John had just been paid and adrenaline surged through his system. He was at the bank, cashing his check. His bags were packed. He was ready to go.
He was on the freeway by 3 p.m., just enough of a head-start to keep him from becoming mired in slow-moving bumper-to bumper traffic. Once he reached the desert, traffic started breaking up even more and he got into the 85 to 90 mph range. That was the funny thing about going to Vegas, he said. Everybody was in a hurry to get there.
Bettors wagered $81.2 million on the Super Bowl this year. It's a staggering amount. But that's just the amount wagered in Las Vegas. It doesn't count Atlantic City or American Indian casinos. It certainly doesn't count the billions bet on the Internet to off-shore accounts. It doesn't count the office pool. And it doesn't count the $10 bets between friends and relatives. One thing is sure
- Americans love to gamble. After all the betting smoke settled in Las Vegas, the 152 sports books in the state won a record $12.4 million on the Super Bowl alone.
John made the 280- mile trip in about 3 and 1/2 hours. John is not his real name. It was changed for this piece, but his story is real.
He checked his bag into his room. Then he went downstairs to the casino, ordered a drink and sat down at one of the video poker games, he said. It was his favorite game. He said he didn't have to interact with anyone except the waitress who kept bringing him drinks. Drinks were free, but he always tipped the waitress $2, he said, to ensure she would keep coming back. But it was more than that, he said. He wanted the waitresses, usually attractive, to think he was a big spender, a high roller, he said.
Dick Elefson, Bismarck, heads the Council of Compulsive Gambling in North Dakota. The council was established in 1989. Elefson helps problem gamblers. Elefson said the council doesn't take a position either way on gambling. But he does have his own philosophy.
"My personal preference is that casinos are solely in the business to make money, and I don't want them to have mine," he said.
Elefson said that almost all people can walk into a casino, drop a few quarters into a slot machine and walk away. He works with the minority who can't stop at one quarter, or one dollar or a thousands dollars.
Elefson is 77 and talks in a gravelly voice. The name of his business is DE Counseling Service and he wishes he had a higher success rate. Only about 30 percent of the people who come to see him quit gambling. And those are usually the rock-bottom gamblers. The ones who have all their credit cards maxed out. They are the ones who've lost their homes. Their spouses. They're writing bad checks. They may be embezzling money from work.
Elefson said it is a sickness akin to drug addiction or alcoholism.
He makes it mandatory for people who come to see him to attend Gamblers Anonymous meetings. They must go to any length to beat their gambling problem, he said. Minot has a GA meeting which starts Monday nights at 7 p.m. at Immanuel Baptist Church.
Elefson said the people who can least afford to gamble do most of the gambling. Whole paychecks are lost sometimes. A study in Massachusetts found that most of the lottery tickets were sold to those who had the least amount of money to spend.
Elefson said he doesn't think the sale of lottery tickets in North Dakota is going to have a big effect. For one thing, the disparity between the rich and the poor is not like it is in other states.
"I don't look forward to it making any big waves," he said. "I don't think it's going to be a big revenue winner for North Dakota."
Elefson, citing pull tabs, said anytime the availability of gambling is increased, so is the number of people who play. He said almost everybody who has gone into a bar where pull tabs are sold has seen the gambler who is knee deep in pull tabs, quickly ripping them open, looking for winners to cash in so they can buy more pull tabs, hunting for the big winner. Odds are not good that they'll hit one that pays $500.
Elefson said one of the sad elements of compulsive gambling is that people trade meaningful human relationships for gambling. Recovery, he said, is a family ordeal.
Elefson said he also knows when someone has slipped back into gambling. Appointments are missed. Payments, which he sets up with the gambler, fall to the wayside. Elefson, who retired from the Heartview Foundation, a recovery program for alcoholics and drug addicts, 12 years ago, said he is certainly not in it for the money.
"I guess I'm pretty altruistic in nature," he said. "And there's a great need for treatment. I'm certainly never going to make it rich."
Unlike alcoholics, gamblers are very adept at hiding their addiction. There's no tell-tale smell or highly erratic behavior. But by the time they get to treatment, they're exhausted financially, Elefson said.
What keeps Elefson going? It's the success stories, the ones who get help and stop.
He tells them: "I'm not responsible for your gambling, and I'm not responsible for your recovery."
Usually, sometime in the early morning, John would find himself down about $500, he said. The drinks kept coming but weren't numbing the sick feeling he would get in his stomach. He called this the point of having to "catch up." He always brought $500 and he always swore the gambling would end once that was gone. He said he would fill his car up with gas before gambling to ensure he could make it home. But he had to recoup the money, he said. He could have bought a lot of new clothes. He could have put down a big payment on the new computer he wanted. He could have taken a nice extended weekend vacation to Mexico. It was at this time when he was filled with regret and remorse, he said. But he had to win the money back. Out came the credit card and he went over to a machine and withdrew $300. He had a new feeling of excitement. He said he would feel like he would win now. He had new life, new money. He never changed machines, he said. It was like he had developed a bond with the machine. It was almost like she was a girlfriend. Each time, he would drop five quarters in the machine or play five credits. Each time, the game would take about 10 seconds to play. So, he said, even though he was playing only the quarter machines, the money would disappear quickly, $1.25 at a time.
Art Link, a former two-term governor of North Dakota from 1972 to 1980, is a big opponent of gambling. He doesn't think much of the lottery. It will start soon, March 25.
"It's just going to increase gambling in the state and more people are going to lose money," he said.
Link, 89, said he and other people worked hard to keep the lottery out of the state. He said it's going to create false hopes among the players.
"You hope you win," he said. "But what does winning mean? If you win you're taking money from somebody who lost."
He doesn't think gambling is going to increase revenues in the state.
"It's wishful thinking," he said. The state doesn't have the population base to generate large revenues, he said.
Link scoffs at the boards in casinos that show photographs of the big winners.
"When they advertise winners, they should advertise the amount of money lost," Link said. "Then they would be telling the whole story."
John was $800 down. He had been gambling for 36 hours. He went up to his room to take a rest, and hopefully get some sleep. But, he said, every time he closed his eyes, all he could see were five cards being dealt. He had hit the limit on his credit card. He pulled out another one that, he said, would never be used for gambling. But the other card had a $10,000 limit and it was maxed out. Most of that limit had been used for gambling, he said. It was still "catch up" time. Except now a jackpot would only bring him back to even. He said he used to pray sometimes. "Please, God, give me a jackpot, and I'll never play again."
Lisa Voeller of Lutheran Social Services in Minot helps gamblers with an outpatient program. Right now, she said, about 20 people are involved in the program. She said she sees many people hitting bottom, losing everything.
"You don't have to wait until everything is gone," she tells people.
Compulsive gamblers will do anything to get money. One man sold his lake cabin, she said. Another emptied his child's piggy bank.
Voeller said they are always chasing the money, the big payout. Always looking to hit that last jackpot. Finally, some of them give up. She said people sound so relieved once they make that call to her office.
Most of the gamblers in Minot go to New Town or Belcourt. A winning phase can encourage them to keep gambling. Then comes the inevitable down phase, where they keep losing. Voeller said she is worried about compulsive gamblers. One of every five becomes suicidal, she said. She is hoping people do something about their gambling before they lose everything, including their family. Coincidentally, March 8 through March 14 is National Problem Gambling Awareness Week.
John said he was down $1,000. His card had a $500 daily limit, he said. Like many times before, he dropped his last quarter in and the poker hand was a loser. It was Sunday afternoon, about 5 p.m., he said. He couldn't withdraw any more money. He felt suicidal as he drove back to Los Angeles. He said he realized it wasn't about the winning and losing. He played because he was addicted, he said.
Faith has worked in a casino for seven years. She is a slot attendant. She makes payouts and puts money in the machines when they run out.
"I like to be around people," she said. "Overall, I think it's been a good experience."
She works the day shift and watches as the elderly come in on buses. It saddens her, she said, because she knows many of them can't afford to gamble.
She said she sees a lot more losers than winners. But she won't say she's against gambling.
"If they didn't have gambling, I wouldn't have my job," Faith said.
She's seen enough of it that she doesn't gamble herself. Because she works at the casino, she's prohibited from gambling there. But, she said, she knows of other employees who go to other casinos to gamble. Not her. She knows its a losing proposition.
"I go to work and come home," she said. "It doesn't bother me that I don't gamble. I don't want to."
John checked into treatment after his last trip to Las Vegas. He was tired of asking the landlord if he could delay his rent payment. He was tired of eating macaroni and cheese for a week. He was tired of having no social life. John lives in Omaha, Neb., now and there is a big casino there run by American Indians. He hasn't stepped inside. It's been six years since he last gambled. He's married now and says he's happier than he's ever been. He admits to getting an urge to gamble every now and then, but it's fleeting and he remembers his last gambling spree. He feels like he is one of the lucky ones. He didn't have to lose it all. @@@@
He was on the freeway by 3 p.m., just enough of a head-start to keep him from becoming mired in slow-moving bumper-to bumper traffic. Once he reached the desert, traffic started breaking up even more and he got into the 85 to 90 mph range. That was the funny thing about going to Vegas, he said. Everybody was in a hurry to get there.
Bettors wagered $81.2 million on the Super Bowl this year. It's a staggering amount. But that's just the amount wagered in Las Vegas. It doesn't count Atlantic City or American Indian casinos. It certainly doesn't count the billions bet on the Internet to off-shore accounts. It doesn't count the office pool. And it doesn't count the $10 bets between friends and relatives. One thing is sure
- Americans love to gamble. After all the betting smoke settled in Las Vegas, the 152 sports books in the state won a record $12.4 million on the Super Bowl alone.
John made the 280- mile trip in about 3 and 1/2 hours. John is not his real name. It was changed for this piece, but his story is real.
He checked his bag into his room. Then he went downstairs to the casino, ordered a drink and sat down at one of the video poker games, he said. It was his favorite game. He said he didn't have to interact with anyone except the waitress who kept bringing him drinks. Drinks were free, but he always tipped the waitress $2, he said, to ensure she would keep coming back. But it was more than that, he said. He wanted the waitresses, usually attractive, to think he was a big spender, a high roller, he said.
Dick Elefson, Bismarck, heads the Council of Compulsive Gambling in North Dakota. The council was established in 1989. Elefson helps problem gamblers. Elefson said the council doesn't take a position either way on gambling. But he does have his own philosophy.
"My personal preference is that casinos are solely in the business to make money, and I don't want them to have mine," he said.
Elefson said that almost all people can walk into a casino, drop a few quarters into a slot machine and walk away. He works with the minority who can't stop at one quarter, or one dollar or a thousands dollars.
Elefson is 77 and talks in a gravelly voice. The name of his business is DE Counseling Service and he wishes he had a higher success rate. Only about 30 percent of the people who come to see him quit gambling. And those are usually the rock-bottom gamblers. The ones who have all their credit cards maxed out. They are the ones who've lost their homes. Their spouses. They're writing bad checks. They may be embezzling money from work.
Elefson said it is a sickness akin to drug addiction or alcoholism.
He makes it mandatory for people who come to see him to attend Gamblers Anonymous meetings. They must go to any length to beat their gambling problem, he said. Minot has a GA meeting which starts Monday nights at 7 p.m. at Immanuel Baptist Church.
Elefson said the people who can least afford to gamble do most of the gambling. Whole paychecks are lost sometimes. A study in Massachusetts found that most of the lottery tickets were sold to those who had the least amount of money to spend.
Elefson said he doesn't think the sale of lottery tickets in North Dakota is going to have a big effect. For one thing, the disparity between the rich and the poor is not like it is in other states.
"I don't look forward to it making any big waves," he said. "I don't think it's going to be a big revenue winner for North Dakota."
Elefson, citing pull tabs, said anytime the availability of gambling is increased, so is the number of people who play. He said almost everybody who has gone into a bar where pull tabs are sold has seen the gambler who is knee deep in pull tabs, quickly ripping them open, looking for winners to cash in so they can buy more pull tabs, hunting for the big winner. Odds are not good that they'll hit one that pays $500.
Elefson said one of the sad elements of compulsive gambling is that people trade meaningful human relationships for gambling. Recovery, he said, is a family ordeal.
Elefson said he also knows when someone has slipped back into gambling. Appointments are missed. Payments, which he sets up with the gambler, fall to the wayside. Elefson, who retired from the Heartview Foundation, a recovery program for alcoholics and drug addicts, 12 years ago, said he is certainly not in it for the money.
"I guess I'm pretty altruistic in nature," he said. "And there's a great need for treatment. I'm certainly never going to make it rich."
Unlike alcoholics, gamblers are very adept at hiding their addiction. There's no tell-tale smell or highly erratic behavior. But by the time they get to treatment, they're exhausted financially, Elefson said.
What keeps Elefson going? It's the success stories, the ones who get help and stop.
He tells them: "I'm not responsible for your gambling, and I'm not responsible for your recovery."
Usually, sometime in the early morning, John would find himself down about $500, he said. The drinks kept coming but weren't numbing the sick feeling he would get in his stomach. He called this the point of having to "catch up." He always brought $500 and he always swore the gambling would end once that was gone. He said he would fill his car up with gas before gambling to ensure he could make it home. But he had to recoup the money, he said. He could have bought a lot of new clothes. He could have put down a big payment on the new computer he wanted. He could have taken a nice extended weekend vacation to Mexico. It was at this time when he was filled with regret and remorse, he said. But he had to win the money back. Out came the credit card and he went over to a machine and withdrew $300. He had a new feeling of excitement. He said he would feel like he would win now. He had new life, new money. He never changed machines, he said. It was like he had developed a bond with the machine. It was almost like she was a girlfriend. Each time, he would drop five quarters in the machine or play five credits. Each time, the game would take about 10 seconds to play. So, he said, even though he was playing only the quarter machines, the money would disappear quickly, $1.25 at a time.
Art Link, a former two-term governor of North Dakota from 1972 to 1980, is a big opponent of gambling. He doesn't think much of the lottery. It will start soon, March 25.
"It's just going to increase gambling in the state and more people are going to lose money," he said.
Link, 89, said he and other people worked hard to keep the lottery out of the state. He said it's going to create false hopes among the players.
"You hope you win," he said. "But what does winning mean? If you win you're taking money from somebody who lost."
He doesn't think gambling is going to increase revenues in the state.
"It's wishful thinking," he said. The state doesn't have the population base to generate large revenues, he said.
Link scoffs at the boards in casinos that show photographs of the big winners.
"When they advertise winners, they should advertise the amount of money lost," Link said. "Then they would be telling the whole story."
John was $800 down. He had been gambling for 36 hours. He went up to his room to take a rest, and hopefully get some sleep. But, he said, every time he closed his eyes, all he could see were five cards being dealt. He had hit the limit on his credit card. He pulled out another one that, he said, would never be used for gambling. But the other card had a $10,000 limit and it was maxed out. Most of that limit had been used for gambling, he said. It was still "catch up" time. Except now a jackpot would only bring him back to even. He said he used to pray sometimes. "Please, God, give me a jackpot, and I'll never play again."
Lisa Voeller of Lutheran Social Services in Minot helps gamblers with an outpatient program. Right now, she said, about 20 people are involved in the program. She said she sees many people hitting bottom, losing everything.
"You don't have to wait until everything is gone," she tells people.
Compulsive gamblers will do anything to get money. One man sold his lake cabin, she said. Another emptied his child's piggy bank.
Voeller said they are always chasing the money, the big payout. Always looking to hit that last jackpot. Finally, some of them give up. She said people sound so relieved once they make that call to her office.
Most of the gamblers in Minot go to New Town or Belcourt. A winning phase can encourage them to keep gambling. Then comes the inevitable down phase, where they keep losing. Voeller said she is worried about compulsive gamblers. One of every five becomes suicidal, she said. She is hoping people do something about their gambling before they lose everything, including their family. Coincidentally, March 8 through March 14 is National Problem Gambling Awareness Week.
John said he was down $1,000. His card had a $500 daily limit, he said. Like many times before, he dropped his last quarter in and the poker hand was a loser. It was Sunday afternoon, about 5 p.m., he said. He couldn't withdraw any more money. He felt suicidal as he drove back to Los Angeles. He said he realized it wasn't about the winning and losing. He played because he was addicted, he said.
Faith has worked in a casino for seven years. She is a slot attendant. She makes payouts and puts money in the machines when they run out.
"I like to be around people," she said. "Overall, I think it's been a good experience."
She works the day shift and watches as the elderly come in on buses. It saddens her, she said, because she knows many of them can't afford to gamble.
She said she sees a lot more losers than winners. But she won't say she's against gambling.
"If they didn't have gambling, I wouldn't have my job," Faith said.
She's seen enough of it that she doesn't gamble herself. Because she works at the casino, she's prohibited from gambling there. But, she said, she knows of other employees who go to other casinos to gamble. Not her. She knows its a losing proposition.
"I go to work and come home," she said. "It doesn't bother me that I don't gamble. I don't want to."
John checked into treatment after his last trip to Las Vegas. He was tired of asking the landlord if he could delay his rent payment. He was tired of eating macaroni and cheese for a week. He was tired of having no social life. John lives in Omaha, Neb., now and there is a big casino there run by American Indians. He hasn't stepped inside. It's been six years since he last gambled. He's married now and says he's happier than he's ever been. He admits to getting an urge to gamble every now and then, but it's fleeting and he remembers his last gambling spree. He feels like he is one of the lucky ones. He didn't have to lose it all. @@@@
