Revisiting the place where I learned that Vegas friendships, like casinos, come and go
On our first visit to the Silver Sevens, we went for bingo. It was 2012, and the casino was called Terrible’s then. A red-vested cartoon sheriff with a mustache as long as a rattlesnake adorned the marquee outside. We traded dollars for dobbers in the vending machines, weaved past old women with cigarettes and paper rainbow packs, and found a table that could fit all 10 of us. Our accidental “Bingos!” and laughter were unwelcomed by the regulars, but two of us, including me, won. We were there for the novelty, not the money. Just a group of graduate students exploring things to do on a Friday night in our new, unfamiliar town.
We soon graduated to the casino floor downstairs. We tried our hands at craps and blackjack. The pit was larger then. It pulsed in the center of the casino like an open heart on an operating table. As we waited our turn at live action, we looked to the dealers for answers: Are we gonna make it, Doc? Back then, everyone had to wait to gamble, because the three-dollar minimums had enticed all of us: locals, tourists, addicts, and budget-conscious alike. On good nights, we turned 20 dollars into 40 at the roulette table. Bad nights left us buzzed, but our wallets still plenty full. When we told Jimmy, our favorite dealer, that we were writers, he shared some Terrible’s trivia: We used to have a poetry night! This knowledge, and the pass line, made us believe that we belonged there, that the casino was built for us.
There was no better place to be bored and broke in Vegas. But by graduation, the minimums became too rich for us. We headed Downtown to El Cortez, where we lasted a few months before gentrification pushed us back to our home on Flamingo and Paradise. During our hiatus, a $7 million renovation had transformed Terrible’s into the Silver Sevens. Our sheriff was put behind bars at the Neon Museum. Metallic numbers slashed through the new logo with precision, promising us sums of money higher than we had ever won. We parted the double doors to find our beloved bingo room replaced with slots, our three-dollar tables upped to five, and Jimmy adjusting the accessories of his new uniform: a tuxedo winged-collar, bow tie, and satin cummerbund.
It was a fitting end. Many of us were on our way out anyway. Our Vegas stints had finished with diplomas and out-of-state job offers, so we said our goodbyes amid the slot machines, dizzied by our tears, free drinks, and the swirling pattern of the casino carpet. Only me and my then-boyfriend stayed behind to make lives in Las Vegas. Although we invited new students to join us on our casino outings the following semester, the price tag was too high. They were serious writers who had come to the city to flourish. Plus, we were graduates, has-beens, and the Silver Sevens would never again be Terrible’s. When we did go back, it was as a couple enjoying a date night. We reminisced about our past winnings and our newly old friends.
Whittled down to two players, we discovered that the 1-2 Texas Hold ’em was a game we could afford. Within months, we became poker sharks on opposite sides of the table who eventually devoured each other. The summer after our breakup, we still met at the Silver Sevens, but we bickered often. Then that friendship, too, burned up on the hot parking lot pavement.
In 2018, Silver Sevens removed the roulette table. They scaled down to a smaller, bouncier craps table. The changes forced me to go where I know they had always wanted me: slots. I tried my hand at Buffalo, Wheel of Fortune, and video poker, spending more of my time and my twenties, with no one around to remind me that I wasn’t there for the money. Terrible’s had been a refuge, but Silver Sevens was the place where people I loved had left me. One night, on a walk of shame to the parking garage, I finally accepted that living in Las Vegas meant that friends, like casinos, come and go. I was the only one left to save me. I stopped visiting Silver Sevens entirely.
A few months ago, I walked into the Silver Sevens for the first time in three years. Jimmy recognized me. He gave me a hug over the craps table. “Haven’t seen you in a while,” he said, and I answered, “Because I’m being good.” I didn’t tell him I have new friends. A new job. A new lover. A new favorite casino to go to on Friday nights. I noticed there were far fewer tables for him to rotate between, although he was stuck in the same uniform. But we caught up. He pushed me dice. I tipped him well and often. When I finally got on a heater, our playful banter returned like I’d never left him behind. “Is your arm getting tired?” he asked me. “No,” I told him. “It’s getting stronger.”