 16.”

The man looked at him in disgust. “How do you know?”

“Here, in this book, Moe on 21, by Moe,” said Phil.

The man nodded. “I know,” he said. “I am Moe.” He got 
up and started to walk away, but then turned to Phil. “Sometimes,” he hesitated, “you gotta forget what the book says and just play a hunch.”

The next day, Phil went back to the trade show, but all he could think of was what Moe said after going against his own advice. Phil had reread Moe’s book, and there it was, in bold print: “DON’T,” the line read, “PLAY HUNCHES! 21 is a game you can win if you play it right.” But this, obviously, wasn’t true. Moe looked like he was done, broke, busted. Why was he now playing a “hunch?” Because it’s more exciting. That was what Phil decided.

That night, Phil went back to his room, got his stash, which had grown substantially the previous night, and went back to the casino. He stopped at a roulette table. “Provo,” he said to himself, “five letters.” He took his entire pocketful of $100 chips and put them on number five. The wheel went round, and the silver ball hopped and spun and landed on his number.

He now had more than $5,000. He walked to the 21 tables. He played only hunches, and by midnight, he’d won $96,000.

But things started to change. At 3:20 a.m., he counted his chips. He had just about $10,000 left. He’d lost. He was tired and hungry.

He scooped up his chips and turned to leave, then collided with someone and the chips flew to the floor. “I’m sorry,” a voice said. And there, helping him pick up his chips was the prettiest girl he’d ever seen. “Hi,” she said. “I’m Gladys and I’m clumsy.” She handed him the rest of the chips and he smiled at her.

“I’m starving,” he said. “Would you like something to eat?”

So, they ate and talked. She said she was in the carpet business in Oregon. No husband. No boyfriend. Just taking a couple of days off on her own. They walked up to his room, and she poured them a couple of Scotches from the mini-bar. … He woke up two days later with a terrible headache. His $10,000 in chips were gone, as were his credit cards, cash, and car keys.

Leaving the hotel that day, he walked through the casino, and there was Moe, clean-shaven and wearing an expensive suit, a pile of $100 chips in front of him. He saw Phil and smiled. “Sometimes you play hunches,” he said. “And sometimes you go by the book.”

Phil went back to the convention and borrowed money from a friend to get home. “I did great,” he told me. “I went to Vegas in a $60,000 Cadillac and went home in a $600,000 Greyhound bus.”

Phil told me that someday he was going to go back to Vegas, play it by the book, and maybe run into Gladys again.

But then he met Blanche, who works in human resources at his company, and they fell in love and decided to get married. He asked her where she’d like to go on their honeymoon. She’d already thought about it.

“I’d like to go somewhere,” she said, “where there are bright lights, great shows, and gambling.”

So they went to Atlantic City.

3 Days in Vegas The Saturday Evening Post

My friend Marvin and I were sitting at our favorite 
delicatessen on 7th Avenue. 
I was eating a turkey on rye. He was eating a pastrami 
and salami combo with side dishes of fries and beans.

“We’re having a baby,” he told me proudly.

I was just about to take a bite of my sandwich, but I put it back down on the plate and looked at him. “But Marvin,” I said, “you’re 60 years old.”

“Sixty-two, but Sarah’s only 40, and she couldn’t be more excited about it.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Marvin,” I said, “when the kid’s 13 years old, you’ll be 75.”

“But,” he said, “a young, vibrant 75.”

“Your kids by your first marriage will be in their 50s. Your grandchildren will be older than this one.”

He smiled proudly. “Pretty good, eh? And you know something, older men with young kids is a very now thing. Tony Randall, Larry King, Woody Allen, Charlie Chaplin—all men over 60 who had little kids.

“And you know the singer Julio Iglesias?”

“Of course.”

“Well, his father was 89 when Julio was born, and the next year his mother had another kid when his father was 90.”

“He sounds like a heck of a man.”

“He died right after the new kid was born.”

Sometime later, I got a birth announcement from Marvin. There it was, a picture of Marvin and Sarah holding an 
infant. My friend was beaming as if to say, “From these loins sprung this child.” The card revealed that the baby’s name was Lola and she weighed 7 pounds, 3 ounces.

I moved to California soon after that and didn’t see Marvin for nearly 14 years. We reunited at the same table in the same deli. I had the turkey sandwich. He had a bowl of chicken consommé with crackers.

“Did you notice I was limping when I came in?” he asked. 
I said I did. “We had a parents versus girls basketball game at her school last night, and I’m a little sore.”

“How’d you do?”

“I was 0 for 2 from the floor. Lola was guarding me.”

“How’d she do?”

“She scored 60 points while I was guarding her.”

“How long did you play?”

“Four minutes. By the time I got to midcourt, she was 
already coming back the other way. All the other parents were in their 40s.”

“And you’re 75.”

“Seventy-six. After the game, the coach told me, ‘Your granddaughter played very well.’” He paused, “I get that 
all the time.”

We met again a few months later. He had two slices of white meat chicken and a boiled potato.

“She’s driving me crazy,” he said.

I took a bite of my turkey sandwich.

“She has the prettiest blonde hair, soft and curly. Comes down to her shoulders.”

I nodded as I chewed.

“She dyed it red. Red! I mean American-flag red, fire-truck red!” He ate a small piece of chicken. “We had a huge fight. She told me, ‘You’re not the boss of me!’ ”

I nodded. “I guess you’re not.”

“Well, now she wants to get a tattoo, and I said absolutely not. Positively not.”

We didn’t meet for a year or so.

“By the way,” I asked, “did she ever get the tattoo?”

He stared down at the tea and cookies he’d ordered.

“Yeah. Two. The one on her arm says ‘Rebellion.’ The one on her butt says ‘Mario.’ ”

“ ‘Mario?’ On her butt?”

“Her boyfriend. She says he’s never seen it.”

I just stared.

“I think she’s been smoking,” he said. “Smoking while she’s drinking.”

“What makes you think that?”

“I saw her smoking and drinking.”

“What did you say?”

“Nothing. That was the day I came home from the hospital after my bypass. When I did bring it up, she said that she doesn’t smoke or drink but all her friends do, so why can’t she?”

“What’d you say to that?”

“I didn’t want to fight. My arthritis was 
killing me. But, I did draw the line with the body piercing.”

“Her ears?”

“Her bellybutton. I told her there would be severe consequences if she did.”

“Like what?”

“I’d kill her.”

I sipped my diet cream soda.

Lola was 17 when Marvin and I met again. He had a cane.

“Bursitis,” he explained. He ordered hot water with a slice of lemon.

“I bought her a car,” he told me.

“Well,” I said, somewhat jokingly, “whatever Lola wants, Lola gets.”

He didn’t laugh. “In three months she’s had three accidents and two tickets.”

“Kids,” I shrugged.

“She was driving and she went up a one-way street, through a red light, and hit a police car.” He paused. “That’s when I had the heart attack. The paramedics said it happens often —and that older parents shouldn’t drive with their young kids.”

“Did she lose

her license?”

“Yeah, but 
Freddie drives 
her around now.”

“Who’s that?”

“Her new boyfriend.”

“What’d she do about the tattoo?”

“She had it colored over and had them put ‘I love Freddie’ on her other buttock.”

Illustrated by Robert Saunders

“She’s a real romantic.”

“She’s gonna be a high school senior soon. She’s got a 
million friends. When they come to the house, they play the music so loud I have to take my hearing aid out. High-pitched sounds drive me crazy.”

“Like a dog.”

“Yeah. But she did bake a cake and bring it to me when I was in the hospital for my prostate.”

“You OK?”

“Yeah. I’m perfect now, except for the eye thing.”

“The eye thing?”

“Macular degeneration. Can’t see too well anymore. It’s all right. Hey, I’m pushing 80, and I still walk the dogs.”

“Oh yeah. The dogs. How old are they now?”

“The poodle is 14, and the schnauzer is 12. They can’t see either.”

“The blind leading the blind.”

I didn’t see Marvin for more than four years 
after that. We met at our deli. I had two soft-boiled eggs. He had the pastrami and liverwurst combo with Russian dressing and a side of sour pickles. No cane. Still had most of his hair. Didn’t look 82.

“You’re looking great,” I said.

“It’s Lola,” he said, “She just makes me feel so good.”

I looked at him quizzically.

“She graduated Princeton summa cum laude and got offers from several big 
companies, but she wants to write. She got a $50,000 advance from a major 
publishing house, and she’s gonna write her first book.”

“Wow, that’s great. What’s she going 
to write about?”

“Growing up with an older parent.”

He took a swig of his beer.

“You know,” he said. “Whatever 
problems I had with Lola weren’t 
her problems; they were mine. She was just growing up, and I was 
just growing old. We were on the phone for an hour last night, 
and she read me the first 
chapter of her book.”

He took another sip.

“I guess Sarah and I did a pretty good job,” he said, smiling proudly. I noticed he still had most of his teeth, too. Then he started eating that awful sandwich.

Getting Old with a Young Kid The Saturday Evening Post