Gambling Hell

My mom’s term for casino was “gambling hell,” and I think she had it right. If there is a place of eternal suffering in the afterlife, I think it would be pretty much like what they’ve got here in Reno: a massive windowless hotel lobby, smelling of stale smoke and old booze, crammed full of beeping, clanking, and shouting machines, populated by overwrought people trying desperately to enjoy themselves while engaging in an essentially hopeless activity among strangers who will pretend to be their friends only as long as the money holds out; there’s no escape from any of it and success only gets you stuck deeper; moreover, what passes for luxury is phony, ephemeral, and forced, natural beauty is replaced with artifice and human contact with media-mediated pretense.

I have, at times in my life, convinced myself I quite enjoyed gambling; I’ve spent a fair amount of time reading up on strategies for playing craps and then trying to put them into action in a casino. I’m a reasonably intelligent dice player; I know the best bets on the table and generally have the discipline to stick to those options.

Last night I spent a couple hours shooting dice and believe it or not, I broke completely even, cashing out for the exact same amount I bought in for. Given then, that I got to drink a couple of three beers on the house, one could argue I actually came out a winner.

But what I keep thinking is that even had I won big, I’d still be a loser. There’s just something undeniably pathetic about casino gambling; looking around at my fellow gamblers, I couldn’t help but think that we were all punishing ourselves for something—maybe just being there.

Perhaps the reason casino gambling has lost its appeal for me is that I don’t feel I deserve this punishment.

I’m not even going to hell when I die, why should I when I’m alive?