Minnesota's New Casino Culture

They're spaced conveniently along major thoroughfares and freeways, usually within 50 miles or fewer from most homes in populated areas of our state.  The Twin Cities  area has one of its very own in a third-ring suburb within a 30 minute drive of almost every metro resident. It's a cultural phenomenon known as the proliferation of casinos.

I stop at one quite regularly on my weekly drive "up north" (as Minnesotans say) because it's located about half-way to my cabin.  It's  a good place to have lunch or dinner and take a much-needed break in my 200 mile trip.  If I'm lucky, I get out of there pronto, but occasionally get trapped like a fly on sugared sticky paper.

The casino's food options are numerous, from a high-end steakhouse in evenings, a sit-down restaurant and buffet, to a fast-food joint and coffee shop.  Except for the steakhouse, entrees/offerings are priced relatively cheap because the casino operators know they can make up for any low profit margins when the diners move to the gaming floor. One can also use credits (comps) earned and stored on an electronic gaming card to get free food, gift shop items, rooms and spa services.

The slots in the gaming areas are arranged in a variety of patterns from angled rows to carousels and banks along the walls with "progressive" jackpots that mostly range from several thousand to $20,000, with the top one being over $300,000, but it's rare for any of them to hit.  A sound system blares out country music, pop classics and golden oldies interrupted periodically by paging messages and announcements of casino promotions and activities.  Multi-liner, multi-reel slots with distinctive symbols/images whizzing, dominate among a few older types with bars, sevens and diamonds on a center payline only. Among the flashing colored lights, bells ringing to signal bonus rounds, rollicking calliope tunes to mark wins and hand-pays and even "talking" machines to massage players' egos and cheer them on, it's a wonderland of light and sound guaranteed to immerse players in a fantasy world and distract them from the cares of the real world. For some, these fantasies and distractions move beyond entertainment to addiction.

The players are a motley lot (except for me, of course), with a heavy concentration of older ones, especially women, often bused in for the entire day. They have coupons to cash in for food discounts, promotional gifts and free play. After the "freebies" run out, it's necessary to start feeding the machines one's own money.  Amidst a few screaming winners, frustration and worry levels rise as hooked players realize they have lost too much money and worry that  their scheduled dental work will have to be delayed if not sacrificed altogether. For players staying overnight in complimentary rooms, the standard joke on the elevators is, "Yeah, my free hotel room cost me $500 in losses," highlighting the sobering reality that the typical player loses multiple times more money than the worth of total  benefits earned.

From the rag-tag appearance and haggard looks of many players, one is tempted to conclude that their casino visits have been taking a heavy toll on their health and standard of living.  Many are chain smokers with raspy coughs relieved by heavy drinking of caffeinated black coffee.  Beer is also sold from mobile ice-filled bins, and some players have clearly tipped up too many. Even with the daily shampooing machines scenting the carpeted floors, a persistent stale smoke odor hangs heavy in the stagnant air.

For players with deeper pockets, there's a quieter and more secluded high-stakes gaming area.  Amenities include leather-upholstered chairs with bucket seats and foot rests  as well as recessed lighting. The players, often "settled in" for long sessions, are noticeably better dressed and groomed except for an occasional "waif" who is  clearly out of place and, after playing just a few coins, either leaves or sits and watches others win amounts way beyond his grasp and imagination. Servers are ever present for ordering an endless supply of free fast foods and soft drinks, with generous tipping expected.  Slot attendants will gladly stand guard at a machine while a player goes to the ATM or check-cashing cage to get more money. Thousands can be won or lost within a few hours.

On weekends there are usually special drawings for cash, free play and an occasional luxury vehicle that would otherwise be way beyond the reach of most players. The more one plays, the more entries he earns.  Paper entry slips were formerly deposited into a huge drawing barrel, from which winning tickets were drawn at periodic intervals and announced over the PA. If winners don't claim their prizes within five minutes, another ticket is drawn.

People hoping to win, crowd around the area when a drawing time nears and then drift away in disappointment after not having their names called. Coming shortly, an electronic drawing system will replace the aging barrel. A card swipe adds one's entry to a data base from which winning names are generated and flashed on flat screen. The drawing barrel  will be put in storage and eventually end up in a garbage dump.

Late in the afternoon or early evening, the PA announces the leaving times and locations of the departing buses, with repetitions necessary to remind laggards that their buses are about to leave.  Still later in the evening, the in-house child care facility announces its closing time repeatedly so that players who have left children there will come to pick them up. Then, a more forcefully stated PA message states they are CLOSED, obviously a strong hint to parents to get off their slots (and butts) and pick up their kids.  In an alternative universe, one can hear the announcer yelling over the PA, "Get off your f------- butts and pick up your damn kids!"

Now patrons on the casino floor thin out, and activity slows down. The night people and hard-core gaming addicts settle in for playing into the early morning hours.  The cleaning crews and slot repair techs cordon off  sections one at a time to ready the casino for the coming day.  A platoon of  robotic workers in dark jump suits labeled "Count Team" on the backs descend in mass on the casino floor to collect coins and cash boxes from the slots and place them in compartments  on self-propelled and steerable carts, with several armed guards keeping careful watch over the entire operation. A rapid-fire bell sound warns of each cart's approach as it moves methodically around a pre-planned route.

With little do do, slot attendants socialize in small clusters to relax and make the time go faster. Soon the morning shift will arrive to relieve them. Through a distant entryway at one end of the casino, the first rays of the morning sun filter in ever so dimly. As semi-trailer trucks line up at delivery docks to re-stock the casino's supplies, the first of the new day's players drive into welcoming parking spaces. Their cars are a mixture of  a few newer models with mostly older ones often in need of cleaning and repair.  Shortly, the child-care facility will re-open and the coming day's buses of gamblers will arrive to repeat the daily cycle all over again.