Holy Rollers
An essay about Christmas at Foxwoods. From January 2002, when I was still Tara McCarthy. Originally published on Killing the Buddha.
Poppa needs a new pair of shoes.
“Are you aware that you’re spending Christmas night playing craps?”
That’s one of the dealers at Foxwoods and he’s talking to me across a bustling table as our game in the Pequot Casino enters its second hour.
I nod and smile. “It’s okay,” I say. “Every time I place a bet I ask myself ‘what would Jesus do?’”
He shakes his middle-aged head, looks down at an array of chips, then looks up again. “He wouldn’t do this.”
I can only shrug.
“Did you go to mass today?” he asks. I wonder why I’ve been singled out for interrogation. Yes, the crowd is mostly Asian. Yes, there are large groups of men wearing yarmulkes wandering around the property. But there are a number of other likely Catholics at this very gaming table.
I’d had a fleeting thought about calling the concierge and inquiring into the whereabouts of the nearest Catholic church, it’s true. I’d opted for the jacuzzi instead. Can this craps dealer smell the guilt? Do I have any?
He shakes his head in disappointment when I come clean about mass. But there’s no more time to chat.
