Editorial
Front Page - Friday, July 9, 2010
Are we there yet?
Homesick cynic
Jay Edwards
Driving through the Delta, into Tennessee and Mississippi, close enough to the bank of the Old Man to see metallic reflections in his muddy swirls, on the way to Tunica.
The lobby of Harrah’s Veranda Hotel is busy, with lots of people lugging luggage. They don’t, at least most, look like they can afford anything about the place, especially the many games of fat chance that wait. Some have children scurrying around their legs, excited little urchins who need a scrubbing, acting happy to be anywhere other than where they come from. I imagine that is what it’s come down to for these people – trying to forget who they are and where they come from for a few days, and with a little luck, to leave with a few extra dollars in their pockets.
We wait in line at the front desk while a young girl checks people in. Others are behind the desk with her but they don’t help. The one working girl does a good job but the line gets longer anyway and patience is in short supply. Gamblers don’t like to wait. We get to the desk and she asks for a driver’s license in her delta accent. She finds us in the computer, which surprises my boss, who thought we were in the wrong hotel.
The bellhop asks what rooms we are in and says he’ll bring our stuff. You have to have stuff. The convention is for three days.
On the fourth floor my room is all the way at the end of the very long hall. I begin the walk and am reminded of a Twilight Zone episode as I keep walking but don’t seem to get anywhere. The hypnotic pattern on the carpet makes me dizzy. An old woman comes out her door but quickly goes back in when she sees me. She’s old enough to remember Albert DeSalvo, and Dick and Perry.
But I’m not a strangler and don’t have a 12-Gauge. I’m just a conventioneer, in town for a few days because of my job. I try but can’t think of any other reason someone in his or her right mind would be there.
I get to my room, which is plain but doesn’t stink of an ashtray, like others in our group will get. There is a big TV, which is good, and it comes on with one click of the remote, which is even better.
I open the curtains and look out to a field and a dirt path with a few puddles of water. Next to it is the backside of the convention center. I have a small patio that looks as though a hundred pigeons live there. It has no chair but that’s OK because the heat index mixed with the bird droppings make it less than inviting.
My luggage and golf clubs arrive and I tip the guy and say thanks and he heads off to do it again.
The boss and I are hungry and they tell us at the front desk to try the ’37 Restaurant in the casino. We walk outside and wait for the shuttle. It comes and we climb aboard for the short ride. We arrive and there is a line waiting to ride the shuttle back to the hotel. The faces getting on look tired and unhappy.
Inside the casino I smell cigarettes and hear bells and whistles, which are, I guess, supposed to make you feel like a winner. There are even sounds of occasional coins falling into metal trays, but I think they are tape recorded from old casino days. When I went to Vegas, back in the summer of ’77, we were given real silver dollars for the slots. Today you put paper money in them and get credits, which somehow seem to disappear faster than the heavy silver coins.
’37 Restaurant is on the other side of the large dark bar and an open area of what looks to be filled with broken slot machines and some damaged blackjack tables. We pass them and walk into the front of the restaurant where Monica, one of the seating hostesses, greets us. We don’t have a reservation but it’s not a problem. We learn Monica is from Crossett, “about as south in South Arkansas as a girl can get,” she tells us. She comes by our table later to check on us and we visit for a while, which is what Arkies who meet each other usually do. She tells us about her family and how she and her husband enjoy taking care of the land they own nearby.
After eating a thick rib eye cooked medium rare and talking to Monica, we head back to the hotel, me thinking maybe Tunica’s not so bad after all.
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