Casino Wonderland

A small fortune can be made on a five dollar bill. If it turns into one hundred, there could be extra smokes, a six-pack maybe. If it were a thousand there could be a trip, to Vegas, or New York. But it might be best not to get too wrapped up in wishful thinking. The radio is pushed on. Bob Seger. ‘Main Street.’ Yuck. Elton John. ‘Saturday Night's Alright for Fighting.’ Okay, good tune.
The reservation water tower is in sight. Not long now. Neon flashing signs shine giant and consuming in the overcast gloom of a winter day. It's inviting. It tells just how much joy the money could bring, and that steak dinner is only $12.99, and Billy-Bob so and so will be here on such and such a date. But none of that matters.
It's the money, or even the idea of it. Something about it pulls. Call it the dregs of desire if you want to. In hand, the green inked face of a dead president gleans magic from common paper. Covering stained and over worked bodies like grass covers dirt, it gently takes hands out of grimy jars full of change, out from under sofa cushions, and out of the pockets of dirty jeans.
Casinos are places of dreams. Not happy as shit, porky pig giddy, ignorant, delectable dreams. But rather dreams jumped in an alley, kicked in the ribs, spat on, and left gasping for breath. And the faces of these dreams are those of the jackpot zombies.
Beginning in the parking lot among the litter of spent butts and valets in tacky vests, all gravitate toward the double automatic entrance doors. The foyer holds an ATM, and an old Native security guard, warrior spirit long diluted, like a bottle of Jack Daniels flooded with a garden hose.
The second pair of doors open beyond the gate keeper, issuing a sudden stench of stale smoke, and hints of strong perfume. The sounds of fortune are immediate and everywhere; like a thousand Clydesdales outfitted in Christmas bells were let loose in the building with a harsh smack on the ass to get them moving. Where to go first is the biggest challenge. But with no clocks, no sign of time anywhere in this place, really, what does it matter?
All zombies move about in no order, constantly being routed and directed by the maze of slot machines, tables, drink carts, and ashtrays. There are men draped in mis-matched sports insignia: a Celtics hat, and a Wild jersey. The fatsos abound, armored in sweatpants with tired elastic bands, and off color t-shirts. Old women dominate; chained to slot machines, purses tucked under arms, a Virginia Slim 120 burning in the left hand, the right free to repeat their bet. If they’re moving, their scouting turf, smelling with their leathery noses which machine is about to pay big, which machine will make their Social Security work for them.
Attendants circle around, criss-crossing each other from every direction, offering caffeinated drinks to keep dilated eyes propped open in the low lighting.
“Can I get you a beverage sir?”
“Mountain Dew please.”
“There you go sir. Good Luck”
The mind of this zombie knows she'd like a tip. Five dollars leaves none to spare. Sipping the soda and walking away.
“Thanks.”
There is a small system to follow. It isn't guaranteed. But it pays off enough of the time to warrant repetition. First, find the penny slots in the back of the casino. Machines are rotated. They are all in new spots every trip. Why would this be if some machines aren't more likely to pay off than others? Second, play only the slots that are on the end of the row. Most zombies play these more often than the ones in the middle. More action means a higher probability of closing in on a jackpot. Third, if double the money initially spent in the machine is won, cash out, and find a new machine.
The first slot to be played is found. Five dollar bill comes out before the ass hits the chair. The first bet is placed. Nothing. Lighting a smoke and hitting the button again, and again, and again. Thirty more times, and it happens. A seven dollar win. Five turned into twelve. Good start. Cashing out.
Another attendant huddles in.
“Can I get you something to drink?”
Why are they all women?
“Mountain Dew please?”
“Here you are. Good Luck.”
Sorry no tip.
“Thank you.”
A glowing machine catches the eyes. Following it, it's all the way in the back. This will do. The voucher is sucked into the machine. Twelve dollars. Only play seven though. Keep the original five. After a few cigarettes and one more attendant, the machine says there are now only five dollars and some change. When it says five, the cash out button is pushed. Time to go.
But before ten steps are taken, the zombie feet turn around and shuffle back. The voucher is fed in again. The last five dollars begins fluttering away like leaves pushed by a passing car.
When any hope is faded, something happens. A win! Oh thank God, a win! Back up to thirteen bucks. Fantastic! Now really, only play eight. The repeat bet button has a little sweat on it now from fingers hovering on top of it. The money is disappearing again. Hope is draining again. The five dollar mark has been crossed. A little over two dollars left now.
Then it comes. A bonus game! Yes! A fucking bonus game!
The stars have aligned. The machine is howling an electronic orgasm so zombies everywhere are reminded why they are here. The credits pile up, and up, and up. In the moment, this zombie is lifted to the height of a god. Thoughts are a blur. But one remains. Cut and run. Cut and run.
Cash out is pushed for the last time. The cashier is visited briefly, and eighty two dollars are shoved in the front jeans pocket.
The first double doors open reluctantly, almost coughing as it lets a zombie leave. The guard is gone. The mind wonders if he’s hunting deer with an ancient bow in the endless forest.
The second doors reveal the sun. Zombies wander past, curious to know why there is a man among them smiling like a jack-o-lantern.