Hit or Stay

The only game I know how to play is blackjack. But knowing how to play is very different than knowing how to win. Gambling isn’t something I get a thrill out of. However, since my somewhat close friend, Keith, is getting married in the Spring, I agreed to spectate as he and his brother test their fates on the tables. Keith and Terry are hypermasculine, the football type, but they are both under six foot and constantly express the regret I should have for not trying out as a six-foot-two introvert with mild haphephobia. 

The Mills Lodge Casino is forty minutes from downtown. It’s old, barely retrofitted on the interior, and if you look at the carpet for too long you will need to supplement the front kiosk’s Dramamine sales. Alternatively, you could lean into the establishment’s overstimulation efforts and get intoxicated. Keith and Terry chose this method. It’s about one hour into our night and Keith is using my shoulder as a support beam. We’ve just left the blackjack table that Keith donated his third one-hundred-dollar bill to, and I thought a trip to the bathroom might be a nice reset before things get out of hand. The only window in the Mills Lodge Casino is a skylight directly above the restroom facilities. The obligatory explanation of why casinos don’t have windows was being performed by Terry with impressively few slurred words. In the meantime, I was attempting to determine if it was just pitch black outside, or if the entire glass pane was engulfed by a blizzard’s snow. The weather app determined that the latter was correct. 

My plan to Irish goodbye and get eight hours of sleep was now in turmoil. Keith and Terry pitched the utilitarian solution of me sleeping on the warm hotel room floor with a spare pillow and blanket. My anxiety began to heighten as everyone in the casino seemed to be discussing road closures. 

I didn’t wait for Keith or Terry to get out of the restroom before I juked my way to the lobby. The concierge had three sayings: “yes”, “no”, and “sounds good.” Our conversation resulted in me trading forty dollars for the key to room 317. 

I remembered I had an extra t-shirt and some dental flossers in my car, so I went to the garage to retrieve these valuable items that could make this dreadful situation a little more endurable. The garage was somehow desolate, I knew there was a shuttle that some visitors could ride in, but I was shocked how little people drove to this establishment. I turned the corner to see my 09’ Civic just three spots away from a white pick up. The truck was running, so I cautiously crossed its path in case it reversed all of a sudden. As I gathered my stuff from the trunk, I peeked over to see this fuel-conscious driver, curious to what he was doing. A blue baseball cap guarded what I presumed to be an elderly face. The garage had minimal lighting, but I figured he could be sleeping. When I closed my trunk his window opened and I heard a smoker’s voice ask, “Is that your car?” I stepped towards his side panel to confirm that it was. He didn’t move toward the mirror or window at all to ask his next question. “You want to move it?” he asked. I saw no reason to, I figured as our cars were maybe the only two in the section it wouldn’t make a difference where I parked. I nervously declined his obscure proposition and the window rolled back up. 

 I walked back towards the elevators with a pit in my stomach from the strange interaction. I lost more and more feeling in my toes with each step on the frigid pavement. As the elevator doors closed, I looked back at my car, and in the last second of visibility, a dark figure came into frame walking away from the white pick up truck. I briefly pondered how I didn’t see this third garage occupant but the elevator’s beep gave me Pavlov's instinct to check my phone. Text from Kieth: “At Roulette Table”.

I stepped back into the casino floor’s labyrinth trying to remember what a roulette table looks like. A waitress backed into me but neither of us fell. I was impressed how she balanced two bud lights on a tray with heels on. Right before I could apologize, the ceiling lights dimmed, followed by the slot machines. The power was indeed going out. Oos and awes from patrons flooded my ears. Some gross laughs turned into mean screams. I stayed still, trying to gauge if that waitress was still right in front of me. Cell phones were now the only light source. 

I turned my brightness up. Text from Keith: “HOLY SHIT.” My plan to find the roulette tables just got a whole lot more difficult. I started to panic. But maybe not as much as the staff. It became apparent that multiple gamblers “just happened to hit the jackpot” as the power went out. Security quickly moved in to monitor the chips. Because the music was no longer playing, we all realized just how far a police officer’s voice could echo in a place like this. “Nobody move, and stay calm,” were the repeated instructions. I felt a seat near my right hand, so I decided to take it and wait out the outage. I felt invisible, but not because people couldn’t see me, but because I chose to stay silent. Those around me made themselves known by talking about the situation. Two girls behind me discussed how easy it would be to steal some chips. And how many they would take to go unnoticed. A man, perhaps two tables over, called someone to express his frustrations. He had many due to it being the one night a year he gets to come up. But the most remarkable thing I heard came from a passerby I could not track further from when he passed me. It was a man’s voice. And this voice said, “Three minutes.” The rest was unintelligible. At the time I presumed this might be how long until the power returned. But I internalized this amount of time to instead be how long I had to escape this anxiety inducing scene. I picked one of the two exits and let my phone light lead the way. I dodged service dogs, chair legs, and some college girls choosing to lay on the ground for a photo shoot. I finally made it outside. This was officially the biggest snowstorm of the year. Plows were struggling to get traction. I crossed the street and looked back at the Mills Lodge Casino. Scanning up, not a light was on in the upper hotel. Scanning down, an explosion erupted from the second floor garage. Alarms sounded. Snow continued to fall. And I sat down in the snowbank in mere shock of what I just witnessed. 

Two weeks later, I’m in my apartment. I had just retrieved my mail and I like to eat lunch to the news. My news streams from Youtube because cable is no longer free. I click the latest headlines. After a men’s hair loss advertisement, the anchor led with these words, “The Mills Lodge Casino continues to heal from its explosive attack and heist, no suspects have been detained, but police do confirm that the vault was infiltrated by a car-bomb on the second floor garage. That car is confirmed to be a 09’ Honda Civic.”

Text from Keith: “HOLY SHIT.”