Infiltrating the Casino

February 22, 2012


Some take trips to Aruba, dye their hair, find other employment or try a new diet in order to integrate some change into their lives and deviate even in some small way from the mundane grooves they carve into their existence.  I don’t mind change in the least but four simple truths regarding it, persist in my life: Aruba is expensive, I like my job, my hair is staying its three shades of mousy brown mixed with gray, and diets stench of self-sacrifice and deprivation. There was only one thing left to provide the change for which my soul was lamenting: take the bus to Foxwoods Casino for $27.00. The bus leaves at 7:15 a.m. to begin the two and a half hour journey to its destination. And I would be on it. Change, here I come!

Smiling, I handed the bus driver two twenty-dollar bills to insure my seat. It was then that she impatiently enlightened me with a, “Correct change only…” I needed a ten-dollar bill, one five-dollar bill and two one-dollar bills or Foxwoods would seem as far away to me as Aruba.  I’ve pulled some fairly large rabbits out of some pretty small hats in my life, but this one had me stumped. None of this was mentioned in the advertisement. Maintaining my composure, I said nothing about their error of omission. Then, just as I was about to lose my composure by wrapping my disenchanted, trembling hands around her pretty-little-bus-driver-neck; she took my forty dollars, wrote down my name on a piece of paper she pulled from her shirt pocket and promised to get me my thirteen dollars change before we disembarked. This was good news. I breathed a sigh of relief, then sat down in the empty front seat to avoid that intimidating voyage down the aisle. This was my second mistake.  A handful of voices shrieked in unison, “You can’t sit there! That’s a handicapped seat! That’s why no one is sitting there!” There was no sign that said ‘Handicapped’, no symbol, no piece of paper plopped into the seat reserving it for anyone other than able-bodied me. I contritely mumbled my sorrys and headed toward the back of the bus where no one could find me, where I was close to the toilet, where the chances of me causing more trouble were greatly diminished. In my mind, I had planned a happy little bus trip, a soirée of sorts on wheels. Instead, I buried myself within a book and held it up to my face like a shield to deflect further msunderstandings. It occurred to me that I could have stayed home and dyed my hair green. And blue. And purple…

Once you arrive at the casino, this twenty-seven dollar bus ticket also buys you a ten-dollar all-you can-eat buffet and fifteen dollars worth of free slot play; in other words, the bus ride itself only cost two-dollars. What right did I have to complain, even in the face of such obvious rejection? A two-dollar bus ride is a two-dollar bus ride.  By now, I felt as if I was infiltrating a secret society where I didn’t know the rules. This is where Franco rescues me, begins to reveal the rules and even shows me where to go to turn my bus ticket into a buffet pass and free slot play. Unfortunately, this required a 30-minute wait in line talking to Franco who either didn’t know much English or who may have had a minor stroke that distorted his speech. I couldn’t tell which and was too embarrassed for him to ask.  I simply kept nodding my head and smiled as if I understood every muddled word that issued from his lips.  What I did understand was that he was a very nice man, whether I could decipher his speech or not. Things were looking up. I got my Wampum Card (yes, I said ‘wampum’) and amid stories of how much money was won by whom and when, Franco and I parted ways; me to the cashier and he to the slots. His parting garbled words to me were, “Be back bus by 4:4…”. I missed the last digit.

I headed to the Cashier window where I would get my pin number to activate my Wampum Card to get my free slot plays.  The lines were less long there but only one of the two cashiers appeared to be moving the line along. The other cashier was counting pennies…singularly…by hand. Two women were standing outside the cashier’s cage, holding two more large shopping bags full of pennies still waiting to be counted. At that rate, it would be hours before they were out on the floor, losing every penny counted to the slick ca-ching of the slot machines. The way I perceived it was the longer they stood in line, the less money they were losing. Good for them!

Foxwoods Casino and most of the casinos on the East Coast are owned by Indian Tribes. An Indian may have sold Manhattan for only $25.00. And us white folk may have done that race some dirty deeds in the past, but from the sounds of the slot machines and the number of people there releasing money from their wallets like confetti into the air, they are quickly redeeming themselves and even surpassing us, chip by chip. Good for them, too! I am happy to say that I, along with all the others on the bus, contributed to the tribal trust. I lost what little money I brought. There goes my new bathroom curtain.

One woman on the bus did win $600. She glowed telling her story, her face lit like a newly birthed universe. Maybe it’s hope that keeps them putting money in while fervently pushing buttons; hope for something more. Maybe it’s the adrenaline rush that turbo charges that hope. Maybe it’s a little of both. While sitting on the bus ride home, this Emily Dickinson poem perched itself in my mind and wouldn’t be released:

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune–without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me

Hope may not ask a crumb of us Ms. Dickinson, but it may, at times, require us to infiltrate a casino.

Proust and Sushi

February 2, 2012


I’ve been reading a book titled, Zero Decibels: The Quest for Absolute Silence by George Michelson Foy. The title appealed to the esoteric in me, so I bought it. In the book, Mr. Foy travels the world measuring the decibels of various environments with his Kawa meter; from his kitchen at midnight to an anechoic chamber that the Guinness Book of World Records dubbed the ‘quietest place on Earth’. It is as much a spiritual investigation into the nature and effects of sound and silence, as a scientific one.  It’s also a thought provoking read and a commendable piece of journalism.

One of the places he ‘measured’ for decibels was Marcel Proust’s bedroom at Boulevard Haussmann in Paris. Apparently Proust didn’t like noise any more than I do, and so he lined his bedroom, where he wrote propped up upon pillows in his bed, with corkboard to insulate himself from the clamor of the busy Paris streets below.  This is where Mr. Foy stole my heart. He actually disclosed, in copyrighted words, for all to see, the fact that he never had the patience to finish a Proust novel.  I breathed a sigh of relief because neither have I, although I’ve tried numerous times. Foy’s reasons for his impatience with Proust were because of the, “pages and pages of details about who was wearing what as she met so-and-so who thought himself superior to the next person with such and such a title.” I couldn’t have said it better myself other than to maybe add that reading Proust feels like listening to that woman down the street that you avoid engaging in conversation because once she starts talking, she never shuts up. I have to pick through Proust to find his little literary gems, then I’m done. And like that lady down the street, I want to create an excuse about my cat dying, so I can go home. Foy’s admission took as much courage to confess, as did his mile-long underground descent into a Canadian nickel mine to measure decibels. After all, we are talking about the Marcel Proust here. In literary circles, admitting such things is like a Japanese chef declaring that he doesn’t eat Sushi.  I’ve kept it concealed for years like…um…closet drinking or foot fetishes. I’ve almost been ashamed that I do not appreciate Proust, as if I should enjoy reading him simply because he is the Marcel Proust and therefore, above some yet-to-be scribed literary law.

Oh well, my secret is out. I can now breathe easier. Thank you, Mr. Foy.

And by the way, I don’t like sushi either.

%d bloggers like this: