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car crept ever closer to the cement pillar pilings at the underside of an overpass, literally decapitating the driver. Talk about a gambler losing his head or betting above it. the irony would be humorous were it not so sad and sobering a thought.

The gambler may arrive as a couple, perhaps winter visitors to the Tribal Native American casinos that today dot the prairies and deserts of our land, once removed, distant from the populous, sacred ground solely their own. Now glittering adobe buildings sit and burgeon, arranged inside parking lots so large a shuttle van hauls load after load of people who rub their hands together wearing lucky socks and the jockey shorts in which they once hit three sevens. These are the folks whose knees have been replaced, who need handicapped parking which is always filled to overflowing, but in those anticipatory moments will actually jog to catch the overcrowded vehicle and stand on its bumper, like a strap hanger aboard the subway, rather than wait another two minutes for the next bus. She is just so eager to get to it, the taste of victory sweet upon her tongue like the nicotine gum she will soon exchange for the real deal, casino label bedecked upon the match pack. One match may be left in the "lucky" pack and the gambler will carry it for months in his wallet, knowing the loss of that match could trigger the loss of his home, his automobile, his job, his marriage, the future education of his children, perhaps even his life so at least his family can cash in his life insurance policy. He thinks they'll all be better off without him. He's betting there is no suicide clause in the policy. On too many counts, he is wrong.

The law mandates that one be 21 years of age and a citizen of the United States in order to gamble and to collect the proceeds, should there be any, in these federally granted and licensed holy places. The Bible says that where a man's money is, there shall his heart be also. Man's heart (the queen or flush of) is lavishly expanded upon in what used to be, just a few years ago, small tent-like facilities that seemed harmless and small compared to the bells, whistles, hookers, and cat calls from the glitz of Las Vegas or the faded glory of Atlantic City. Her boardwalk once hoisted skateboards and lazy drips of ice cream for the scavenging seagulls that would literally pull the corn dog off your wooden stick if you stood still long enough. It was blow up circular floatation rings, salt-water taffy shops, and

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