Avoiding God and gas amidst the slot machines and sinners!

A haze fogs the casino on crowded days as stressed out gamblers suck down their smoky little death sticks as fast as they can, trying desperately to stave off the house’s winning streak, which grasped these gamblers firmly by their throats the moment they stepped into this place.

It has been steadily squeezing since.

The in-casino ATMs flash “insufficient funds” over and over to beleaguered folks who look as though they’ve been awake for days. And it’s possible they have. Meanwhile nuns and ancient old ladies pushing walkers and/or pulling oxygen bottles cruise the floor between the slot machines like great whites swimming among the survivors of the USS Indianapolis.

The slot machines on the third level create a constant din, a clamor that hides an almost imperceptible C-major chord. It reminds me of a Baptist church organ, or angels humming, not that I’ve ever heard angels hum in a casino. At first, it all just sounds like noise, dinging and clanging and whooping, but then your mind begins to make out a pattern amidst the clamor. It’s faint at first, then quickly builds to a point where it’s all you hear, as if the angels themselves were singing right to you, surrounding you in their heavn’ly glory, holding you safe in their angelic embrace.

It’s like they’re saying, “Feel free to gamble – heaven’s got your back!”
So you plunk your money into the slot machine, pull the lever, and start losing.

And the angels soothing song of hope and tranquility suddenly turns into a depressing dirge of chastisement. You quickly realize by the third yank on the grimy lever that the angels aren’t singing to you; they’re telling God on you! You are gambling – badly – and they want God to know so He can save what’s left of your sorry soul.

Or punish you.

The angels really don’t care: they’re job is to recon and report. God metes out comfort or punishment.

Then you suddenly feel as if every eye in the place is upon you, watching you lose at an amazing pace. But a nervous glance around snaps you out of it as you realize it was just another fever dream, caused by working that lever too fast. None of the other sinners in this den of iniquity are paying the least bit of attention to you, mainly because your slot machine isn’t clanging obnoxiously from winning, so you’re of no interest to them.They’re all too intent on losing their own fortunes to care about yours.

The angel’s song turns back into the low din of electronic gambling.

The slot machines are structured like the stock market – you gotta play (pay) big if you wanna win big. Sure, one can play penny slots, where hitting big means winning twenty cents on a two cent bet. Extrapolate that concept to the dollar slots and one can quickly surmise that it’s possible to win big only if you play big. The five dollar slots stand waiting, so you do. And the twenty bucks you shoved into the slots is gone in one-tenth as many minutes.

I typically average losses of around ten bucks an hour when casino gambling. That’s kinda my self imposed limit. Call me a cheapskate.

And when I get bored, or run out of money, I find other ways to entertain myself. For example, given the caustic level of smoke in this place, I feel completely comfortable farting at will. Without suitable oxygen levels, everyone’s olfactory senses are so deadened that no one can smell anything properly.

Case in point — the grandmotherly old lady working the shit out of the slot machine next to me never flinched, despite the fact that I was a little uncomfortable at the slight burning sensation from my posterior.

When it’s finally time to go I leave the casino only $19.99 poorer, with a voucher in my pocket for $0.01.

My wife, the die hard gambler, remarks how that one cent could’ve been the difference between coming home a winner or coming home a loser. This is a classic example of the gambling addict’s mind at work. She explains how I could’ve played that last cent in a penny slot machine and it could’ve paid off big, like maybe a thousand-to-one!

“Imagine hitting for 1000–1 odds!!” she exclaims. The very thought of it excites her like a child on Christmas morning, just before opening presents, still full of hope and self-delusion.

Then I reply that a thousand-to-one payout on a penny bet is a whopping ten bucks.

I cough, my throat scratchy and sore, and tell her a chance to win ten bucks just isn’t worth the eight packs of second-hand smoke I inhaled today, which probably cost me four years off my life.

There’s a fitting farewell waiting for me in the casino’s restroom. Inside a crazy old man screams “Comps! Comps! Where are my fuckin’ comps!” as he tries unsuccessfully to back his Ferrari red mobility scooter into a handicapped stall. The wheels bang idiotically into the stall’s divider wall as the scooter’s backing beeper bleats hysterically, just like a lamb being led to slaughter.

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