Expertise
photo by Dave Newman
My schedule has not yet been formed, and I don’t want to waste the dog’s time, so Grace and I decide to go to the Golden Nugget in Tunica while Gabe is at school. It’s either there or Home Depot and Applebee’s. On the drive, we plan our plan. I explain the three rules I know about craps. Grace shares that her mother once played penny slots in Atlantic City for ten hours straight and broke even. Remember, it is possible to place so many bets in roulette that you can’t possibly win.
I will not judge the Wednesday morning crowd because I’m among it. First, I order a club soda and have to explain how the drink is made without vodka. Grace gets champagne with a pale pink raspberry lolling in it. In the bathroom mirror, as prep, it occurs to me that something very dramatic, either good or bad, could happen today.
When I find Grace, she is faking her way through a hand of baccarat. There is a dude with a sapphire earring and a widow's peak perched on her shoulder, making suggestions. There was a time when I would have made a big deal about this, but I’ve given up on petty jealousies. As newly expected, he glances at my tungsten wedding band and evaporates.
In college, a friend leapt over the wall on the top floor of a casino parking garage. He caught himself—this was not a suicide—but he had lost $5000 of his student loan playing blackjack. He was a young man fueled only by bravado, bourbon, and quotes attributed to Ben Franklin. He had no intention of finishing art school. I loved him.
Then Gabe texts both of us: “we on lockdown.”
I hate to say we knew this day would come. We are, however, surprised to find ourselves ninety miles away at a casino when it did. As parents, we can honestly give ourselves a B+ cumulative rating, but this is D work that we’ve turned in today.
The official text from the school has now come in, confirming, and were already aiming south on I-55 with $80 in Golden Nugget chips. I will not add to the general bemoaning about the modern necessity of enhanced school safety. If all Gabe learns in eighth grade is how to keep himself alive, plus a little algebra, so be it. But by the time we get to Batesville, Gabe has texted again: “lockdown ovah dude dropped a gun.” We are relieved by the profound mystery of this message.
When the official text from the school comes in, it seems the school resource officer misplaced his firearm. It was dutifully turned in by, get this, a third grader. We are happy, but I also swear to write an angry letter about this. But when I do, I’m not as angry as I had thought.
We had no chance at the casino—Grace didn’t even learn to play baccarat or enjoy the effects of her dismal flute. On tv, there is a lot of hugging after school incidents like this, so we assume that will be our impulse when we see Gabe. He texts again: “what’s for dinner?” The way some people—including me— believe in their own expertise is distressing.