"Running Commentary"
Sunday Morning With Toby
Editor’s Note: Michael is taking break this week. Today, an old favorite column of his that originally appeared in The Suburban (Pennsylvania) in 1993 and was republished in the Salina Journal in 2012. We hope you enjoy it …
On the boardwalk in Atlantic City, New Jersey.
An early Sunday morning breakfast at McDonald’s.
She says her name is Toby.
I return a semi-respectful smile. I hadn’t asked.
Toby’s eyes are glazed over. Such sad brown eyes. I can’t help but wonder … all they’ve seen. What stories those cheerless eyes could share.
Hunched over a newspaper, savoring my second cup of leaded Java, I again smile politely, but I have no interest in talking to a woman I don’t know and will never see again.
I just want to read the sports page in silence …
Holy pigskin, Batman! Rutgers is joining the Big 10. My alma mater.
Side glances are inevitable. I get the feeling Toby could recite the Book of Lamentations by heart. She’s probably in her late 40’s … but her wrinkles are well past 60. A knitted skull cap hides her hair, and she’s arrayed in shabby haute couture from the Salvation Army discard bin.
After an all-night shift at the slots, Toby is reentering earth’s atmosphere with coffee. A few hours ago, her eyes were dancing in sync with reflecting neon lights. Now, as fingertips of dawn intrude through the windows at Mickey D’s, Toby looks away from the sunlight.
The fantasy world of casinos is painted with glitter, neon lights and mirrors. It’s no accident that there are no windows to the world outside. For many gamblers like Toby, the morning` sun represents the harsh reality of an empty fridge and last month’s rent.
I grew up a few hours away from Lake Tahoe. Long before the rest of the country opened their doors to the gaming industry, Nevada was the epicenter of US gambling. Nickel slot machines proliferated in every two-bit gas station on deserted back roads to nowhere.
I remember once sneaking away from parental gaze to play a quarter slot machine. With eyes the size of October pumpkins, I yanked the silver handle and listened raptly to the clanking whir of spinning plums and cherries.
Five seconds later, my dream of instant riches was dashed. Another life-lesson learned – a Hershey Bar in hand is better than two faded grapes and one lemon in a small dusty window.
My parents often went to Lake Tahoe with friends. They taught me the rules. Know your limits; don’t exceed them. Gambling is recreational fun, not a means to get rich.
I came to Atlantic City for an antique show, not to gamble. I found a beautiful 18th Century Windsor chair with a reddish wooden hue that had been hidden away in a Maine attic for over 100 years. I was confident about the purchase, but the chair was tres expensive.
I’m a lawyer – I don’t make rash decisions. Told the dealer, “I’ll be back in a jiff.” Went around the corner to contemplate my purchase and snarfed down a quick hot dog. Ten minutes later I walked back to the dealer to get the chair, but the beautiful Windsor was gone. (Sigh)
He who hesitates loses his seat.
Alas, all was not lost. I found a lovely small Tiffany bowl from the early 1900’s that cost only half as much as the Windsor Chair. I drowned my sorrow in that little bowl.
After the antique show closed, I gambled in a boardwalk casinos and had fun. Four hours later I was down 50 bucks. “Mas o menos.” Cheap entertainment.
But even cheaper entertainment was nearby – a high roller playing roulette. His bets were so big he had the table to himself. Someone whispered that he flew in from the Far East.
Even jaded casino supervisors were agog with knowing eyebrows raised. The man lost a staggering amount. Half a million? One million? The loser didn’t seem to care. Monopoly money, right? What a waste.
Back at McDonalds, I take another sideways glance at Toby. Despite her obvious struggles, she retains a sense of dignity, a quiet presence. Toby may be down on her luck, but I don’t think she’s a quitter. She’s not going to give up. She may be losing, but she can still dream.
Someday she’ll hit the big one. Sure, she will.
Eventually, my arrogance melts away and I transform myself into something akin to a human being. I put the paper down and accept the entreaties of Toby’s dark eyes. Nobody else is around … she needs someone to listen.
The newspaper isn’t important anymore.
My eyes are no longer judgmental or condescending.
Toby notices … I’m here now … I’m listening.
“Gonna miss morning service at my church, again,” she says dejectedly. “That makes … three or four now.” Unsure how to respond or what to say, I say nothing. I don’t have to. I’m looking into Toby’s sad eyes. My smile is now empathetic.
I do not pretend to comprehend how Toby feels, but I am not oblivious to someone’s pain.
Toby smiles back.
“Kids think I’m crazy gambling the way I do.” She peers into her coffee cup and shakes her head, until a hoarse guttural laugh erupts …
“Sometimes I think dey right.”
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