I once said there was nothing better to raise your self-esteem than to visit the Wal-Mart at 207 S. Memorial.
I was wrong. There are two places to go. Wal-Mart and Cherokee Casino in Catoosa.
It was Wednesday night during “Guys Night Out.” On this night, the casino gives any guy $5 to play.
I enter in non-smoking section. The stale cigarette air hits my nose. I take a deep breath and sigh.
Mmmmmmmmm. Just like grandma’s.
I walked to the counter to claim my $5. I dropped my pants and said, “There you go. I’m an outie, not an innie.”
I turned my head, ready to cough.
After a twenty-minute conversation with tribal police, I learned my driver’s license would have sufficed. I also learned the impact that being a registered sex offender could have on me. They let me off with a warning.
I go back to the counter and show my driver’s license. The girl hands me $5.
“I’ll take that in ones please,” I said. “I plan to penny my way to wealth.”
I turn and look toward the games. Neon lights, electronic bleeps and rows of white-haired Caucasian elderly women fill the room.
Where are the tan beautiful tone people I see in their ads? Maybe this is the senior section. The rows do seem spread wider to accommodate Hoverounds. You don’t normally see this many Hoverounds in one location, other than senior day at the state fair.
I look for a game that gives me a good feeling. I find one I like. It has fish on it. I like fish.
I sit next to a elderly woman who tells me she has played the fish game for 72 hours.
She has a cigarette in her left hand, and an oxygen mask in her right. Her oxygen tank hangs out of her purse.
“How much have you won?” I asked.
“Not a damn thing. But as soon as I leave, someone will sit here and win,” she said.
I give her that smile and nod normally reserved for drunks.
“Sounds like a great strategy,” I replied.
I’m certain sure her oxygen tank is filled with meth. I don’t know of any “oxygen” that keeps you awake for 72 hours. Either that or she needs oxygen because of the indoor smog.
I put my dollar in the machine and press some button. For an activity that seems to take no thought at all, I have no idea what I’m doing. All I know is things spin, lights blur and I lose my dollar.
“What a crock. I’m new. They should let me win. It is my first time.”
I go to a find a new game.
The woman grabs my wrist.
“Someone will sit there and win,” she said.
“I’m ok with that,” I said. I pull my arm out of her grasp and walk away.
Two seconds later, someone sat in the same spot and won $20,000.
“Good for you Carl,” said scary oxygen-tank woman.
Yeah, good for you Carl. Whooptedo to Carl. He won. Well, at least I still have my $4.
I go to four separate games and lose all four of my dollars.
This was not worth it. I spent $10 in gas to drive here, and lose $5 of theirs. There’s so much smoke here, my sinuses had a seizure, my fingernails and teeth yellowed, and I have may lung cancer now. Not counting the employees, I’m the only person here below 60 years old.
Is this my future? Is this what I have to look forward to? Now I understand why there are no young people here. They are still ambitious about their future.
Then it hits me: I’m still young and I have a future. I feel superior to everyone in the building. The best part is they paid me to show up! I have to pay Wal-Mart to get this feeling.
Indian Casinos may not be good for Oklahoma’s image or the physical health of anyone’s lungs, but it is good for my self-esteem.
As I walk to my car, the giant Cherokee casino sign to my right catches my eye. I see a headshot of Carl who won $20,000.
I stop and look up at Carl’s photo.
“I bet that will buy a lot of “oxygen.”
I need an emergency room. My lungs hurt.
