Tropicana

Through an arcade flanked by erect plastic palm trees roars the robotic voice of a pop musician, declaring, “I want to celebrate and live my life.” A greying veteran in a sleeveless T-shirt shakes a handful of coins to the beat in one hand as his right arm, a wooden post with a metal hook, rests, unenthusiastic and motionless. Around a crowded nearby craps table a leathery man howls as he tosses two pearlescent dice aggressively across the table, sipping from a sweating Coors Light bottle as the dealer declares a winner. Two tables away, a lesbian couple in T-shirts as big as blankets thoroughly spray a roulette table with brown and yellow chips, reaching eagerly across its felt surface in all directions. An effeminate man between them, sent into a temporary state of distress by their dominating presence, eventually surrenders his seat at the table and heads toward the more tranquil cashier’s station. JR

This review is included in TTA6. Click here for more information about the issue.

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