Perhaps the strangest moment I had in Reno was when I was first left alone, to my own devices, a subject to immense culture shock, in the smokey pit of the Atlantis Casino. As I pondered my options bewilderingly -- I could not quite yet check in to our hotel room -- I sat at a poker slot, found an ashtray, lit up a cigarette, and began to read from Parade's End by Ford Madox Ford ("... they shortened their hairs and their skirts and flattened, as far as possible, their chest developments, which does give, oh, you know ... a certain ... ") just as Something in the Air (smoke?) by Thunderclap Newman cascaded down from hundreds of tiny speakers (all next to hundreds of tiny cameras), snaking its' insidious ways through the labyrinthine carpeted pathways and curlicues and cul de sacs, all designed to disorient and subvert psychogeography. I was certainly disoriented.
"No, I'm never gonna do it without the fez on
Oh no
No, I'm never gonna do it without the fez on
Oh no
That's what I am
Please understand
I wanna be your holy man"
No clocks, and where does all that smoke go? Ring ring ring. Waterfalls and eagle squawks. Even sainted Hansel and Gretel's bread crumbs might not work here. I was always lost here. I swear the card tables were by the cabaret bar. Were not the dollar slots by the elevators? How many circles have I made? How could so much undead life exist here? Or, rather, the undead are the actual sentient beings. The "life", as it were, were the buzzers, blings, chattering canned voices, and a million lights of neon and ice cold illuminated digital ink.
The cocktail waitresses were near as grim as the punters, clad in short-skirted brown dresses and "nude" Mary Tyler Moore pantyhose. Most barely uttered the word, "Cocktail?" as they passed. They seemed mostly defeated and embarrassed at their prospects. They would occasionally liven up, speaking to their co-workers, or recognizing an old regular.
The first machine I played I won about eight dollars on just the second roll. I cashed out straightaway, and sent a picture of the ticket to my Sweetie, Renee.
I felt so out of sorts here at first. Perhaps it was because I was sometimes sitting idly at machines, smoking, clutching a nine hundred page paperback about the last Tory, set during World War I. I was convinced the die-hards had sorted my figure but quick. I was a dilettante, a parvenue. Not a soul, was I, to be suspicious of, as much as be curiously tolerated.
I had a v limited amount of money to gamble with, and I had had depressive frustrated relationships with these machines before. Twice before in Vegas, and once before, here, in the Biggest Little City in The World. Therefore, I was resolved to play penny ante bullshit drowning games with mostly nickel slots.
What a waste! Nickel slots are the vilest of them all, and I do not know why I am so attracted to them. Actually, I do know. The nickel slots give you the impression that you are actually "playing" something. And, they while away the time. In fact, the nickel slots are the best way for small-timers like myself to cadge free drinks (The typical desultory tone, "Cocktail, Sir?" "Budweiser, please.") and smoke furiously without guilt or shame. Except that California has changed me so much, that even in Cigarette Heaven (But no cigars or pipes in the Sports Book, please!) I could not help but feel a twinge of criminality every time that spark-like click was created by the roll of my thumb on my lighter.
"No, I'm never gonna do it without the fez on
Oh no
Ain't never gonna do it without the fez on
Oh no
That's what I am
Please understand
I wanna be your holy man"
But no more nickel slots for me! No, I have kicked them for good for sure at last. Surly cocktail waitresses with free drinks and cigarettes aside, they are humiliating machines. You can not really win anything on them, and they devour your pitiful bets in such small degrading amounts as to cut your soul. Death by a million paper cuts! Slow and wretched expiration.
Anytime I had won on my original bet on a nickel slot, even if it was only ten cents, I immediately cashed out. A ticket I could put in to another machine to change in to cash, deluding myself that I had won. Won what exactly? Ten cents? A good time? Entertainment? What sort of entertainment is this? (More on this later.)
But, eventually the specter of "entertainment", and "time to kill" conspired to change my mood, or strategy. I let a nickel machine (something about wolves) consume my meagre winnings, and finally, after hours of "play", put me in the hole.
I was furious with this wolf machine! This wolf had eaten me alive! I would either make it pay (Not bloody likely!) or would let it devour my spirit. (The real result.)
I moved over to the next machine (Glitter Kitty or some such) and played down my last four dollars I was willing to splurge on. Glitter Kitty was evil in different ways. Every time I would get down to ten cents it would pay back fifty. It did this, this bedazzled Kitten monster, about a half dozen times. So nasty!
Meanwhile, a youngish attractive man sat down to play the Wolf That Ate My Heart right next to me. And, as I was traveling from ten cents to sixty to ten to sixty to ten, etc, ... he had promptly turned his twenty dollar investment in to fifty! The nerve!
Seriously?!
But, ha ha ha, his machine malfunctioned and would not produce his ticket. He stood up and looked at me. "Damn," he said, "And I work here, too."
I returned to my one line two credit rolls: Credit $0.32. Bet $0.02. Credit $0.30. Bet $0.02. Credit $0.28. Bet $0.02. And on and on and on, ...
"And," he said, "I thought I just saw an attendant walk by."
I pulled from my Budweiser. Credit twenty-two. Credit twenty. Credit eighteen, ...
"Plus," he said, "I know how easy it is to get in to these things. Damn!"
He waited for a while as Glitter Kitty finally bested me, and I walked away without ever knowing if he got his money.
************
Thank god, the Wife!
The Wife had been repulsed by the casino earlier, "It is ten o'clock," she said, "And they are all smoking and drinking!"
But, now after a long day at work, she was a bit more tolerant and open-minded. Desperate for a smoke, and hungry, she lit up next to me at a dollar slot, and said, "Show me how you do this."
"You put your dollar bill in here, and then you place your bet. Push that button."
"You do it, " she said.
I said, "Don't you wanna pull the lever?"
"Right!"
Seven -- Bar -- Blank.
"Game over," I said, "Thanks for playing. But, you had fun, right?"
"Put another one in, " she said, her cigarette in the corner of her mouth. She pulled the arm of the machine towards her, and continued, "People get addicted to these things? I don't get it."
This time there were bells. Ring ring ring! The sound of coins raining down on to a metal counter top. The Wife had won twelve dollars.
"Cash that shit out right now!" she exclaimed.
I pushed the button for her ticket, and when it came out, said, " You have won us a cocktail!"
************
In the end, after I won three dollars on the dollar slots the next morning, we had lost a grand total of five dollars in the bright yet shadowy cacophonous fire-breathing smokey casino pit of Reno Nevada sin.
"No, I'm never gonna do it without the fez on
Oh no
Don't make me do it without the fez on
Oh no
That's what I am
Please understand
I wanna be your holy man"
Which was considered "Great success!" by me. Truth be told, we felt way more ripped off by the restaurants upstairs, with their fumbling service and serviceable fare.
Next time in Nevada: Dollar slots only!
All my love,
xxxoooxxx,
Michel Roulette
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