The cocktail waitress, whose name is also Edith, accidentally splashes me with something from her tray. If it were water, it might be psychologically refreshing. Instead, it’s grenadine and Coke. She recoils; I swear. She mumbles an apology and maneuvers her dripping tray through the crowd while I rub a napkin through my hair. But then she turns around and for a moment we lock eyes. The droning symphony of beeps and bleeps—the soundtrack of systematic squandering—melts away and we’re just two regular girls in space, although one of us is wearing a Peter Pan meets how-people-from-the-80s-imagined-clothes-from-the-future tunic. (Me.) We’re not glamorous. We’re not rich. We’re not even all that clean. But just like that, the moment is over and we’re swallowed again by Foxwoods, the largest resort casino in the world. It’s also home to the world’s largest bingo hall, but you already knew that.
The casino, of course, is a very strange place. It leaps up from out of the quiet Connecticut hills, and with all its giant purple triangles and golden spheres, it’s like I’m in Aladdin: The Video Game. Foxwoods, all six towers of it, is huge. I mean really gargantuan. And on the inside, where I anticipate exclusively Native American exploitation, there are cheesy throwbacks to a white-bread 1950s Main Street. “Town Hall” and “General Store” facades line the central artery while nasty dream-catchers hide themselves away in novelty stores. This half-hearted stab at quaintness does little to mask the reality that Foxwoods is a profit monster reeling in a shit-load of money.
Since the casino is on a Native American burial ground, it makes up its own rules. For instance, every time you drink, you have to slap yourself in the face. Also, here you can smoke anytime, anywhere. Ashtrays are located in every bathroom stall, and they’re very full of ash. I don’t even smoke, and I find myself smoking. Kind of. I suck on a damp, unlit cigarette for most of the evening, but that’s because it’s the crown jewel in my complex system of superstition that also includes muscle clenching and eyeball dilating. Then the cigarette disintegrates in my mouth and I spew spit and tobacco fibers across the roulette table.
Let me wax philosophically for a second: casinos gleefully prey on some loophole in human psychology. It’s that we don’t quite understand when the odds are against us; we are eventually going to lose. We’re monkeys pressing a button and getting shocked. It’s painful watching people pour their money away, almost as painful as it is to do so myself. And there are these rooms, empty rooms along the main hall, where deflated people sit on the ground or slouch against pillars, talking urgently on cell phones. The worst guy is just slumped against the wall with his head back and his eyes shut. He doesn’t even have a cell phone. It’s an unsettling reminder that every day people seriously mess up their lives here at Foxwoods.
All meandering aside, I was really at Foxwoods for the Blackjack. Unfortunately, the spirits were not with me. As soon as I sat down, the manager came over and yelled at me. “You gotta have a Wampum Card to sit here!!!” I got flustered and said, “Oh, sorry.” Then he said, “No! I was kidding!!!” He must have been flirting with me, but it was so confrontational and awkward. Anyway, I won a lot, lost a little, lost a lot. My ignorance was blatant. At one point, I tapped “hit me” and the dealer said, “Against a five, honey?” to which I replied, “Oh…no, I guess.” It’s such a hard feeling to fight the fluttering addiction. It’s completely irrational, but that little needle of hope keeps pricking you—maybe this round, maybe this pull, maybe it’ll be me.
Needless to say, I lose all the money I’m prepared to lose. I also lose all the money someone else gave me. Coincidentally, I also lose a barrette. So we leave, and on the way out we wonder: How many suicides have happened here? How many marriages dissolved? How many tears dried in the plush carpets?
Is Foxwoods good? Is Foxwoods sweet? Does Foxwoods have many front row seats? No, not really. Still, I’ll probably come back next month. If you think about it, odds are I’ll get lucky.
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