Arriving back at the casino was one
of those festive scenes from a movie where all the camera seems to focus on is
the flashing lights and loud sounds instead of the characters slipping the key
into the lock and changing clothing. I found myself back in my hotel room with
a tie wrapped around my head like the party animal I wish I could portray
instead of the chubby drunken shlub that I was. John Belushi from Animal House
is iconic for a reason and not your drunk uncle at the July 4th
barbeque. Arriving at the hotel/money pit remains a mystery to me this day,
pages from a novel torn out to be re written by someone else who happened to be
watching over the authors shoulder. Together myself, Laura and Katie hit the
casino floor with a sense of excitement and time killing.
Train of thought derailment time: My
grandmother had been a child of the great depression which lead to her
grandchildren picking up a few lessons over time: these things included not
throwing out anything and also fairness between two people. If my brother received
dollars for some reason, by god Tyler was going to get the same. Christmas time
always meant different gifts but a dollar total amount that matched up, a
series of well taken notes and receipts providing the proof. She didn’t do this
to pinch pennies but as an act of love that never shunned one child over the
other. Why in the blue hell this quality was manifested during a night of
casino games I can’t say why but I was determed with a stubbornness matched by
my grandmothers to give both Laura and Katie fifty dollars to play with at the
tables. Both my friends stared as I stubbornly pressed money at them while
babbling about how it was “even-steven” and that we should have fun. Pocketing
the cash for the night’s delights, we descended into the depths of gambling
hell on a packed Saturday night.
Even before I resumed the night
before, I decided to indulge myself in even more debauchery. Drinking within
the holy walls of the church got God on my bad side but how could I hurt my
body in new colorful ways? Drinking was usual but in casinos across the land,
smoking indoors is “A Ok”. Sliding into the bar once again this time with
friends in tow, I made a drink order with a twist, requesting a pack of Marlboro
Reds in conjunction to my whiskey double. God damn I was going to be cool with
my pregnant looking belly, tie wrapped around my head and a cigarette dangling
from my mouth. Of course I never truly inhaled the good stuff into my lungs
like ol’ Bill Clinton and just begun chain smoking the pack like a cigar. Johnny
Badass was now on the casino floor wasting an overpriced pack of cancer sticks
because the party was just getting started.
Sporadic moments flash into and out
of my head as I recall what the hell happened that night. Hunched down at my
favorite table game roulette, I forgot the lessons of the night before and
found myself charmed by the cast of characters sounding me. Katie had sat
beside me to throw some chips around as well while over to our left Laura paced
back and forth muttering to herself since she despised roulette. Her calling
was the slot machines where one could play five cents a game and stretch out
that dollar instead of watching so much money go up in smoke within five
minutes. Her words fell on deaf ears as a comical scene could not get me to
give up my love of the spinning wheel. Somehow through damn luck and maybe that
prayer called out previously we found ourselves winning more money than the
house had taken. A loss of chips came over and over again to keep us in check
but as we left the table, we had taken money from the clutches of casino.
More than one miracle had occurred
that day with my brother getting married and somehow achieving the impossible
of pulling a fast one on a system made to bend one over and get some on unsuspecting
fools like myself. Laura herself would also achieve victory in two ways, one by
proving the slots were a better choice than a green felt covered money grabbing
table game and by taking the house to task with a big win on a flashy generic
machine built to attract the elderly and slow. We’d all made a little bit of
money that night through sheer dumb luck but slowly trickled some back into the
claw like talons of the machine. Blackjack games whooped my supple ass in quick
fashion and sent me packing into slot machine territory while my two guardians
befell the same fate. Laura and Katie listened to The Gambler by Kenny Rodgers
a few extra times apparently, knowing when to walk away from the games while
holding onto a nice fat wallet. We needed something else to do, preferably
something that would be gentle on the few dollars in my pocket. It was time for
a swim.
Our demonic surroundings focused on
one thing alone: intricate ways to take guests money. Sure you had basics like
traditional table games, generic slot machines and overpriced food but why stop
at that? Bring in Midwest country music and comedy so blue collar folk can chortle
at Jeff Dunham or listen to the latest randomly generated generic country music
star perform the same five songs every artist plays. Spice things up with movie
themed slots such as Blues Brothers or Airplane and grab the attention span of
even the most depressed visitor. Worst of all of these was a Betty White
Storytime machine, towering over passerby’s with video screens and every
millennials favorite not dead yet prune luring in fools for the chance to hit
the jackpot in front of America’s ironic grandmother. None of these options
came without a price tag and provided the only entertainment other than TV
surfing and calling a hooker from Craigslist. Some bigger and better casinos
offer movie theaters, arcades and even mini golf for kids to escape the cold
reality of Mom and Dad pissing away college education funds chasing the big
one.
Childlike and dopy with beer, I
wished I could do all those things instead of pissing away money inside the
casino. Katie and Laura had patiently followed me around the casino after
winning at slots and much like my parents, agreed to watch over the large fat
baby in front of them due to a sense of friendship and a pang of motherly baby
sense. Here in front of them was a child who managed to eat a whole rum cake
and now was falling off of furniture in the living room. They laughed, took a
video or two but at the end of the day they couldn’t let him fall into the
glass coffee table. Together the three of us made the trek to the elevator and
into the hotel room so I could slip into my trunks. Coming back down, I was in
the liquor pocket: sober enough to know what I was doing, but drunk enough to
enjoy the hell out of it! Big belly popped out like a pregnant woman, I made my
way down to the pool with two women in tow like the strangest music video ever
conceived and jumped into an empty inviting pool of cool, sobering water.
Sea waters rushed around my falling
arms and body, churning waves slamming against the bow that was my large
breasted chest. Splashing engulfed the lonely swimming pool inside the Meskwaki
Casino as one big man child shook and swam in the cold chlorine ocean. The
sight those poor women witnessed while sitting against the edge of the pool,
legs inside the water feeling the waves of the drunken man enjoying his attempt
at swimming. At this point Katie and Laura had ascended to saint status for the
care they gave to me while I floundered within the pool. I couldn’t tell you
the time on the clock or the minutes spent in that moment but just like the
wonderful parents they portrayed, both these kind souls watched over me as I
tried to swim the alcohol out of my system. Eventually the conversation they
had got tiring and it was time for bed. Calling me out of the pool, our dysfunctional
family made its way back upstairs for the night, or so we thought.
Drunken munchies called my name as
I struggled to get my swim trunks off my fat frame, an intense battle within
the confines of the draw string keeping me from breaking the seal and letting
go that golden stream. Pressure mounting, the battle of the night was taking
place as a man tried to take his pants off before he pissed himself. This was
the underside of the wedding, the tragic depressing cherry on the cake of a
slow baked song called Sharp Wedding Blues: a grown ass man trying to fight
against the tight knot that kept a pair of trunks against his overweight frame.
Caught in the submission hold of
the situation, I had no choice but to tap out and grab a pocket knife and cut
the string, dropping the pants and in turn letting a twenty dollar price tag
float into the either as a yellow stream hit the bowl. Now was the time for gluttony.
Nothing at that moment sounded better than the crisp taste of a Papa Johns’
thin crust buffalo chicken pizza. It had always been the go to for the nights
when the whiskey had me in its warm destructive grasp. Laura sat on the twin
bed next to me as I lunged for the phone inside the two bed hotel room she had
chosen to share with me after deciding to have those extra beers that would
keep her from driving home and escaping the adventure of casino debauchery.
In my infinite wisdom I tried to
order a pizza to the casino.
Out of everything that happened
that weekend, this was the stupidest
thing I did.
It was such a stupid attempt that
somehow I had gotten the reception desk in my attempt to contact someone in regard
to calling a pizza. This is the first time I have ever told this, and if it
wasn’t a wedding weekend where I could blame the stupefied state I was in on
the taste of celebration and hops, then I don’t know if I could weave this tale
for my friends and family to hear. Upon that phone call, I asked a receptionist
how I could order a pizza to my suite. With everything I have said about the
casino itself, the fact they didn’t come to my room and beat me with Meskwaki casino
branded slapjacks means they had someone working for them with a bit of heart.
Over the phone growled a voice that held so much contempt for the man on the
other side of the phone, I’m surprised she didn’t call me out for my stupidity.
“Sir, go down stairs and get pizza and other food options from of food court.
You can’t order a pizza.” Click.
The conversation ended abruptly and
together my poor single parent guardian made the quiet slog down to the food
court where greasy food comforted the drunk and lonely. Taking the last few
dollars from us in exchange for a sad modern take on the garbage served in high
school cafeterias, we ate in silence. Silently, Laura and I took in the surroundings
and the sad life we were living at 2 in the morning in Tama, Iowa. These was
the beginning of the hangover that was slowly cresting over the ridge, the
tidal wave had gone out and was now picking up steam as it approached shore.
Bellies full of cafeteria meat and
another pack of cigarettes purchased; I followed Laura back to the hotel room
as the swirl of fat fast food combined with the remaining whiskey inside me to
push me into the blackout. My occasional dips into the black had picked up throughout
the night but now the TV was turning off for the night and just like that, I
was done. Dreams wrapped themselves around me and my adventure was over. Tomorrow
would bring the hangover.
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