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Me and My Father at the Riviera Casino

Ryan Peeters

Trying to bond on my thirty-fifth birthday,
we walked into the modest back entrance
past dark theatres and closed refreshment stands
on dingy fifty year old carpet. My dad said,
“I been here before; this used to be a nice place.”
I told him, “This place is a hell hole, destined
for dynamite.” The casino floor was nearly empty of people;
it was only half full of slots, too,
all others were removed, leaving
impressions like scars: round carpet patches
loosely covered holes in the floor.
This was where action used to pay off
in quarters, dimes, and nickels.
Only ten table games remained, two dealers working.

When I was young, I saw my father only every other weekend.
Once he took me to Vegas and left me in a day care
where I pretended to sleep, bored. Was he here?

We waited in line for the Crazy Girls show.
A woman came along selling tobacco.
On the walls inside hung the old black-n-white photos
of Liberace, Neil Sedaka, Elvis, and others
in the days when this place mattered.
We waited in line with impatient New Yorkers,
business men from India, and a couple from Iowa.

The host came out and announced
that the show was having its twenty-fourth anniversary.
The only rule: no masturbating in the theatre.
This was apparently necessary to say twice.
Then seven showgirls in blonde wigs formed a chorus line;
most had small frames and fake breasts.
I wonder if he was looking at these women like he once did
my mother? His visits to me became more
infrequent, and he never brought a girlfriend along.
Those showgirls stripped topless
lip synching to various suggestive songs.
There was one lesbian sex scene, simulated.

We finally left and made the long, slightly horny,
walk, and contemplated the tawdriness of the entire
spectacle. The parking garages were small
and separated from the vintage casino in pseudo-ruins
where we were parked, driving in separate cars.

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