Put Your Makeup On, Fix Your Hair Up Pretty

Aug 14, 2010

Well, at least we weren't escorted into a back room to have our kneecaps broken, but we did nearly get tossed out of the Hilton for taking pictures. "No pitch-uhs in hea," said the gruff eighty-something security guard to Deborah who had just popped off her point and shoot at a row of slot potatoes and was setting her focus on what was by far the best people-watching-sighting of the entire trip: A guy looking a lot like Hunter S. Thompson in a Hawaiian shirt, aviator sunglasses, a straw fedora, polyester slacks with a wide leather belt and white loafers, with a lit cigarette dangling from his mouth, was pushing a woman we assumed was his wife, who also had a cigarette dangling from her mouth. She had clip-on sunglasses over her regular glasses, a curly brown wig, a brightly colored shawl, pale blue slacks, and a stack of bills in her lap. The security guard got in the way before Deborah had time to fire the shutter.

"Are you serious?" said Deborah.

"No camruhs, no pitch-uhs. Put it away."

"Why?" she asked, but wasn't answered.

"Put it away or you'll hafta leave."

Nothing on earth is as disorienting as a casino, elaborate carpets in a maze of pathways through flashing lights and ringing bells, and by the time Deborah put her camera away, we lost track of the wheelchair couple.

"Where'd they go?"

"I think they went that way."

"We lost 'em."

"Damn."

I'm not much of a gambler. The only time I had any luck at a blackjack table, I was suspected of counting cards. I was up by a couple of hundred bucks, but because I was fidgeting with my fingers, a floorman tipped off the pit boss, and I was suddenly surrounded by goons in black suits. The funny thing is, I couldn't count cards if my life depended on it. What they were witnessing wasn't a math whiz keeping track of the deck, but simply a guy who needed his fingers to count 8 plus 7.

So Deborah and I didn't gamble much. Sure, we gambled some. It was impossible to walk through the casinos without being seduced by the subliminal messages that are rumored to be mixed with the music pumping over the loudspeakers, but it only takes losing as little as 20 bucks for me to start cursing Donald Trump's toupee. I couldn't help thinking, "Why am I handing over my money to billionaires?" Though, to be fair, I ask the same question about my phone bill every month.

Fortunately, we stayed in a non-gaming hotel, so we weren't forced through all the flashing toll booths to reach our room.

Just because we didn't gamble much doesn't mean we didn't get ripped off. Living in New York, you'd think I'd be used to paying too much for things, but even after I started increasing my already bloated price predictions by a buck or two, I continued to be sticker-shocked at every turn. (I still feel dumb for not taking the time to find an ATM that didn't charge a $4.50 service fee, but who knows if one even existed?) Adopting a "What the hell, we're on vacation," attitude is precisely what tourist traps prey on, but what else can you do?

The weekend's only real bargain was our hotel room. I've paid more for a musty, smoke-stained flea bag in the middle of nowhere than we did for an ocean view at The Chelsea. As long as we didn't touch the mini bar, we were safe. "They screw themselves with their greed," said Deborah when we came back to the room one night. "They could easily charge five bucks for a bottle of water and still make a good profit -- and right now, I'm thirsty enough that I'd break down and pay five bucks for that water -- but seven fifty? No fucking way. Uh uh." We didn't even bother checking the prices of anything else in the mini bar, the candy bars, the pretzels, the beers, wine, or champagne. Until the following night, when Deborah wanted to pop the cork on a $35 bottle of five-dollar wine. "It's my birthday," she said. Which was almost true. Deborah's birthday is actually on August 14th, today. But that didn't stop her from getting a dessert with candles three nights in a row. (Four, if you count the dinner we had with my parents, who happen to live less than an hour north of Atlantic City.) Birthday dinner details to come.

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The Fantasy

The reality

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End of Part I.

Stay tuned...