The next morning, after breakfast at the truck stop, we pulled up to the little rundown bar/casino at eleven o'clock sharp.
"How ya'll boahs doin?" we heard as we entered.
"Oh, no! Looks like we got us an old Missouri barroom queeen on the day shift" I whispered to Al.
She was straight out of the 1950's. She had to be in her late sixties, blond bouffant hair-do, wearing more makeup than Tammy Faye Baker. Al and I were southern boys. But we had been out of the south for decades. Neither of us spoke with a southern accent. That is, unless we wanted to.
"Maghta fahn, ma,am. Maghta fahn" Al said. "And hah ya'll doin?"
"Ahm maghta fahn, masef" she quipped. "What kin ah git yoo boahs to drank?"
"Black coffa, ma'am" I said. "Maghta fahn mornin' ain't it?"
"Balck coffa fer me tooo, ma'am" Al said.
"We were a figurin' to do sum gamblin' this mornin', ma'am" I said.
"Well, hep yosefs, boahs. The machins er raght over thar. Where ya'll boahs frum?"
"Arkinsaw" said Al.
"Missasippa" I responeded.
"Ahm frum Texis" she said proudly. Nace ta meet yooo boahs."
Al and I stepped over to the two old clunkers. They were retrofit with bill acceptors on their sides. The machines in Montana don't take hundreds so we both pulled out wads of twenties. I stuck one in the bill acceptor. It pulled the bill in, then a few seconds later spit it out. I turned the bill a round and tried again. No luck. I grabbed another twenty off my roll and tried again. No luck. I looked over at Al. He was having the same problem.
"Ahm sorra, boahs" we heard from behind. "These two ol' machins only tek fahvs. And they only tek the ol' fahvs." I looked over at Al.
"Well, ma'am, do ya happen to have eny ol' fahvs?" I asked.
"Shore do, boahs. Ah got bout foah hunnert in ol' fahvs if ya'll won't eny."
"We'll tek the hole foah hunnert, ma'am" Al exclaimed.
She went to fetch the fives. When she returned we gave her four hundred dollars bills, took the fives and threw them on the table between the machines, then went to work. I slapped a five into the acceptor. It took about thirty seconds for the bill to take and the credits to rack up. I punched in five numbers, hit the start button and heard boop....boop....boop. The damn game was slower than molasses. I looked at my wristwatch and counted games.
"Damn, Al. We're gonna be here all day. I'm only doing about 7 games a minute."
"Me too, dammit! That's about two hours seat time, ain't it?"
"Yeah, per cycle. Better hope we don't get stretched out for two or three cycles. We'll be here until tomorow."
"Hey, hold it!" Al stammered. "That meter is zinging! It ain't no half percent meter!"
"Stop and I'll clock it." I responed
I hit the start button and the meter flipped a nickel. I hit the start button again and it flipped another nickel. Hit it again and the meter flipped a nickel.
"Damn, Al. "This game's got a ten percent meter. That explains why the number is so high."
"I wonder where it's gonna reset"
"Yeah, me too." We got back to work.
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