When I returned to the casino floor after my 5:00 a.m. breath of fresh air, only a smattering of patrons remained. It was noisier than ever, though, because on top of the general racket, the custodial staff was busy with its giant floor sweepers and vacuum cleaners. I came upon a stylish woman playing three-card poker, sitting alone across from a clearly bored dealer. For about fifteen minutes I watched her as she cashed in four hundred-dollar bills—in separate installments—and then lost everyone of her chips in what seemed an impossibly rapid fashion. The woman betrayed absolutely no emotion as she handed over another hundred dollars, but I did seethe dealer wince almost imperceptibly as he swept up her pile of chips one more time. When I strolled past again, perhaps twenty minutes later, she was still slumped at the table, jiggling a few remaining chips in her hand and staring at the green felt in front of her.
Before calling it a night, I settled in at a blackjack table where two young guys from Menomonie, Wisconsin, were smoking and agonizing over each hand. The guy holding the cards didn’t have a whole lot to say; he pretty much just sat there scowling and smoking. His partner, though, a pint-sized, pasty-looking kid who didn’t look a day older than eighteen, stood behind him offering high-strung advice in what sounded like a Maine accent.
This guy was a compulsive talker. His name, he told me, was Bobby, but his friends called him “El Toro.” He and his friend were third-shift workers with a night off, just killing time. As Bobby rattled on about his blackjack prowess, I saw the dealer roll his eyes dramatically a couple of times. I bought some chips and played three hands, each time heeding El Toro’s insistent advice. I held at sixteen, and the dealer turned over eighteen. I held at seventeen; the dealer had twenty. Finally, after receiving a five and asix, and with the dealer showing three, Bobby talked me into doubling down. It didn’t take much persuading, actually; I was barely conscious and had no ideawhat the decision entailed. I can only tell you that I drew a two, and the dealer somehow, again, ended up with twenty.
I suppose it was around seven o’clock when I headed upstairs. A woman sat in the Mongo Bay Grill, nodding off over a bowl of split-pea soup, but by this time the hotel lobby was showing signs of life. The hotel was hosting a Freightliner company convention, and some attendees were heading out for golf or taking a crack at the casino before the day’s scheduled activities. At the poker tables, a couple of games were still going strong, and in the high-stakes blackjack room a lone figure—a fifty-ish guy in a plain gray T-shirt, khaki shorts, and baseball cap—was drinking bottled water and going head-to-head with an exhausted-looking dealer.
By 9:00 a.m. I was on Highway 19, headed west for Jackpot Junction in Morton and almost literally driving blind. I hoped to check in to my hotel room early, so I could at least attempt to sleep for a few hours. At one point, just after I realized I was driving less than forty miles per hour, an ostrich, or perhaps an emu, loped across the road in front of my car. It’s possible I was hallucinating by this time.
I eventually made it to Morton in the early afternoon. Save for its casino, there’s little to distinguish this place from the other tiny towns strung every five or ten miles along a railroad that swoops through western Minnesota. When I arrived at Jackpot Junction—for a severely sleep-deprived, possibly hallucinating man, the parking lot of a rural casino, snarled with creeping automobiles piloted by old people, might be one of the most perilous driving experiences in North America—the hotel clerk delivered crushing news: My room wouldn’t be ready for another couple of hours.