Reeling in the years: At 86, Stockton man still finds enjoyment fixing, selling slot machines
Yes, Squires hit the jackpot — not with a giant casino payout but rather by choosing a career that has given him a lifetime of satisfaction.
He repairs and sells antique slot machines for home use.
Squires bubbles with enthusiasm as he ushers a visitor on a tour of Squires & Corrie Slot Machines on Stockton's Fremont Street. It's a stroll among some of the most popular games of chance, many of which he's brought back to glory.
But time is marching on, and Squires, now a spry 86, is contemplating cashing in his chips.
"I'd like to sell the business, but I would continue the business and train somebody to learn it," he said. That apprentice would have to be "somebody who wants to work with their hands."
It's hard to imagine a more qualified mentor. Squires has spent seven decades as a slot repairman, a career he said has brought him much joy.
"I just love to fix them," he said. "I get calls from all over the country."
Much of his shop consists of parts bins — the innards of slot machines under repair and hanging from the ceiling, plus stacks of colorful spinning reels, the ones that players hope will line up in 7-7-7 or another jackpot combination.
At the front of the store is his showroom, where fully repaired machines await sale.
Flashing lights and clanking coinsOn a recent day, Squires wandered among his beauties. A steel Mills one-armed bandit from gambling's mid-century heyday shares space near a Bally electromechanical slot machine, the type that was a Las Vegas mainstay in the 1980s.
He's seen plenty of changes over the decades, some better than others, in his mind. Those noisy coin trays? They're largely gone in the new machines, replaced by coupon payouts that gamblers collect at a cashier's window.
"Nobody wants to play a slot machine that doesn't pay out cash," he said with a hint of disdain for the newer slots.
He displays his machines with a paternal zeal, his eyes twinkling like the flashing lights that beckon players to try their luck.
He says he's not a gambler himself, though. It's not the prospect of winning that drives Squires, pulling a handle or pushing a button to set the reels whirling, hoping for a jackpot that may never come. Rather, he gets joy from knowing what's happening in the heart and brain of the machine.
As for the slots that are works in progress, he and his staff — he has two other technicians — work hard to bring them back to life.
Squires & Corrie charges $180 an hour, with most repairs taking two to four hours. Some work, however, can take weeks, and his backlog can stretch up to four months.
For all the bins and trays full of components he's salvaged over the years, Squires still can't stock every part. He sometimes has to order one — and when all else fails, he'll make it himself.
"It takes time. You have to find the part to build it. That's why I have a machine shop," he said, noting that he learned how to weld when he was 8 years old.
His favorite machines to fix are some of the oldest ones, made long before electronics became common.
"I love to work on the mechanicals because they are worn out more," he said, adding that some of the most difficult repairs are those that require computer chips. "The chips are hard to get" for the newer machines.
A pinball wizardSquires discovered his knack for repairing slots early. Raised in Elmhurst, Illinois, he dropped out of school at age 14 and became enamored with pinball games, curious how they worked. He arranged to meet the man who came weekly to service the games, and soon he was learning to fix both pinball and slot machines in a bar run by mobsters in a nearby town.
A few years later, in what would be a turning point in his career, Squires was invited to North Carolina to repair slot machines in a Veterans of Foreign Wars hall.
"I rebuilt every machine for the VFW," he said. What's more, he reaped a $5,000 payout, about what a luxury car cost at the time.
Still fixing slot machines in his early 20s, he began working as an as-needed brakeman on the Chicago and North Western railroad. But the lure of slot machine repairs proved too strong. He moved to North Carolina, then South Carolina after he married at age 23, then finally to Tennessee.
His slot machine operation had become multi-state, and along the way, he was joined by an acquaintance from his youth, Glenn Corrie, who became his partner in the business.
In 1977, Squires moved his business again, this time to San Mateo after California legalized "antique" slot machines — those at least 25 years old — for home enjoyment as long as they weren't being used for gambling. Corrie, however, soon soured on living in the Golden State and moved back to Chicago.
Two years ago, he brought his operations to Stockton after the San Mateo site was slated for development.
No matter where he sets up shop, though, Squires creates a colorful space. The walls are plastered with memorabilia and framed copies of stories written about him and the business over the years. Sometimes, he brings in his cockatoo named Maggie, a caged companion for 43 years. Mostly, though, he pours himself into the business, working 16 hours straight on a recent day to try to catch up on the backlog.
His receptionist, Nikki Boyd, is amused by Squires, his eccentricities and dated sayings, like wandering on one hot day , proclaiming, "It's hotter than the dickens out there."
"He's a very interesting fellow," she said.
