By Ryan McGowan
Perhaps it was when I had to ask the guys from the Mine Rescue Simulation team how the hell you simulate a mine in a hotel casino. It could have been when the cab driver asked me if I wanted to tag along with his next customer out to the Bunny Ranch. But in hindsight, I think the moment I realized that Massholes don’t belong in Reno was when I was walking down North Virginia Street and realized I was out of place because I was actually wearing a shirt.
For two weeks in July, I was shacked up in the Silver Legacy Resort Casino in lovely Reno, Nevada, attending a two-week Journalism Institute at the University of Nevada. I’m happy to report that after 13 days in the Silver State, I did not gamble (at least until the last day), get rip-roaring drunk, attend a strip club, get my ass kicked by a gang of cowboys, or shoot a man just to watch him die. Clearly, for any Bostonian degenerate gambler stuck in Washoe County for a fortnight with Lieutenant Jim Dangle protecting the peace, this can be counted as a victory in and of itself.
Reno does have its good points, don’t get me wrong. The Silver Legacy is a fine casino, comparable with all but the high end places on the Strip, and it has an entertaining piano bar (RumBullions) and a classy comedy club (Catch a Rising Star). The university has an attractive campus, modeled after most of the elite Eastern schools that only the beautiful people attend. The weather this time of year was gorgeous, with every day reaching a high in the 90’s with no humidity and tons of sun. The local newspaper, the Reno Gazette-Journal, sponsors free WiFi in the airport (although I am pretty sure someone stole my debit card number and bought a plane ticket on Southwest Airlines, a charge for which I had to file a claim and haggle with various Bank of America lackeys for three straight days). And if you are so inclined, apparently you can hop a cab only 10 miles out of town and hit up a legal brothel. Sometimes life is good.
But I just can’t assess Reno fairly because my judgment was sapped by my inability to gamble (or rather, my determination not to gamble). After suffering through proverbial dealer-induced sodomy in too many blackjack games over the years at Foxwoods, Mohegan Sun, Atlantic City, and Vegas, I could foresee a scenario in which I sat down at the table the moment I landed at Reno-Tahoe International and lost my entire bankroll, forcing me to drop the class at UNR and wash dishes at the El Dorado for three weeks just to pay for my plane ticket home. I was determined not to let that happen, especially since a pay raise at work was contingent upon my completion of the course.
So instead I suffered by proximity. The people who study gamblers’ behaviors and design the interior of casinos are not stupid. They don’t have degrees in Gaming Studies (read: “How to Rip People’s Testicles Off and Call it Entertainment” Studies) for nothing. The hotel lobby at the Legacy is on the second floor, and the only way to get to the outside world is to walk through a labyrinthine maze that a NASA-owned GPS system would have to constantly recalibrate to get out of. Every morning at 7:00, and every evening at around 7:30 or 8, I had to trek past slot machines, video poker kiosks, roulette tables, Wheels of Fortune, the sports book with its NORAD-esque display of games and endless prop bets, and $5 single deck blackjack dealers aching for me to throw down $200 and double down every 11 I pulled. And every morning and every evening I tingled inside a little, swallowed some drool, and dutifully walked to the university or straight back to my room without indulging.
I think it was on the day that I left that I realized how smart I was to make the executive decision not to gamble until the last day I was in town. My class ended at 1 p.m. and I had to kill seven hours before my flight. This was my designated gambling time. I hit four aces on video poker and was up $80, so I figured I was playing with house money. I sat down at single-deck blackjack and played for a few hours, basically hovering around even the whole time. But then I took a break–bad idea. When I got back, the dealers had changed, and I blew through about $200 in about 10 minutes. This isn’t a lot of money, but considering I emptied my usual bankroll in Vegas in April, I wasn’t playing with house money anymore.
So I decided to call it a day at the tables and walked away, only down $20 for the trip. I went outside to get some fresh air and that’s when it hit me–this was it for me in Reno. If this had been my first day in town, I would have been motivated to go back to the table the next day, and the next day, and so on… until I was down $1,000 and was offering to give lap dances at Harrah’s for food money. And I would have had maybe 10 more days to kill before I could go home, and I would have eventually realized that I was still in Reno. And that’s when depression would have set in. And that’s when I would have started drinking – heavily. And that’s when I probably would have been jumped by some cowboys. And that’s when I probably would have shot a man just to watch him die. And that’s probably where Lt. Jim Dangle would have come in. You get the picture.
So all in all, I was fortunate to get out of Reno in one piece, considering I tended to go into slight full-body spasms every morning when I came into sight of the forbidden tables. I had one last moment of temptation with the video poker at the airport terminal, but my wireless access and subsequent identity theft helped me to dodge that one. After an uncomfortable cross-country red-eye flight out of San Francisco in which the fattest guy on the plane of course sat in the middle seat next to me on the window, I landed at Logan at about 7:30 AM on Saturday morning, dignity and wallet intact, and free from any Third World, ranch-induced STDs.
Later that day, I was walking around Southie and noticed there were other people besides me wearing shirts and I got a little nostalgic for the Truckee River valley. I think it’s human nature to want to feel superior to the people around you, especially when you’re a douchebag elitist Northerner like myself. Either that or I just really have a gambling problem.
Anyone want to go back to Reno with me in ’09? I think I got some card playin’ and ranchin’ to do that I ain’t got `round to yet.
2 replies on “A Masshole Degenerate Gambler in King Arthur’s Court… er- Reno”
My Town… is a trip isn’t it? Especially coming from Boston, in your case. It’s like a different world out here, people seem to be less connected to worldly issues.
I’m glad you didn’t make it out north of town, to Sun Valley. You article probably would have been much more scrutinizing than it was. It’s not that there aren’t good people out there, but it sure as hell doesn’t look friendly, with double-wides all over, and a fence made of chicken wire keeping the seven pit-bulls from attacking the mail carrier. Not to mention each “yard”, if you can call it that, has a tleast one car missing something; a wheel, a door, paint, windows, etc.
Jumped by cowboys is a stretch my friend, this may be a small, wannabe Vegas, hick ass, dirty town (which is exactly what this place is, word for word) but we have some ruthless assholes here. MS-13 has left there mark here, as have a few other national and international gangs and criminal organizations.
Now I’mma come to Kenmore, or Back Bay, or Beacon Hill and start taking in what I see, and I’ll write a column. Does everyone talk like they do in “The Departed” or “Gone Baby Gone”? Just kidding man, I’ve been to Boston a few times, and although your peoples is loud and obnoxious, they are good people. At least the ones I didn’t start jawing with and try to fight. But even that was entertaining.
Thanks Phiction By the way, people in Boston DO talk like “Gone Baby Gone” or “Mystic River.” It’s pretty scary how closely those two movies capture working class Boston. I’d love to read the thoughts of a Nevadan in the Back Bay.
Yeah I didn’t make it to Sun Valley but from your description it sounds a lot when Eastern North Carolina which I have been to.