I walk past the people planted in cushioned stools facing the slot machines, hypnotized by the symbols spinning behind the screens in front of them.
A waitress approaches me with a tray of dirty cocktail glasses lined with melting mini ice cubes and lipstick-smeared cigarette butts. She wears a short tight black miniskirt that looks saran-wrapped around her rear with a sparkling gold halter top girdle laced tightly around her midriff to push up her breasts and spill her cleavage out over the top. Her face is lined and dried out, barely concealed by a thick layer of cheap makeup.
“Drink?” she asks while glancing over at a slot player feeding another $20 bill into his hungry machine.
“Alcohol this early?” I ask.
She smirks, revealing yellow teeth behind bright red glossed lips. “Of course. All day, every day – beer, wine and liquor.”
I look at my watch. It’s 8:17 a.m. On a Tuesday. A sharp pang of depression strikes me like an uppercut.
I politely decline the drink then continue my sojourn deeper into the abyss of the casino floor, walking past a line of denizens waiting desperately to use the ATM.
The back wall is lined with a dozen sports-betting kiosks that allow wagers on every type of sporting event imaginable – from NFL football to Arctic badminton.
I take the only unoccupied kiosk.
An intense guy wearing an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt and backwards visor cap stands next to me swearing at a live baseball game that plays out on his kiosk screen. “Fucking Yankees can’t hit for shit today! Torres you suck!”
I wonder why he’s watching the game on a small kiosk screen rather than one of the big screen TVs perched over the blackjack tables just 20 feet away. I can’t help but ask him.
The guy replies without shifting his laser-focused gaze from his kiosk screen. “I’m in-game prop betting each inning’s run total so I have to stay here for the whole game.”
“Oh cool,” I reply, and wish him good luck.
I don’t think he hears me while his attention remains fixed on the kiosk screen. “C’mon Judge, hit one out and make me some scratch, baby!”
Not seeing any sporting events I care to risk a wager on, I turn and stroll over to the double rows of blackjack tables, with solid dark brown wood frames and green felt-covered tabletops. Players sit in chairs around each table facing a dealer who stands before them like a demagogue in the enclave of the semi-circle shaped table. No one smiles, even after winning a hand. All eyes are glued to the table, expressionless but anxious at the same time.
I stand about five feet away from a blackjack table, watching the same routine repeat itself over and over again with the speed and efficiency of a factory assembly line; cards shuffled, bets placed, cards dealt, wins and losses tallied, chips given or taken away, table cleared, rinse and repeat.
A morbidly obese woman slowly stands up from her seat, with the help of her cane, at a neighboring blackjack table. She shakes her head and mutters something inaudible to herself while she places her player’s card into her purse. After a short rest to catch her breath, she hobbles toward the ATM line which appears to have doubled in length. I hurry over to take the woman’s seat before another bystander can beat me to it.
The dealer – a middle-aged Asian woman with hooded eyes and a blank face so devoid of emotion it looks carved from stone – stares at me expectantly after I sit down. None of the four other players sitting at the table acknowledge me. I reach into my wallet and remove a folded $100 bill, then place it onto the table in front of me.
The dealer nods at me then quickly takes my bill while replacing it with two even piles of five-dollar betting chips in what seems like a single motion she’s obviously practiced thousands of times. She blurts something unintelligible to the pit boss standing behind her while she slides my bill into a slit on the table.
“Good luck,” she says to me in a flat robotic voice.
The dealer repeats her routine over several rounds with a speed and dexterity that mesmerizes the entire table. She’s flawless, a perfectly calibrated cash-sucking machine. She reminds me of The Terminator – sizing up mortals in her path with deadly precision then striking before they even know what hit them. A professional killer, a stone-cold assassin.
I feel hollowed out by this place, unable to even harvest let alone process any cognizable emotion. I’m not happy, not sad, not nervous, not anxious, not frightened. Just empty.
I scoop up the three five-dollar chips that remain from the twenty that I began with about seven minutes ago and stand up to leave the table. No other player notices while all eyes remain fixated on the cards being dealt. The dealer continues her routine without pause or hesitation – not even a quick nod or glance at me. Like I was never even there.
I want to leave but I’m disoriented from the dizzying sounds and dazzling lights that surround and engulf me. I look around but I can’t see the doors where I’d walked in from the parking lot.
I find a security guard standing sentry in front of a baccarat table and ask him where I can find the exit.
“It’s tough to explain but walk that way and you’ll find it eventually,” he replies, pointing toward an endless labyrinth of gaming tables and slot machines spread across the casino floor.
I thank him.
“Good luck, bro.” He smiles at me.
About an hour later in my car, I receive a cell phone call from my business partner.
“You go this morning?” he asks.
“Yep,” I reply.
“So how was it?” he asks.
“The most depressing fucking place I've ever been to, like a halfway house to the suicide ward,” I tell him candidly.
“Doesn't sound too good,” he replies after a brief pause.
“Actually it's perfect. Let's make an offer today.”
--
Nate Mancuso is a practicing attorney, history buff and fiction lover who lives in South Florida with his wife and cat (and daughter when home from college). Nate holds a B.A. from Fordham University and a J.D. from St. John’s University School of Law. Nate is currently working on his first collection of short stories, two historical fiction projects and other works in progress.
Nate Mancuso is a practicing attorney, history buff and fiction lover who lives in South Florida with his wife and cat (and daughter when home from college). Nate holds a B.A. from Fordham University and a J.D. from St. John’s University School of Law. Nate is currently working on his first collection of short stories, two historical fiction projects and other works in progress.
