Just like Monte Carlo. If Monte Carlo were full of hobos.

Last week a friend asked me to go play poker with him at the card room at a local racetrack. It was quite an experience.

I’ve spent a lot of time in Las Vegas and over the years I’ve gotten use to a certain opulence in casinos. If someone is going to take my money, I’d prefer it to be in a nice glitzy setting with hot cocktail waitresses. Unfortunately, the racetrack was not opulent. In fact, it looked and smelled like a team of Budweiser Clydesdales had marched through there peeing all over the carpets.

When I opened that door and looked around I was astounded. It looked like a hobo convention. Most of the people in that place were repulsive. As we stood in line at the chip cage I took a good look around. Degenerate gamblers, drunkards, people with the shakes, 800 pound sweaty guys…you name it. A lot of missing teeth. There were a few normal looking people but they were clearly the minority. And there was me. Overdressed, due to my shirt having sleeves.

My friend handed me a beer and I got my chips. Somehow, there was a certain romance to the whole thing. I felt like an outlaw in the old west. And with our names on a waiting list, we walked over to the bar and sat down.

“Just like the Bellagio, huh?” I said.

“I told you it wasn’t like Vegas.”

“Dude, look at the carpets.”

My friend looked down and started laughing. They were stained and tattered and the bare concrete underneath could be seen in places.

Every few seconds some old ginbag would bump into me and I’d check to make sure I still had my wallet. There were TVs everywhere simul-casting horse races from all over the country and a large crowd of the unemployable stood watching them with glassy eyes and rolled up tout sheets. None of them looked well off enough to be betting on anything. I haven’t been to the track in a long time, but I used to enjoy it. Of course, I always sprung for three bucks to go into the clubhouse where you could get a steak and people wore sport coats. I had never been to the hobo level before. It was like a scene in Escape from New York.

I was suddenly struck by the fact that these people were losers. Actual, cut-from-the-cloth losers. The type that never win at anything. It was written all over them. I would have felt sorry for them, but they were fucking obnoxious. Just then I felt something on my leg and when I looked down it was bum, crawling along the floor picking up losing tickets and checking them for who-knows-what.

The thought occurred to me that with such a large crowd of desperate low-life’s hanging around, how safe was my money? I mentioned this to my friend.

“Think we’ll get robbed in the parking lot?”

He was nonplussed.

“Dude, look at these people. Surely they’ve pawned their weapons by now.”

They finally called our names and when we got to the poker table I was pleasantly surprised to see some normal looking people, a couple of drunks and a borderline midget. We were assigned seats and I was somewhat taken aback. The dealer knew everybody at the table except for my friend and me. They were talking about poker hands they won or lost with recently. I started to get the feeling I was going to be outclassed.

As the first cards were dealt I leaned back in my filthy chair folded my first hand. The betting was heavy and I was wondering what I’d gotten myself into when the winner laid down his cards. He won with Jack/Two, having bluffed a guy who played seven/three. I couldn’t believe my eyes. I was at a table full of morons. Wild bluffing, calling with any face card…it was like they had never played poker before.

Three hours later we left with our winnings and went to celebrate someplace that didn’t smell like mildew. I think we’re going to be regulars.