Memoirs of the Criminally Fun

My brother is what you would call a mischievous, break-the-rules-and -see-what-happens guy. When I was growing up, he was my big brother, the leader of the neighborhood pack, the evil master mind. He always had a quickfire way of making money. He was able to convince my older cousin to open a casino in my parents' basement. Allow the shock to subside. Southern California is not known for attaching basements to their homes, something about violating earthquake codes. Believe it or not, we had a basement. We would go outside to the backyard to a side patio, and open up the raised, flat door that served as my center stage for conducting interviews with celebrities, my humorous skits, and of course my song and dance routines. The choreography was shaky, but it always brought down the house. The family dog, who was the director, made sure the people got what they wanted...oh, right, the basement. So my cousin, the fat boy who lived down the street, and the Supreme Chancellor of Pepper Street put together all sorts of games of chance. The nut under the cup game, card games, I think they were even able to pull off a roulette wheel. They had the entire neighborhood buzzing. Now money had to be made, so cheating it out of the kids from church, school, and the surrounding streets was the mission statement of this enterprise. However, my Donald Trumpesque brother did not rely solely on the "house" bringing in the cash flow, he charged a cover to everyone. Yes, he tagged on an admission, so if you didn't want to gamble due to religious convictions, lack of income, or just because you were five years old and had no idea what was going on, baby, you paid. I thought nothing of it. I was his baby sister; I wanted to play with the big kids, but equal access came at a price. It is this type of social progressivism that has always driven entrepreneurs to seek equal opportunity in "pulling the wool over your eyes." A shot of compassion must have hit, because I think my older cousin must have lent me the money. We walked down the dark stairs into the basement that was faintly lit, and marveled at all that they were able to accomplish. This get-rich-quick-scheme was pitched in the morning, and by lunch was executed. He was able to raise revenue in a matter of hours with very little overhead. The exact amount of money he made is a secret or at least a forgotten memory. I do recall picturing him and my cousin counting out bills. It was like Oceans Eleven, and the two of them were gloating over their scam. He did it again! We went along with all the crazy plots, pranks, and proposals. The Prince of Pepper Street was a skillful puppeteer, and we loved having our strings yanked. The funny thing is I don't remember any consequences, at least he would never let anyone know that he couldn't do the time, and it sure didn't deter him from the next con job.