The Girl In The Casino With A Book

• Lori Palminteri
• Uncategorized
• October 7, 2023

There’s a sense I get I’m being unfaithful when I’m sitting at a bar and ordering tea instead of booze. There’s a man at the end of the bar, observing me for longer than he should. Likely not just because for among casino clientele I’m young, nor that I’m a pretty girl, alone, but because I’m reading a book. Reading a book sends a message— I’m not here to talk to you. But I’ve found that reading a book in a bar makes people think you’re mysterious and intelligent and people become envious that a written page is more interesting than they are. This is a fools notion. For if they were readers themselves, they would know that every person is more interesting when their lives are edited.

I’ve played an array of casino’s now in my career, and I’ve seen many odd and perturbing things in the walls of American greed, which, to me, is not as big of a sin as sloth and gluttony, though you’ll find no shortage of the deadly seven in places like these. Perhaps in a casino, the one I was most guilty of was pride, seeing I’m a working artist and I am paid to be here, therefore being the second biggest winner in a Casino following only those few lucky jackpot winners who will take home a chunk of money that could pull me out of my current debt. While lust can be something I practice with a pirate smile and glowing eyes, I’ve never met someone I was thirsty for in a casino— not even once. But truly, nothing is rarer than someone in a casino with books. People look at me like I’m a freak. They aren’t wrong.

Though, I’ll stick with my books. I needed not conversation when I carried around a story more entertaining with dialogue like poetry. In moments I think to myself that I was born in the wrong time, I remind myself I’d probably feel that way no matter where I was born on a timeline.

The night before, before the show, I sat at another bar with my book, ordered a brew, soup and salad. The bartender recognized me from being there last year. The girl in the casino with a book. An odd introvert. The prop makes me stand out, which is not the introverts intent. The book, however, also offers a cover when I’m eavesdropping on people. I can pretend to read but really be nosey. In-between chapters, I’d tune into a conversation between a man and a prostitute, awkwardly pretending they know each other for a drink before they engage in at least two of the seven deadly sins.

I’d gotten much better at spotting the prostitutes. Mostly because the other comics I’ve worked with through the years are 90% male and they were much better than me at picking them out. Sometimes it’s very obvious. Other times there’s more subtle signs. I don’t judge the sex workers nor the Johns. It’s not my business and it doesn’t affect me. Once, I pitied the prostitutes until I did some simple math and realized how much more money they were making than me, and then I pitied myself. These days, I try not to think about it so much and just watch the freak show like a television program. Entertainment. That’s all any of this is. That’s all I am. That’s all this book I’m carrying around is. And yet. Entertainment is what makes life enjoyable. What’s the point of money if you can’t use it to consume culture?

The book I’m reading is a mystery involving murder and doomed love. Though, these days, I’m rather convinced doomed love is the only kind of love there is. Because I used to relish in loneliness I became frighteningly good at solitude. Even when pangs of longing found their way under my armor, like a mosquito cleverly biting you at the edge of your sleeve, I find a silver lining in the peace that comes with answering to no one but myself. Still, days by one’s self start to stack up and get heavy like a book that’s retained water. Somewhere along the way of this journey I went from running away from everyone to yearning for a companion, not necessarily someone to constantly talk to, but someone to be quiet with. It’s the comfortable silence with someone where one finds they have a mutual sense of caring, compassion.

Do not mistake a solemn song for depression. Yes, my dour days come more willingly than they go, but I’ve been too busy to ruminate on woes and been distracted by my dreams, dusty as they are. I’m tired, if not exhausted. My Thursday consisted of writing for two services for hours, broken up by a three hour ride each way to a gig, only to do it all again Friday — write for several hours and drive over three hours to weekend gigs. It feels good to be working. It feels good to be creative. To be bringing in some money. To be revived in the hopes you carried when you were younger. Are they not there, still? Yes, just callused. Doomed love includes not just romance with another, but the connection and calling you feel to ambitious artistic dreams. And, is it like they say, better to have embraced and lived the life of passion, love, art and a bohemian Babylon than to have never been there at all? Today I feel it is. And sometimes, that’s enough.