I stopped gambling, because I’m too smart to lose everything when everything is pretty much gone. My boss got fired, I was let go soon after, and the cards dried up. Years ago, I entered a long streak of shit luck. Everyone leaves with a story and the occasional fistful of lettuce. But most like the Horseshoe in my mind because it’s a station of hope, long ago plopped like a golden turd in a huge vacant lot 20 miles south of downtown. Sure, everyone is getting dragged, mostly, but there is a sense of something shared.
The place is a respite from debates about Trump and reminders of climate change. They tell tales - of their sister’s battle with cancer, of the best gyro on the South Side, of how to drive in snow. It is the only place I know these days where everyone keeps their eyes up and mouths open. Grandmothers sit shoulder to shoulder with steelworkers, playing trumped-up games like Caribbean stud.
You enter to a carpet-muffled throb of human bustle - tracksuits and tuxedos, maid uniforms and Bermuda shorts. Hammond, Indiana -The Horseshoe Casino sits in full retreat, at the far end of a long curl of road built like a freeway exit.
