Gamblers, Not So Anonymous

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After a long, cold winter, my wife and I wanted to go somewhere fun and gamble. However, the thought of a five-hour flight to Las Vegas without the COVID mask restrictions didn’t seem like a healthy idea, so we decided on Atlantic City as an alternative.

We booked three nights at the Hard Rock Hotel via Greyhound Bus at Port Authority. As our departure date approached, the usual pre-trip anxieties filled our heads. We worried about our turtle, Benito, and how much stuff to pack. Since check-in at the Hard Rock wasn’t until 4 pm, we chose a 1 pm departure from NYC. Although these modern Greyhounds were much cleaner than those I remember from the past, getting a seat away from the rear toilet area was imperative. The ride took about two and a half hours, and we both dozed off within 45 minutes.

As we approached the outskirts of Atlantic City, I noticed that this guy seated across the aisle kept looking over in our direction. I turned my head once or twice and guessed he was probably around my age but looked much older. He wore a baseball cap, a windbreaker jacket with the Resorts Casino logo, and a badly scuffed pair of brown Hush Puppy-style shoes. Next to him on the seat was a plastic container resembling a fishing tackle box, but instead of hooks and sinkers, he had filled it with candy bars, chips, and tiny liquor bottles. Then he starts talking.

“This area has a lot of outlet stores. Have you noticed any?”

“Not really,” I said, “but I thought I saw Dick’s Sporting Goods sign a few blocks away.”

“There’s a Dick’s around here?” he asked. “Wow, I didn’t know that. I buy all my clothes from outlet stores. The last time I was here, I bought six pairs of pants for $30.”

“What a bargain,” I said, trying not to sound sarcastic.

“Where are you two staying,” he asked. Pam said, “We’re staying at the Hard Rock.”

“Oh yeah, the Hard Rock,” he said. “I’ve stayed there many times. As a matter of fact, in two days, I’m heading down to their casino in Florida. They’re paying for my flight plus one free night. By the way, my name’s Jeff.”

“I’m Mike, and this is my wife, Pamela.”

“I’m staying at the Ocean’s Resort on the other side of the boardwalk,” he said. “It’s way classier than the Hard Rock and has better slots and tables. Do you guys play craps?” I wondered if Jeff was a braggart or possibly a grifter. We had to be careful talking to him.

“Nope. We only play the slots.” I must have had the word sucker stamped on my forehead because for the next fifteen minutes, as our bus weaved its way through the narrow side streets of Atlantic City, Jeff rambled on about his gambling expertise - how to throw dice, what numbers to avoid, how much money to bet, etc. Useful information, I’m sure, but we had no intention of playing craps, poker, roulette, or anything else, except slots.

“My hotel has the best views anywhere in this city. Did you know they have a swimming pool on the eleventh floor?” Where is that damn Greyhound depot? This conversation is getting unbearable. “I don’t like the lower floors,” he said. “I always tell the reservation person that I have reverse acrophobia (he paused momentarily, hoping we didn’t know what it meant and he’d get the opportunity to explain), and they’ll put me on the highest floor possible. By the way, if you’re into massages, I know a few places with pretty Asian girls, wink, wink.” (loud, goofy laugh.) Pam and I looked at each other and couldn’t believe what we had just heard. Was Jeff a fucking pervert?

Finally, the bus pulled into a depot behind the Resorts Casino, next to Hard Rock. “Well, good luck,” I said as we tried to get away and put some distance between Jeff and us.

“Oh, before you go, take this,” said Jeff, as he handed me a laminated card from Resorts with the word PREMIUM on the bottom.

“What’s this?” I asked.

“It’s free credit for the slot machines. You can also order drinks with it.”

“Great. Thanks. Good luck,” I said. I slipped the card into my pocket and forgot about it. I doubt if it had much credit on it. Most casinos give guests a $20 card upon arrival anyway.

It was a few minutes after 4, and we needed to check in. The reservations clerk informed us that our room wasn’t quite ready and someone would text us within the next 30 minutes. We left our main bag with the concierge and strolled on the boardwalk. Nothing looked familiar. After all, we hadn’t been to Atlantic City in fifteen years. Pam received a text around 4:45 informing us our room was ready. It’s on the 33rd floor. We retrieved our bag from the concierge and searched for the nearest elevator. Our room had the familiar smell of purified air and crisp linens. Before unpacking, we sprayed the bed, couch, chairs, and the inside of drawers using a small bottle of rubbing alcohol we carried along in our suitcase. It was a necessary precaution against the dreaded bedbugs. After freshening up, we headed to the Hard Rock Garden Buffet, a one-price, all-you-can-eat cafeteria-style restaurant packed with hungry gamblers.

An older white couple, I’ve forgotten their names, sat down next to us, their plates piled high with fried chicken, prime rib, and mashed potatoes, with gravy overflowing onto the table. The woman asked how long we were staying, and we said three nights. “Three nights?” They must have thought we were crazy because she said they usually came down only for a few hours on the weekend or occasionally overnight. We started discussing politics, and former New York Governor Andrew Cuomo’s name came up. I couldn’t wait to tell them my theory: “Cuomo was removed from office because he angered a particular religious community by forcing them to shut down their schools and businesses until they complied with COVID protocols. Second, he signed legislation that protected tenants, especially those living in rent-stabilization apartments, against greedy landlords who used capital improvement costs to raise rents. In the past, building owners could purchase, for example, a new boiler and then pass the cost on to tenants. Using this method, they could keep raising rents until tenants could no longer afford their apartments. The new law made it illegal to do this, no matter which political administration came into power. To get back at Cuomo, they orchestrated a trumped-up sex scandal, hoping to remove him from office. And it worked.

Within a couple of weeks, women from all over the Tri-State area came out of the woodwork on news outlets and talk shows claiming that Andrew Cuomo made unwanted sexual advances towards them or he had touched them inappropriately. Some of the accusations went back years, which made me wonder why they hadn’t said anything until now. Eventually, the pressure became too much for Cuomo, and he resigned.” At first, the woman didn’t believe my theory. She said, “All those women can’t be lying.” To that, I agreed. “My problem,” I told her, “is the timing of the whole thing. One minute, he’s giving his daily COVID briefings on TV. People are grateful, despite all the grim details of hundreds dying while hooked up to ventilators in which there weren’t enough to go around, and the widespread praise he was getting from the media when rumors began to circulate about him throwing his hat into the ring as a possible Democratic candidate for president in 2024, and then all of a sudden out of thin air, a sex scandal.” The man nodded in agreement while trying to dislodge pieces of prime rib from his teeth.

“A similar incident removed another N.Y. governor, Eliot Spitzer, in 2008. During his short 14-month tenure, Spitzer made some formidable enemies by threatening to prosecute Wall Street criminals. These corporate swindlers orchestrated a sting operation and discovered that Spitzer regularly engaged in elicit sex with high-end prostitutes. His favorite girl, ‘Client 19’, was around the same age as Spitzer’s eldest daughter, Elyssa. I’ll never forget when he called a press conference, dragged his poor wife, Silva, up on the stage, and submitted his resignation.” We said our goodbyes and the couple said they hoped to run into us again, although we knew it was unlikely.

Casinos have a distinct smell, mainly tobacco from the smoking sections and the non-stop flow of free alcohol delivered through a maze of machines by pretty waitresses wearing short black skirts and high heels. The atmosphere is enticing—bells, whistles, and ring tones emanate from the internal mechanisms of the one-armed bandits competing with the sound of rock music. Poker players sit patiently, counting their chips, waiting for their next card dealt by dealers in identical long-sleeved white shirts and black Hard Rock vests. They lure in a particular variety of people. My wife and I represent the occasional gamblers who play it safe with penny slots and superstitious loyalty to specific machines. Others, the regulars and frequent flyers spend with reckless abandon, racking up points and impressive scores only to lose it all just as fast. Most of the slot crowd around us looked unhealthy, with tired, hagged-out faces, probably from too many years of chasing the dream and coming up empty.

On Tuesday morning, Pam and I decided to have an early breakfast at the official Hard Rock restaurant with friendly servers and spacious booths. Our food was decent but nothing special. We only needed something to soak up all the alcohol we had consumed the night before. After about fifteen minutes, a commotion occurred at a nearby table. A huge man, at least six foot five and pushing 300 pounds, began yelling at one of the waitstaff. “I didn’t ask for any butter on these pancakes, and look at this bacon; you call this crispy? Take it away.” The shocked waitress apologized profusely while a busboy arrived to remove the plates of food. To diffuse the situation, the man’s wife said her ham, eggs, and coffee were delicious. The man shouted at her loud enough for everyone to hear. “Who asked for your fucking opinion, you stupid bitch? Don’t ever interrupt me again.” Pam and I felt terrible for the poor woman who slumped down like a wilted flower.

When the new order arrived, the guy still wasn’t satisfied. “God dammit, I asked for waffles, not pancakes. Let me talk to the manager.” Hearing the commotion, a squad of security officers arrived, surrounded the table, and asked the man what the problem was. He made some half-ass excuse about the service, and the officers escorted him and his wife from the restaurant. On his way out, he turned and looked at me, his eyes pleading for support, but I had none to give. The manager came over to our table, apologized for the disturbance, and only charged us half the price for our breakfast. He said the nutcase shows up regularly and complains about the food, but Hard Rock policy can’t refuse him service. After breakfast, we walked along the boardwalk, feeling the cool breeze from the ocean, and discussed how to manage our money. We agreed to tip the waitresses generously for our free drinks and cash in our vouchers each time we won a certain amount, say $35. Using this method, we accumulated nearly $400 over three nights.

To break up our usual routine, we explored a different part of the casino with betting windows and a massive display board with every conceivable sporting event from college to the pros. Pam and I enjoy watching European football, and on Wednesday, at three, the UEFA Cup tournament featured Manchester United vs. Real Madrid. Pam is fluent in Spanish and started conversing with people rooting for Real. For some reason, no bartender was available, and we learned that the lounge didn’t officially open until 5 pm. No problem. I walked back through the maze of slot machines and returned with a couple of IPA pints from the Hard Rock cafeteria.

No sooner had I sat down when some loudmouth Jimmy Buffett lookalike entered the lounge with a martini and a foul-smelling cigar and said, “Hey, who’s playing?”

“It’s Manchester United vs. Real Madrid,” I said.

“Soccer?” He asked. I didn’t reply. He wasn’t aware it’s called football everywhere except in the U.S. When he found out there wasn’t a bartender, he said, “This is ridiculous; somebody should complain to the manager.” By somebody, he meant anyone but himself. He zeroed in on Pam and me and revealed his life story.

“My name’s Greg, from Jupiter Island, Florida. Have you heard of Tiger Woods? He lives a few blocks away from me. My wife’s the chief surgeon at JFK Medical Center, and I’m a hedge fund manager, responsible for over $70 million in assets.” I looked at Pam, and we both rolled our eyes. Oh God, I thought, another fucking braggart. We introduced ourselves and said we lived in New York City. “I was in Manhattan early this morning, meeting with some brokers,” he said. Please, shut the fuck up; we’re trying to watch the match. “Yeah, my wife and I thought about buying a condo in New York, but the prices were out of control, so we decided on Florida. With the money we saved, we could install a 23,000-gallon Grecian pool in our backyard.” I wished I were invisible.

Funny, Greg didn’t resemble your typical Wall Street guy who wanted us to believe he arrived in Atlantic City by private jet. Most likely, he was an unmarried con man who strolled in from the boardwalk, having lost most of his money the night before, and must have sensed I wasn’t the type to be rude and tell him to get lost. At halftime, Greg walked over to the betting window, reached into his pocket, and pulled out a couple of crumbled bills. It's probably the last of his money. Five minutes later, he was gone. Speaking of cash, we still had two hundred dollars worth of vouchers to cash in and one more night of gambling.

Friday morning checkout at 11. I wheeled our suitcase through the lobby, occasionally coughing since Pam and I had probably inhaled at least a pack of secondhand smoke over the last three nights. A few diehards were already at their favorite machines sipping Bloody Marys, which didn’t sound like a bad idea.

On our way to the Greyhound depot, located inside the Resorts casino, we had to go outside to the boardwalk. As we approached the doors, I saw a man sitting on the ground with his head between his legs (for a second, I thought it might be either Greg or Jeff) holding a makeshift sign that read: LOST MY APARTMENT. I’M HUNGRY. PLEASE HELP. I reached into my wallet and dropped a fiver into the soup can he used for donations. He looked up with sad eyes and a weather-beaten face, getting old before his time, and said thanks, mister. I wondered what he might do with the money: buy a slice of pizza or run back into the casino and try his luck again.

As Pam and I walked through the aisles heading to the Greyhound depot, I remembered the Resorts Premium card Jeff had given me a couple of days ago. I chose a slot machine at random and inserted the card. To no surprise, it read: Balance $0.00. Thanks, Jeff. You’re too generous!

As we boarded the bus heading home, I realized that gambling is an addiction, but nobody is anonymous.