XCII. This is Atlantic City
“Well?...”
“I’m sorry?” I mutter in a knee-jerk response
“I SAID: do you want cream or sugar?”
As I come back to earth I quickly realize that I’ve become hypnotized by the pale, heavy-set woman pouring out what seems to be an infinite amount of Morton’s Iodized Salt out of industrial container into the metal grate holding the “freshly prepared” French fries. It reminds me of an hourglass. I contain my gagging.
I catch some semblance of laughter in the gap-toothed cashier at McDonalds staring me down with a voice that conveys mild confusion for not answering expeditiously.
I recollect myself. “Can I have this?” – I say pointing to a paper Spanish version of the menu - “I want to work on my mexi-speak.” She sends a cold grimace my way and I savor the fact that I don’t have to smell her rank breath any longer.
This is Atlantic City.
I ride in the backseat of Bill Slezell’s car down the “strip”, holding onto control of my bladder for dear life, but I can’t help but notice that the 40 m.p.h. winds carry an undeniable scent of stale urine left by locals and tourists alike who, much like the rest of the country, regard this entire place as their toilet. My bladder retention efforts are more pointless than futile.
This is Atlantic City.
When we pull into the Howard Johnson, uneasiness takes over as I realize that these are the people and this is the place to which I am supposed to entrust my life for the 2 or so hours I plan on sleeping that night. The thought alone chills me to the bone.
To make matters worse, we hand our keys to a Russian man speaking broken English who appears to have a greater proficiency in contract killing than second languages. “Car bomb? Pistol with a silencer? Either way, we’ll go out with a bang” I tell my friends, feigning sarcasm and hoping at least one will disagree. When the light switch flips on and the cockroaches scatter under the covers, we determine that we need to make haste in capitalizing on our night.
This is Atlantic City.
The casinos are packed with the typical fare. Crying men. Crying women. Most are wondering how they’ll break the bad news to their spouse and contemplating simpler alternatives that would result in their spouse cashing a life insurance check.
I shrug them off defiantly by repeating “you’re a winner damnit, you’re a winner!!” over and over in my head. In order to skirt around the $8.50 price tag on cocktails, I post up at the closest roulette table and wait for one of the over-50 waitresses to come display her unfortunate looking silicone flesh boulders and take my drink order so I can calm my nerves.
When “Matilda” arrives, I put on my sunglasses so she can’t see my eyes are closed to avoid exposure to her visual application for “Plastic Surgery Gone Bad” (Tuesdays on FOX) and mutter “Double Gin on the Rocks” over and over till I’m sure she’s gone.
In my waiting I manage to lose $100. Matilda never comes back.
This is Atlantic City.
Cut to 4 hours later. In a drunken binge I’ve somehow managed to acquire $500 on the craps table by shutting my eyes and letting the chips fall where they may. I refuse to save it, deeming it as “fake money.” Credit card debt can wait.
This is Atlantic City.
I motorboat my way to happiness at the “Stopless Go-Go” only find that the sweater puppets I’ve thrust my face into happen to be those of Matilda, who evidently is a jack of all trades. When I wipe up the vomit and pay the manager for damages, I sprint back to the Ho-Jo, lock the door and pray.
This is Atlantic City.
The brown morning light that sneaks in between the curtains is blinding, though my crust-covered eyes won’t fully open, so I am spared the full blast of this New Jersey Sunrise. I wake to find that all of my possessions are apparently still just that, and in a cruel twist of fate, my life has been spared. I rejoice when I see that my Jim Beam bottle still has at least 2 good sips left, a perfect complement to a Ho Jo breakfast.
This is Atlantic City, and I don't want to leave.
“I’m sorry?” I mutter in a knee-jerk response
“I SAID: do you want cream or sugar?”
As I come back to earth I quickly realize that I’ve become hypnotized by the pale, heavy-set woman pouring out what seems to be an infinite amount of Morton’s Iodized Salt out of industrial container into the metal grate holding the “freshly prepared” French fries. It reminds me of an hourglass. I contain my gagging.
I catch some semblance of laughter in the gap-toothed cashier at McDonalds staring me down with a voice that conveys mild confusion for not answering expeditiously.
I recollect myself. “Can I have this?” – I say pointing to a paper Spanish version of the menu - “I want to work on my mexi-speak.” She sends a cold grimace my way and I savor the fact that I don’t have to smell her rank breath any longer.
This is Atlantic City.
I ride in the backseat of Bill Slezell’s car down the “strip”, holding onto control of my bladder for dear life, but I can’t help but notice that the 40 m.p.h. winds carry an undeniable scent of stale urine left by locals and tourists alike who, much like the rest of the country, regard this entire place as their toilet. My bladder retention efforts are more pointless than futile.
This is Atlantic City.
When we pull into the Howard Johnson, uneasiness takes over as I realize that these are the people and this is the place to which I am supposed to entrust my life for the 2 or so hours I plan on sleeping that night. The thought alone chills me to the bone.
To make matters worse, we hand our keys to a Russian man speaking broken English who appears to have a greater proficiency in contract killing than second languages. “Car bomb? Pistol with a silencer? Either way, we’ll go out with a bang” I tell my friends, feigning sarcasm and hoping at least one will disagree. When the light switch flips on and the cockroaches scatter under the covers, we determine that we need to make haste in capitalizing on our night.
This is Atlantic City.
The casinos are packed with the typical fare. Crying men. Crying women. Most are wondering how they’ll break the bad news to their spouse and contemplating simpler alternatives that would result in their spouse cashing a life insurance check.
I shrug them off defiantly by repeating “you’re a winner damnit, you’re a winner!!” over and over in my head. In order to skirt around the $8.50 price tag on cocktails, I post up at the closest roulette table and wait for one of the over-50 waitresses to come display her unfortunate looking silicone flesh boulders and take my drink order so I can calm my nerves.
When “Matilda” arrives, I put on my sunglasses so she can’t see my eyes are closed to avoid exposure to her visual application for “Plastic Surgery Gone Bad” (Tuesdays on FOX) and mutter “Double Gin on the Rocks” over and over till I’m sure she’s gone.
In my waiting I manage to lose $100. Matilda never comes back.
This is Atlantic City.
Cut to 4 hours later. In a drunken binge I’ve somehow managed to acquire $500 on the craps table by shutting my eyes and letting the chips fall where they may. I refuse to save it, deeming it as “fake money.” Credit card debt can wait.
This is Atlantic City.
I motorboat my way to happiness at the “Stopless Go-Go” only find that the sweater puppets I’ve thrust my face into happen to be those of Matilda, who evidently is a jack of all trades. When I wipe up the vomit and pay the manager for damages, I sprint back to the Ho-Jo, lock the door and pray.
This is Atlantic City.
The brown morning light that sneaks in between the curtains is blinding, though my crust-covered eyes won’t fully open, so I am spared the full blast of this New Jersey Sunrise. I wake to find that all of my possessions are apparently still just that, and in a cruel twist of fate, my life has been spared. I rejoice when I see that my Jim Beam bottle still has at least 2 good sips left, a perfect complement to a Ho Jo breakfast.
This is Atlantic City, and I don't want to leave.
posted by Max Rays at 10:27 AM
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