So I narrow my focus to a middle-aged couple standing over by one of the craps tables. They’re dressed casually, the man in a polo and khakis, and the woman in a sundress. They look like they’re probably my mother’s age, maybe a couple of years younger. And most importantly, the woman is wearing a massive diamond on her ring finger.
“Hi,” I say when I’m infringing on their personal space enough that they look up. “I’m Eleanor. I was wondering if you could help me out.” At this point, it occurs to me that I really should have thought through what I wanted to say ahead of time.
Adrenaline and self-consciousness have me talking fast. “See, I have these promotional chips. My friend and I won them in this newlywed game—it’s a long story. We’re not really married. I mean, technically we are. But we’re not in loveor anything. I only realized I might actually have feelings for him like an hour ago, but that’s… well, that’s beside the point.”
The two of them exchange a look, like they’re both unsure how stable I am. My throat feels tight. I’m no longer sure how stable I am either.
I swallow and shake my head, waving my hand like I can swat my emotions away. “Oh my god, sorry. I truly don’t even like Adam that much. This has been a really long, confusing day. And we won these chips, but we can’t cash them in, and weneedto cash them so Adam can get his ID back—”
The man raises his hand, palm facing me, and reaches into his pocket. I drag in a breath and ignore the way my throat is still aching like I’m about to cry—it’s the air in here, smoke-tinged and stifling—and preemptively start thanking him when I see a stack of chips in his hand.
“Thank you. Seriously, you have no idea how grateful I am.”
He tosses me a chip—literallytossesit at me, and I somehow manage to catch it, nearly fumbling all of my own chips in the process. When I lift my head, his back is turned and he’s steering his wife to another table.
I look down at the chip he gave me. It’s worth ten dollars. It occurs to me that he only gave it to me to get me to stop talking. Which… I guess isn’t the worst response to a stranger all but accosting you out of nowhere.
My lips pinch and my breath catches and I’m once again struck by the urge to call Iris. This is humiliating, and it’s hard to say whether it’d be more or less humiliating to confess everything to my sister and beg her for help.
“Oh, honey…”
I look up to find a woman who bears a striking resemblance to Betty White in her later years standing a few feet away. She clucks her tongue and looks me over, head to toe. Then she beckons me toward her group of friends—three women well into their eighties, all wearing bright lipstick and embellished athleisure suits. They look like a band of mall walkers from North Jersey.
I shuffle over to where they’re occupying a nearby bank of slot machines, uncertain of what they want from me, but strangely compelled to do what this lady asks, if only because of the Betty White thing.
“I couldn’t help but overhear you talking to that couple,” she tells me as she gives the jumbo plastic cup in her hand a little shake. “What do you need?”
“… Sorry, what?”
She’s picking chips out of her cup, but pauses to glance at me, over the top of her glasses. Something about that look has me standing up straighter. “You want to trade your promo chips, right? We may not look like high rollers, but we do all right on the electronic poker machines. Don’t we, girls?”
The other women nod their agreement, and one of them leans forward to tell me: “Angie is on a winning streak.”
Angie—the Betty doppelgänger—is wearing big gold earrings that look painfully heavy, stretching the lobes of her ears, and an honest-to-god visor. She touches two fingers gently to my wrist and leans forward. “What’s your name, honey?”
I tell her, and she introduces herself, the other three women—Helen, Maryellen, and Isabella.
“Not that it’s any of my business,” she says next, “but where’s this man you were talking about before?”
“Adam,” I say. “He’s around. At one of the blackjack tables.”
Helen’s lipstick has feathered slightly around her mouth, which is made all the more noticeable when she purses her lips in distaste. Beside her, Maryellen tuts. Clearly, these women are not feeling generous toward men at the moment.
“Typical,” Angie says, and then grabs the big plastic cup that contains all of her chips and coins. “So, what do you need, sweetie?”
I look down at my handful of chips. “Um. I have twelve hundred and fifty worth of chips. But anything you could do would be really great.”
“Sure thing. We’ve got you covered.”
She and her friends each dig out a handful of chips from their respective stashes, and Angie holds them out to me, just like that. I hesitate, unable to believe it’s really this easy, then reach to trade the chips with her. “Thank you. Really.”
She waves her hand while she divvies the chips up among the group again. “No problem. Like Isabella said, I’ve had a good weekend. Besides, we’re celebrating.”
I slide my chips into my pocket, terrified of losing them. “Oh yeah? Is it your birthday?”
“Heck no, I’ve stopped acknowledging those.”
“According to her, she’s sixty-five,” Helen says with a cackle.
