Wasting Time

Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! Ding! I squint to filter the daylight, but it’s 2am…I think. I look around for a clock, nothing. They do that on purpose you know. Digging through my purse I pull out my cell phone. It's actually 2:11am. I’ve just finished work at the bar and I’m at the casino for the first part of my writing assignment; go somewhere you feel really uncomfortable and write about it. Brilliant, now I get to stay here for an hour.

I make my way past the first row of slot machines and remember the first time I went to the casino. I was 19 and barely convinced the security guard I was old enough. I swear I will get ID’d until I’m 40. I hated this place just as much back then; the lights, the people, the Ding! Ding! of the money-sucking machines. I’m tempted to go sit in T.G.I. Friday’s or the casino bar, but where’s the fun in that?

I sit down at one of the machines and immediately the image of an old woman sitting in this same seat wearing a diaper comes to mind. They do that you know. The really ‘dedicated’ (more like addicted) slot players wear diapers so they don’t have to leave their machines to go to the washroom. I squirm a little and sit at the very edge. The tips I made tonight are in my wallet. It was a good night; money for groceries and a nice bottle of wine. I look around and wonder what kinds of groceries these people buy. Probably pop and chips for the kids because they’re cheap and fatty frozen dinners because they’re fast. I scold myself for being so judgmental and get back to feeling uncomfortable. I flip open my cell, 2:21am.

The machine in front of me is covered with greasy fingerprints and I try to remember what kinds of diseases you can get from peoples hands. Probably just a cold or flu, but what about hepatitis? What did that commercial say? Crap! I’m too tired to remember. I put my gloves back on, take out my notepad and scrawl ‘This place is disgusting! If I get sick, can I sue Professor Emodi? I read it over. Written sarcasm is just not effective. I put the notepad back in my purse, which I realize I’ve been holding tightly on my lap. One of these gamblers would probably try and steal it; they’re probably staring at me and wondering how much money I’ve got. Great, I’m a judgmental, paranoid germophobe! Oh my god, where’s my cell?
At 2:32am I start wondering what I must look like. I’m sure I look pale under the harsh lighting and I curse the creator of florescent lights. I glare up at them and notice the black, glass domes that hold hundreds of security cameras. No wonder I’m paranoid.

I never intended to bet anything, but I should put something in the machine before they come after me for looking suspicious. I insert one of my hard-earned dollars into the machine. Now what? I poke at the screen, bet everything and find the button to make it spin. Pulling some kind of lever would be way more fun. The spinning stops. Now I have nothing. It’s 2:37am. That was fun.

I lost five dollars at a blackjack table a few years ago. All I could think about was the white hot chocolate with whipped cream and chocolate sprinkles I could have bought while out with friends. That dollar I lost tonight could have been bridge fare to visit my family in Halifax. At this point, more irritated than uncomfortable, I decide to leave. I’ve figured out why I feel so uncomfortable there; the money wasted is nothing compared to the waste of my time.