In parlance of the street he's a dumpster-diver, scavenger of non-losing wager or proposition tickets. You'd see his fragile frame each night walking the isles of the race and sports books, a condor's aerial eye trained on the floor, back visible only to casino surveillance cameras. Seated atop a barstool at the back, I watch him bend, examine and discard, through the prism of my scotch glass. Every food chain has its bottom-feeders, he brings efficiency to the gambling ecosystem. Likely not the life that you or I would chose, but then he has no monthly credit card to pay. Just now, I saw him straighten and smile, a parlay ticket will pay for tonight's meal with just enough left for a brown-bag. He does not go uninvited to misfortune, the streets tonight are lined with chance's down.