Only me and my then-boyfriend stayed behind to make lives in Las Vegas. Our Vegas stints had finished with diplomas and out-of-state job offers, so we said our goodbyes amid the slot machines, dizzied by our tears, free drinks, and the swirling pattern of the casino carpet. We parted the double doors to find our beloved bingo room replaced with slots, our three-dollar tables upped to five, and Jimmy adjusting the accessories of his new uniform: a tuxedo winged-collar, bow tie, and satin cummerbund. Metallic numbers slashed through the new logo with precision, promising us sums of money higher than we had ever won. Our sheriff was put behind bars at the Neon Museum. During our hiatus, a $7 million renovation had transformed Terrible’s into the Silver Sevens.
We headed Downtown to El Cortez, where we lasted a few months before gentrification pushed us back to our home on Flamingo and Paradise. But by graduation, the minimums became too rich for us. There was no better place to be bored and broke in Vegas. When we told Jimmy, our favorite dealer, that we were writers, he shared some Terrible’s trivia: We used to have a poetry night! This knowledge, and the pass line, made us believe that we belonged there, that the casino was built for us. Bad nights left us buzzed, but our wallets still plenty full. On good nights, we turned 20 dollars into 40 at the roulette table. As we waited our turn at live action, we looked to the dealers for answers: Are we gonna make it, Doc? Back then, everyone had to wait to gamble, because the three-dollar minimums had enticed all of us: locals, tourists, addicts, and budget-conscious alike. It pulsed in the center of the casino like an open heart on an operating table. We tried our hands at craps and blackjack. We soon graduated to the casino floor downstairs. Just a group of graduate students exploring things to do on a Friday night in our new, unfamiliar town.
We were there for the novelty, not the money. Our accidental “Bingos!” and laughter were unwelcomed by the regulars, but two of us, including me, won. We traded dollars for dobbers in the vending machines, weaved past old women with cigarettes and paper rainbow packs, and found a table that could fit all 10 of us. A red-vested cartoon sheriff with a mustache as long as a rattlesnake adorned the marquee outside. It was 2012, and the casino was called Terrible’s then. On our first visit to the Silver Sevens, we went for bingo. Revisiting the place where I learned that Vegas friendships, like casinos, come and go
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