Tuesday, August 31, 2010

Fear and Loathing in Atlantic City


Gobsmacked.  That’s the term my British friends would use to describe what I felt during a recent, short trip to Atlantic City (also known as AC).  If I translated the term directly, it would mean smacked in the mouth.  However the real meaning of the word is the state of being rendered utterly, and completely speechless.
That much emotion for Atlantic City?  Yes, I’m surprised that I even cared.  Growing up in Philadelphia in the early 70’s, AC was one of those places that the family would pack up the car and take a drive to down the Atlantic City Expressway.  It was one of those places you took for granted, unlike Ocean City (NJ or MD), or Martha’s Vineyard (for the more affluent of black folks).  Personally, I have many a fond memory of the Atlantic City-going ritual.  My mother got up at the crack of dawn to fry chicken and make potato salad and other edibles for the picnic basket.  Homemade iced-tea and lemonade were also staples for the trip.  We’d load the car and take the 1 1/2 hour journey all the way to “Chicken Bone Beach.”
Chicken Bone Beach was actually the nickname given to the stretch of the AC beach at Missouri Avenue.  The beach had been segregated since the 1900’s and this was where African Americans could go to romp and relax by the surf.  We went with our picnic baskets and transistor radios (everybody listened to the same stations – usually WDAS-FM, sometimes WHAT-AM), creating a lively, festive environment.  We could go to the amusement park and ride the roller coasters and Ferris wheel.  Bumping cars were a favorite, and I never really figured out just exactly how they got the man to turn into a gorilla right before your eyes! He, of course, would break out of the bars that “enclosed” him, chasing us while we squealed in terror. It was great carnival entertainment that had a special place in my heart.
When the casinos came in the mid to late 70’s, the sentiment by regular folk was that the troubles AC faced would magnify.  On the one hand, they did.  Crime went up, drug use increased, poverty worsened.  On the other hand, there were more jobs and people were hopeful that things would get better.  But this never fully manifested.  Today, the majority of casino workers live outside of AC and the town is still plagued by traditional big city troubles.
Now to my trip.  If ever I were to were become an anthropologist (highly unlikely) I would first go to Atlantic City.  It doesn’t matter where you go: on the boardwalk, in the casinos, in the amusement park, it’s all the same.  There’s something about the nature of human interaction in AC that let’s you know it’s always at the tipping point.  Whether the poles are between affluence - being broke, sobriety - addiction, family man – John, it’s always a thin thread of life that holds things dangerously together.  In addition, there isn’t a lot of distance between these extremes so that people easily transition from one end of the spectrum to the other.
I noticed one woman who walked down the street with her boyfriend.  She had the look of a person who had been chewed up and spit out.  A woman who then put on her best red tube top with matching tight pants, and gold jewelry.  Her jewelry was a throwback to the style popular in the eighties- probably the time when she became addicted to crack cocaine.
I know this look well from friends and family who have succumbed to this.  The boyfriend wasn’t much better off, but he didn’t have the outfit or the jewelry that screamed, “Look at me!”  Watch, look away, watch look away.  She captivated me because I had the feeling that not much separated us.  But it just takes one time, one experience to tip you over to the dark side.  I feel more lucky than smart, resourceful, or talented to look down my nose at her.  My heart wanted to reach out and say, “sis, you can have a better life.”  Rarely do I say anything at these moments.  Like most people, I rationalize that there’s nothing I can do-- but what if I tried?
The casinos are monolithic structures, paying homage to all things desirable and despicable.  They are monuments expanding over city blocks, designed to keep you in for the pleasure of trying your luck and beating the odds as you gamble.  The artificiality of manmade deserts and Sphinx’s left me thinking about why people enjoy coming here?  For what?  Looking around I saw more people who have a subtle quality of desperation around the edges.  It’s as if there’s something going on within them, and they came here to figure it out.

I don’t mean to judge the folks who come to partake.  I recognize them.  It’s the lull of the world found in an Elmore Leonard novel.  It’s the attraction of mob life in a “safe” way, like watching an episode of the Sopranos.  It’s the glorification of “guilty pleasures” like going to a strip club and gambling.  Reading blog entries written by men who gather the boys for a wild AC weekend, it is clear to me that they are searching for an identity, just for a moment, that is different from their normal.  Poker, hookers, and booze are enough for them to imagine themselves as George Clooney, Brad Pitt, or even one of the members of the Rat Pack.  What, in reality, they look like are sad, middle-aged men, or former frat boys who are searching for illusion.
The Atlantic City of my youth is long gone and I’m cool with that.  Now, it is more seedy than sexy and calls to the darker side of human behavior.  I need transparency, hope, sunshine, clear eyes, soft speech, strong backs, and “please” and “thank you.”  This is in sharp contradiction to the current Atlantic City that lacks the ability to redeem while offering it by way of red and black chips. 

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