Ocean 21 Newport Beach
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Sometime around the first week of April, I found myself standing outside a small house in South Newport Beach. The house was on Ocean Boulevard just past Balboa Pier. It was a bright sunny morning and there were plenty of people walking their dogs, sitting on lawn chairs at tables with coffee, or strolling along the sidewalk.
This part of the neighborhood had recently been redeveloped with upscale shops, restaurants, condos, and expensive beach homes. I’d passed by this place many times but never given it much thought before that day. A few minutes into my conversation with the guy who lived here, I realized how important it would be to me in a very short time.
The man told me he was renting out his downstairs unit and wanted me to take over for him as soon as possible. I knew immediately what I was doing; this was perfect. He showed me around his home then we went upstairs to see his basement apartment.
There wasn’t much to look at down there other than the bed, bathroom, and storage closet, but the rent he was asking was very reasonable. So after we discussed the details for several minutes, he handed me an application for tenancy. After I filled it out, he said “I don’t normally let people know I’m leaving so early in advance, especially since you have no references.”
Then he added, “But I think you’ll be fine, I’ve been really happy with my tenant.”
So that’s how I ended up in Orange County. Not only did I move to California, but I also moved out of Las Vegas! I had no idea what I was getting myself into back then, but I sure as hell am glad I did.
***
A year ago, my life was completely different. I worked long hours on the Strip at Bally’s. I was making great money and living with my girlfriend at the time (she’s still one of my closest friends), but I didn’t feel like I had any direction in my life.
My relationship with my mother wasn’t good either because she always seemed disappointed when her expectations weren’t met. When things got tense between us, I’d often escape to the comfort of working at Bally’s. As a dealer, there was something about dealing cards where everything else faded away.
All my problems and worries went out the window once I stepped onto the casino floor.
Then came September 11th, 2001. For most Americans, that day will forever be remembered as the worst terrorist attack in our nation’s history. For those of us in the gambling business, it will also be known as the single greatest day ever for blackjack and poker players.
Before the tragedy, card counters weren’t a big deal for casinos. The only ones who even knew they existed were the casinos themselves. But after September 11th, every major casino began hiring full-time counter teams. And with each passing year, more and more casinos were employing these teams.
By 2009, almost all large casinos on the Strip and in Macau employed counters—and that number kept growing. Today there are probably close to 1,000 counters spread across Las Vegas.
For most blackjack players, this is a very scary thing. They hate being tracked, and they despise anyone trying to figure them out. In fact, it’s safe to say that most blackjack players hate card counters. Most of them believe that all card counting is cheating and should be banned.
However, as you can imagine, not everyone feels this way. To some blackjack players, counters are like heroes. They’re the ones who save the game by beating the casinos at their own games. And they do this without resorting to violence or cheating.
Some of these players have even become so inspired by the idea of counters that they’ve begun studying the game themselves. Others simply enjoy the idea of beating the system.
After a while, I began to wonder if I could make a living as a counter myself. I didn’t want to risk breaking any laws (although it’s perfectly legal to count cards in Nevada) or get fired from my job (again). So I set aside these ideas for a little later in life.
Besides, I already had a pretty lucrative career in front of me. That night after dinner with the couple who owned this place, I decided to head home. While crossing over Ocean Avenue on my way back to my car, I noticed someone watching me from a nearby yard.
It wasn’t anyone I knew, but there was something about that person that made me uneasy. So I started to walk faster to get away. At the same time, this same man started following me. When we got to the corner of Ocean and Pacific, I saw him turn left and follow me again down the block.
This time he crossed the street to catch up to me. I turned left too, but he was right behind me now. We walked in silence the whole way to my house; I had no choice but to open the gate and head inside. I closed it behind me just as the man reached his hand through the bars of the gate and grabbed my arm.
Then he pulled me off balance and threw me against the wall of my house. I fell onto the grass next to the gate. He grabbed the gate handle and tried to pull the door open, but I held it shut as tight as I could.
“Let me out of here,” he demanded. His voice sounded angry, and the sound of his raspy breathing filled my ears. “I’m calling the cops.”
I ignored him, which pissed him off even more. Suddenly, he picked me up like a sack of potatoes and threw me onto the ground. I landed hard on my side. When I lifted myself off the ground, he grabbed my arm and twisted it until I screamed in pain.
He pushed me onto the lawn and began hitting me repeatedly with his fist. It felt like my entire body was being beaten—my stomach, arms, legs, face, and head. After the first few blows, I stopped fighting back. There was nothing I could do to stop him.
I knew it would be a waste of energy; plus I thought that might be what he wanted me to do. So I remained completely still and waited for whatever happened next. I didn’t realize how quiet I was being until the man looked up at me and said, “What the fuck? Are you a fucking mute?”
That’s when I realized he was actually speaking to me. My mouth suddenly became so dry that I couldn’t speak or even swallow. I tried to blink away the tears that filled my eyes. The only response I could muster was, “No…”
“Are you deaf or something?” he asked. “You better answer me! What the hell kind of a dumb shit are you anyway?”
He hit me again. As I lay there on the ground, staring up at the sky, all I could think about was what the old guy I met earlier called a “lucky break.” He had told me that the only way for me to live my dreams was to take a risk and try something new.
If I had never gotten into poker, I wouldn’t have met people like him or been exposed to things like blackjack and poker. He said my lucky break might be right under my nose; it just might look different than I expected. For example, I’d spent a lifetime thinking that my luck was in the hands of God, and I needed to pray and trust him if I wanted things to change.
But he said that wasn’t true at all. Luck doesn’t exist—we create our own good fortune, one action or decision at a time. And sometimes those decisions are as small as making friends and trusting people.
I also believed in karma. It’s a belief that everything we do has an impact on everything else in life. In other words, we reap what we sow, so to speak. If we’re bad, we’ll pay for it sooner or later. If we do good, good will come to us. Or at least that’s what I thought. But I realized now that the universe can play games with our minds too.
I thought maybe the man who attacked me was a demon sent by God to punish me for being too greedy. Instead, perhaps God was testing me to see what kind of man I would become. All I did was let him in. I allowed him access to my life and my mind. And he used me like I had done to others throughout my life.
The difference is that when I hurt someone, it was intentional; this time I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. But I learned quickly that my actions were more powerful than anything else in this world. They could either make me or break me.
The man continued to beat me with his fists while shouting obscenities. Then he dragged me inside my house and threw me on the floor. Next, he grabbed a knife from the kitchen countertop and held it to my throat. I could feel the heat coming off the blade, and a part of me wondered if it would burn my skin off if he pressed it down harder.
I knew then that my life was in danger. If he really wanted to kill me, there would have been no stopping him. He had already proved that fact when he attacked me outside. I just hoped he would leave and not come back.
“Do you want to die, bitch?” he said. “If you do, you don’t need to fight back, just lie there and die quietly.”
I stared back at him, unable to move but trying not to show fear. I wanted him to think I was going along with his plan.
He put the knife against my neck and began cutting my hair with it. I closed my eyes and prayed that he would get bored or tired before he finished shaving my head bald. The longer he worked with the knife, the more blood began dripping on top of me.
It soaked into my clothes and started to sting a little, but I kept staring back at the ceiling without looking down. That’s when I heard a soft voice calling out to me.
“Hey, where’s your cat? You didn’t leave her behind, did you?”
I opened my eyes and saw an old Indian man standing in front of me holding a leash. My dog had followed him inside the house somehow, and she was sitting next to him, waiting for him to give her the command to go outside.
My heart began to race and I began shaking uncontrollably, because here I was, lying naked on the floor with my legs spread open while a man cut my hair with a knife. I looked down and noticed that I was covered in blood, but I didn’t care anymore. I was ready to die, and that was how I was going to go: with my eyes wide open, staring back at the world as it passed me by.
Then the Indian man spoke again: “You left poor little Fluffy behind when you ran away, huh? She must miss you so much!”
The man dropped the knife and walked over to the window. He opened it and whistled for my dog, who came running over, jumping up against him and licking his face. The man petted her and gave her treats, then turned around to look at me once again.
“You’re bleeding pretty badly,” he said. “I wonder why that is?”
I felt the man’s hand grab my chin and turn my head towards him. His cold stare met my eyes, and I immediately recognized his face from that day years ago: he was the same Indian man from the bar who offered me food.
“What are you doing here?” I asked.
“Well,” he responded, “I came to see if I could help you. You see, I have been watching you ever since that horrible day that you got raped.”
It took a few seconds for what he said to sink in. I looked at the knife that was still laying on the floor, then back at this old Indian man. How did he know about that night? Wasn’t he dead then, too? Why would he be alive now to come after me? Maybe this was all some sort of sick joke.
“You were raped, weren’t you?” he continued.
“No! I never—”
“Yeah, right!” he shouted. “I’ve seen your face, bitch! I was at that bar last year, remember? We had drinks together before they told you to get out because someone had complained that you were harassing them? I even offered you some food before you went outside, but you refused. So tell me—how many men did you rape on that terrible night?”
Tears began flowing from my eyes like a river as I looked directly at him.
“Please, let me go!” I said. “You don’t understand; they’re coming back. They will find us any minute!”
The Indian man smiled at me and shook his head. “They can’t find you now, not unless you tell them exactly where we are. And you won’t be telling anyone anything.”
His words hit me hard and brought back a flood of memories. Images flashed through my mind of my friends being tortured to death while I watched helplessly. The pain was unbearable and made it difficult for me to breathe. I felt dizzy and weak as the memories washed over me. But the only thing I could focus on was getting out of there alive.
“Why should I believe you?” I replied.
My heart pounded in my chest and I began hyperventilating. The man reached out to touch my cheek and rubbed it gently with his thumb.
“Because I love animals,” he said.
The next morning I woke up in bed surrounded by blankets. I was lying next to the man I thought I had killed, and I couldn’t help but smile. He was snoring softly, and I knew he hadn’t moved from where I had left him last night. I slowly rolled off the bed and looked out the window.
The sun was rising, and the air smelled fresh. As I lay there in bed and listened to the sounds of nature all around me, I realized that everything was okay now. The nightmare was over. There was nothing else to fear anymore.
The End