The Horse Racing Slot Machine

Colonel Benjamin Pope Jackson, Sr., my father, was a capable attorney who practiced general law. He tackled any problems that walked into his office. He was devoted, diligent and honest. To say that may cause raised eyebrows and provoke cynical little snickers in today's liability-minded, something-for-nothing world. His abilities as a trial lawyer were exceptional. He possessed the thespian talents to make jurors laugh or cry. Some of his courtroom antics were conversation pieces around my hometown.

My father was not a military man. In the south, the title of Colonel is an honorary title accorded lawyers who have distinguished themselves through the years.

Sometime around 1943, puritans of Vidalia, Georgia, the 'Sweet Onion Capital' where I was born, engaged the Colonel to bring litigation against entrepreneurs who had installed gambling devices known as 'one-arm-bandits' or 'slot-machines' in their establishments. The church people moralized the stingy machines were dishonest, and worse, they were corrupting the youth of the town. (The truth be known, the gambling losses dipped into the collection plate.) The church folks vowed to rid the community of this evil with the Colonel's help. Can you imagine litigating along this line in today’s environment when State Governments run lotteries?

One of the nefarious devices was installed in Davis Drug Store where I worked after school as a 'soda-jerk' and delivery boy. The horse racing slot-machine fascinated: absolutely irresistible. It was so close to the real thing it had the lure of reality. The only things missing were the odors. There were seven horses to choose from. Any number of bettors could play and money could be entered as many times as desired, just like the real track. Each time money was inserted, the rear lighted board would flash brilliantly and show the new odds. After players were satisfied with their bets, the race was started and the cast-iron horses jerked towards the finish line, just like the real track.

The Kentucky Derby could not be more exciting. Gamblers would cheer for their horses, becoming more vocal as the finish line neared. Mild profanity was often expressed, under some gambler's breath, when the finish line was reached. The horse that won paid according to the final odds. If it went off at 8 to 1, the machine returned 40 cents for each nickel inserted, just like the real track.

Captivated, I hung around, after work, to squander my earnings. I could blow an hour’s pay, thirty cents, in less than a minute. Doesn't sound like much, but eleven pennies purchased a kid Saturday at the movies. The odd penny was for the Government and it was called amusement tax. Shucks! That was ten percent and no one found it the least bit amusing. I loved watching those cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, the good and the evil, and the comical over and over again. Heck fire, we’d go at ten in the morning and stay ‘til suppertime. For lunch we’d have popcorn, a candy bar and a twenty-ounce belly wash. Out-of-pocket expense fifteen cents.

The Colonel had an idea I was a player. He’d seen me hanging around the machine several times when he visited the drug store for his afternoon coffee. The Colonel questioned me and I confessed openly, expecting to be severely punished. The Colonel's conscious would not permit retribution. He merely lectured on the evils of gambling and how the demonic machines were manipulated to cheat you. The Colonel realized he was a gambler of immense proportions. He was a farmer. And he liked to play poker with the boys on Saturday afternoons.

He decided to use me as a witness over the objections of Momma. I overheard them discussing it in their room. I didn’t have to put my ear on the closed door. Momma said, "Ben, did you set Walker Joe straight about the evils of gambling?"

"Yes, Estelle. I told him that the machines were rigged to take your hard-earned money."

"That’s much too mild, but it typifies your approach to discipline. I’ve always had to be the disciplinarian in the family. I’ll take care of Walker Joe later. I have one other concern. Putting him on the witness stand will be a traumatic experience for Walker Joe. And furthermore, it’ll be an embarrassment for the family."

"Estelle, you’ve known for years Walker Joe has played marbles for keeps, and you’ve done nothing about it. The world is infatuated with gambling. People really think nothing of it. He might even become a folk hero. And I think he might get a kick out of testifying. He’s not exactly a shrinking violet. Besides, it would dramatically show that slot-machines are a bad influence on Vidalia’s youth."

"Okay Ben, I see your point. But does our son have to be the sacrificial lamb? I suggest you find another errant teenager."

I’d heard enough. I left for the kitchen to make myself a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. I knew it might be my last meal.

I very vaguely remember the courtroom scene. I was apprehensive waiting my turn to take the stand. I'd never been inside a courtroom. I was barely thirteen. The Colonel had drilled me at home on how to respond. "You reply, yes sir and no sir, not, yes daddy and no daddy."

I really got the jitters when my name was called and I looked curiously at my dad. He nodded, smiled back warmly. I felt reassured and moved confidently to the big witness chair and was sworn in.

The case had low appeal and the audience was small, but there were twelve jurors, a serious and sagacious Judge, a bailiff, a recorder, five or six slot machine proprietors, their two lawyers, several of their thugs, and one deacon from the church.

The Colonel, a small man, was not a towering figure standing before the court musing about his first question to me. But when the Colonel opened his mouth he stood ten feet tall.

"Mister Jackson, how old are you?"

"Thirteen sir," I replied in a squeaky, nervous voice.

"Mister Jackson, is it true you work at Davis Pharmacy after school?"

"Yes, sir!"

"What kind of work do you perform at Davis Pharmacy, Mister Jackson?"

"I deliver drugs on a bicycle and jerk sodas, sir." Drugs were medicines and a soda jerk mixed milk shakes, cherry Cokes, Strawberry sodas, dipped ice cream and made sundaes. Today, drugs are drugs, and soda fountains are history.

"Mister Jackson, how much do you get paid for the work you perform at the pharmacy?"

"Thirty cents an hour and sometimes I make twenty or thirty cents in tips, sir." Tips were small, infrequent, but sincerely appreciated. No one expected tips. I usually gambled my tips away, easy come easy go.

"Mister Jackson, is there a horse racing slot machine at the pharmacy where you work?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Have you ever played this horse racing machine?"

Now I squirmed in the big witness chair. Chagrin flushed my face when I reluctantly replied, "Yes, sir!"

"How do you play the horse racing slot machine, Mister Jackson?"

"Dad...I mean sir, it's real simple. You put money into the slot and when everyone is finished betting, you start the race."

"So...Mister Jackson, you have to put money into the slot to play?"

"Yes, sir."

"How much money do you insert into the slot?"

"You put a nickel in, but when the odds change you can put more nickels in. You can bet as much as you want to."

"Mister Jackson, you told me you were just thirteen years old. Is this correct?"

"Yes, sir!

"Have any of your friends, that you go to school with, ever played the horse racing slot machine?"

This question caused me to squirm because I was no rat-fink, but I knew I'd have to give names if my Dad asked. This question provoked me and the Colonel noticed the hue in my face turn fire engine red. I was a temperamental little fellow and the Colonel knew it.

"Yes! Sir!" I snapped irritably.

"Mister Jackson. What is the most money you have put into the slots for one race?"

"I've put in fifteen or twenty cents if the odds were good, Sir!"

"I believe fifteen cents is a half hour pay for you?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Mister Jackson, did you ever win any money at the end of the race?"

"Yes, sir! Sometimes fifteen or twenty-five cents. Once I won fifty cents on one race, but I put it all back in."

Mister Jackson, in all the times you played the horse racing machine, did you ever walk away a winner?"

"No, sir."

"Never! Mister Jackson?"

"No, sir, never!

"Now . . . Mister Jackson. Who were some of the other people who played the horse racing slot machine?"

"Mister Davis, the owner, a couple of your friends, and Deacon Thompson there," who happened to be a church Deacon present in the courtroom, "and Mrs. Peterson."

This caused a stir in the courtroom and a few roared with laughter, prompting the Judge to shout out, "Order! Order in the Court!" Deacon Thompson looked like the cat that swallowed the canary.

The Colonel composed himself and methodically bore on. "So, the demographics of the players were generally a fair cross-section of our town?"

"Sir?"

"What I mean, Mister Jackson, is that, people from all parts of town, all ages, men and women, etc., played?"

"Yes, sir."

"What kind of talk went on around the horse racing machine?"

"Everyone seemed to have fun, and they cheered for their horses, but when the race ended the losers talked a little ugly."

"By ugly you mean, swearing and vulgar language, Mister Jackson?"

My "yes, sir" answer to the question mattered little. My father had made his point. The lawyer representing the owners did not raise one objection or ask one question in cross-examination. They were only too pleased when I left the stand. Of course, the verdict favored the plaintiff, churches of Vidalia. Is it possible the eight mothers, who were jurors, were heavily biased?

The court trial became the talk of the town. I became famous as the drug-store-gambler. And the Colonel's big problem now waited at home: Momma. "Ben Jackson you have your nerve putting Walker Joe on the stand and humiliating him. I thought we had an understanding. You’re sleeping on the sofa tonight!"

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