| Adventures
in Suburbia
 Going
for Broke at the Meadows
By
Lelaina Pierce
My mom plunks $20
into a Monopoly slot machine, oblivious to the fact that the
person next to her was just carried out of the Meadows Racetrack
and Casino on a stretcher. “It’s not my day today,” she
says, rustling through her purse. “I’m going to have to use
some of my grocery money.”
Crossing her
fingers, she feeds the one-armed bandit another crisp, green
bill into the one-armed bandit and places her bet. She does not
pass go. She does not collect $200.
Our family’s
gambling problem started 50 years ago with a poker game and a
spider monkey. My grandfather, a slick-haired, Rat Pack type,
won the lanky primate with a royal flush and brought it to live
in his McKees Rocks duplex. With three children and a dog, the
place was already a zoo, but the monkey added to the mayhem by
peeing on anyone who came within 10 feet of its cage.
While I didn’t
inherit the gambling gene, mom is living proof that the quarter
doesn’t fall far from the slot machine. In 1994, my step-dad,
Gary, took her to Las Vegas for the first time. She came home
with $1,000 and a blister on her hand from pulling the lever for
hours on end.
She hasn’t been
the same since. “Gary says if he could take back any decision
in his life, it would be taking me to Caesar’s Palace,” she
says, matter-of-factly. “If I hear the word ‘Caesar’ –
even if it’s referring to a salad – I get excited.”
Mom spent last
Thanksgiving in Sin City, riding the gravy train at the Bellagio
Hotel and Casino. The pilgrims would be happy to know that the
greenback harvest was bountiful that year.
 Mom
arrived on my doorstep this morning full of hope and good luck
charms, including a jewel-encrusted “I ♥
Slot Machines” broach and an old fortune cookie
prophecy that claims, “More money and travel is in your
future.”
With $100 between
us, we venture to Washington County’s 24-hour casino.
It’s 11 a.m. and
there are already hundreds of people hunched over gaming
stations. They sit, expressionless, in front of glowing
consoles, praying for triple 7s.
We make two full
laps around the facility so mom can scope out a “hot slot.”
In September, she explains, a Pittsburgh resident won
$99,360.54, and it was only a matter of time before Lady Luck
struck again.
She spots a Double
Diamond Deluxe and inserts her “Winner’s Circle”
membership card, which is attached to her belt loop by an
elastic cord. Immediately, the machine comes alive with blinking
lights and steady beeps.
Forget the IV drip
and heart monitor, this is the only life support system mom will
ever need.
“It’s an
endorphin high,” she says. “It’s like a drug.”
The old woman beside
us snuffs out her Pall Mall in disgust and hobbles over to
Pacesetter’s Lounge to drown her financial sorrows in
something other than complimentary Diet Coke. Her cigarette
smoke hangs in the air like a black cloud of doom.
One hour and three
machines later, we stop by the front desk so I can grab a
brochure on compulsive gambling and exit the dark casino into
the bright afternoon sun.
We didn’t hit pay
dirt, but, with $55 still left in the grocery fund, we didn’t
hit rock bottom either. |
