I watched Amateur with my daughter over the Easter weekend. (Not worth watching on the big screen). After the movie, she said, “I have never seen a casino before, can we see one?” So I took her to the nearest one, BetKen Casino on Woodvale Grove.
Upstairs I showed her the slot machines. The roulette tables. I got stares from the gamblers who must have thought a middle-aged fellow with a teenage-looking girl [She’s 17] in a crop top was a big gamble even for the seasoned of them.
“Why do people gamble?” She asked. I told her it’s because everybody believes they are a winner. “Doesn't matter, though, the house always wins.”
She said it didn’t look like what she thought it did. It actually looked depressing. Too bright, for one, the carpet too chitzy. Dazed men lounged about waiting for something exciting to happen. [Good luck, maybe]. Croupiers wore glazed-over looks. The incessant sound of the machine slots made it sound like an industrial cult.
“Let’s get out of here. I need a drink,” I told her. We went over to 254 Beer District, across the road, on Delta Towers. Her first time in a bar. [Rather, I hope, never know with these kids.] It was the emptiest I have ever seen it. Last time I was there was New Year's Eve; we watched fireworks go off over the GTC building. It’s a young bar.
We settled at the bar counter. I ordered a double bourbon and a virgin mojito for her. She approved the music. I gave her a whole talk about alcohol and its dangers again: Know when to stop. Always drink water. Avoid mixing your alcohol. Sugar in your drink is bad. Never lose yourself. I told her about men and chemical warfare.
“Can I taste it?” she asked, as if she has never tasted alcohol in her life. (I suspect she has]. I reluctantly ordered a cider and poured half of it into a glass. “Whisky is 40 percent alcohol, this is like, 5 percent. Start from the bottom when you start.” It tastes fruity, she said. Shortly before midnight, we went home.
