We were somewhere around D.C., in the middle of the interstate, when the ethanol began to take hold. My acquaintance decided it would be a good idea to dump the useless, non-alcoholic liquid out the window; the woman driving behind us, now swerving because of the Coke and ice covering her windshield, decided it was not a good idea at all. In fact, though there were no bats flying around us, she unleashed the bird in such a violent fury that all we could do is laugh at her pathetic, angry face.
So why all this madness on a Friday afternoon among a seemingly innocent group of guys? Atlantic City. That's right baby. We left the healthful atmosphere of Charlottesville to join in with the rest of the world's scum to populate New Jersey's attempt at Las Vegas. Six hours, maybe more, maybe less depending on which maniac you put behind the wheel (and yes they were all sober,. Mr. PC) and we would be entering the heart of the east coast's source of depravity and sin. What better place to send U.Va.'s fratland than the one place they will be the tame souls, the ones "in control." Nowhere better for us heathens, so we pushed the pedal to the floor and let the two-door Tahoe meat its way down the black and yellow road. And only a few times did our minds deceive us that we should try this way rather than that, but we eventually found the right path.
Around eleven at night, when all the world's grandmothers were long asleep, we descended like a wave upon the city, a wave destined to break and fall back to its meager beginnings. Lights filled the horizon and our hearts began to leap in our chests, this time from adrenaline. Putting the CD in, Frank Sinatra began to serenade our march into sin. Atlantic Avenue, "the strip" of AC, was lit up like Hiroshima on a bad day. Our greedy eyes looked from casino to casino trying to figure out which would be the first for us to overrun. But first we had to check into the hotel.
Checking into a hotel on any other type of occasion is not looked on as being a difficult conundrum, but when you are checking forty plus frat kids into a hotel which enjoys the appearance of a family establishment, a lot can go wrong. Fortunately, our only delay was listening to the odd desk clerk ramble on about how we were not to be noisy that evening as there were other clients who actually planned on sleeping -- poor fools.
So after much waiting and gritting of teeth, we decided to make the long walk to Caesar's. Stumbling into the gaming floor was like walking into an average Charlottesville bar: everyone you could see had just made the same arduous journey as we. And they had beaten us to the punch; who knows how many of my chips they had taken from the casino while I was trying to get there -- they were winning my money. Blackjack! Blackjack! Craps is too damn confusing and I am in no mental state to try to think about that many numbers at once! Where the hell are the blackjack tables!?!
"Right this way sir."
"What's that? Who are you, some sort of dwarf or something?" Never mind, ignore these strange things happening around us -- gamble, and let's take this place for everything it's worth.
Only one problem: Caesar's is for the real high rollers: the type of people who can play $50 minimum blackjack all night. But for me, I was looking for the five-dollar "I'm an imbecile" tables. No such luck. Lowest minimum they have is $15 a hand. Well, looks like a hot ticket. I'll take it.
Five minutes later after one of my good friends already had lost everything he had planned on spending the entire evening, we decided that maybe this wasn't the place for us. The dealer whose nametag said "Sanchez," or something of the sort, was not helping by only speaking in what sounded like some version of Sanskrit on mescaline.
If you aren't sitting at the table long enough, the woman and her silicone friends won't bring you a free drink; no, for us poor folks, we have to pay for our own at the risque bar in the lobby. "Let's get out of here" -- too much madness. Must find a bar! We need strong drink.
Over to Bally's Wild West Casino, which ironically is about as far on the Eastern seaboard as you can get, to find some five-dollar tables. But they have to put us out of sight so the innocent passerby won't see the cheap people gambling "petty" amounts; they will see the fifty-dollar minimums and fall for the vicious trap. Nope, up to the sixth floor in the corner of the poker room to stand in the herd and wait for a seat so you can give the casino more of your money. Perhaps it was the intimidating dealer whose only response to any question was a Barry White-esque "yee-ah," or maybe it was because the waitress didn't bring me a drink in time, but I decided I needed more liquid and a change of scenery yet again.
The next stop on our foul night in this devastated wasteland of a city was none other than Bare Exposure. The lowest of all possible places to be: a BYOB strip club, but what else are you supposed to do after you have been stripped on all fronts by a Neanderthal named Sanchez and his bastard cousin who sounds like Barry White only can't sing? Enough of Bare Exposure, back to the street.
Hot Dogs for three bucks on the sidewalk and chilling wind that cools your marrow, where do you turn now? Room service on someone else's tab -- a much needed re-boost of energy -- and a quick review of the whole situation. Where have they all gone? What is really going on here?
Walking back into Caesar's at 5:30 a.m. is something I hope that most of you have not experienced. But for those of us who have, immediately seeing three friends staring at the oversize statue of Julius himself in the lobby, asking him "Et tu Brute?" was truly a comforting feeling, even if they had no better clue of where to go from here than I.
When a gambling city such as the one in which we were wandering shuts down and you are still awake stranded in the cold, questions start to bubble into your worn down brain. And we pondered these as we walked down the Boardwalk to our hotel, watching the sun rise over the Atlantic. Why are we still awake? This is Atlantic City, and although we may not have come out on top, we have now used this city for everything it's good for. Now it was time for a serious reappraisal of the whole situation, and an attempt to get a few hours rest before we had to wake and drive all the way back to Charlottesville.
Wasting hundreds of dollars on some weighted plastic chips that I will never see again is truly a humbling experience. But the sheer memory, or lack thereof, was definitely worth it. And though New Jersey is most surely as close as we will get to seeing hell on earth, it will continue to see visitors who will arrive in hordes, wads of cash in hand, breath strong enough to knock down the Holy Roman Army, all attempting to achieve the American Dream, but they never will.
Read More
The importance of female friendships in your twenties
By Madigan Wirkus | 12 hours agoTo the women who stand loyally by my side, not because they have read the script, but because they will live the scene
JFK course connects the president’s legacy to the present day
By Charley Thomas | 2 days agoSabato’s passions for the Kennedy legacy and American politics shine through both his lectures and his interactions with students.
SOCA lights up the night with second annual Carnival
By Ingrid Gay | 4 days agoThe festivities served as a way to bring together the “small but mighty” Caribbean community at the University.
