by Paul Pintarich

About once a month I hear the sound of distant drums; a steady, addictive beat that calls me to the Grande Ronde Tribe’s Spirit Mountain Casino where I drop a few bucks in a  ritual of remuneration the Indians have termed ironically: “the return of the buffalo.” 

Solely a video-poker player, and not a big spender, at least most of the time, on occasion  I tirelessly serve the rapacious10 and 25-cent machines (“feeding the tiger,” a Chinese acquaintance calls this), hoping beyond experience that I may return home with more money than I arrived with, the true intent
of gambling after all. In reality, my contributions have most certainly gone toward the enlargement of a growing herd of American bison--Though I have no knowledge of these shaggy beasts ever having roamed the Oregon’s
Yamhill Valley?--while I assuage my guilt at being a descendant of European immigrants and persecutor of North America’s indigenous population.  I must assure you, however, that none of my ancestors owned slaves or rode with Custer, since they arrived on these shores at the turn of the last century, themselves peasants fleeing the ill treatment of the Old Country. 

But what the hell. To be honest, I just like casinos, whether they be in Reno, Vegas, Winnemucca or Grande Ronde. And I particularly like the fact that throughout Oregon native tribes, through hard work and skilled business practice, are reclaiming some of what they were screwed out of  ages before.
Though I have played at Indian casinos throughout the state, Spirit Mountain, because of its proximity to Portland (60-some-miles) remains a favorite; an anticipation of unreality that looms suddenly alongside Highway 18 just as you reach Valley Junction.  (Go a little farther and you reach Lincoln City, where Chinook Winds Casino looms alongside the Pacific Ocean.)

Still, this has nothing to do with Indians other than the fact they are able to operate the casinos--and more power to them. And so far this has little to do with addiction, though I get some worrisome pangs now and then, having wrestled with booze and cigarettes.  No, this has to do with walking into a place where night and day have been replaced by a mindless, brightly lighted cacophony filled with people who should know better than to be there in the first place. If you described the ambiance as electric, you would also have to mention the cigarette smoke, the smells of deodorant that remind you of those “mints” placed in men’s room urinals, and pervasive odors of too many humans mingling in attitudes of hope and despair. 

Frederick  Barthelme, who with his brother Steven has published “Double Down, The gripping account of a two-year gambling splurge and its aftermath“ (A Harvest Book, $13), writes, “Steve swears it’s the air conditioning. As soon as it hits you, he says, you’re gone. We open the doors and we’re washed with treated air, the din, the scent of money, liquor, smoke. Adrenaline and after-shave. We’re keyed up now, hopeful. We walk with a sure step and purpose. Something is suddenly, clear, precise, desired.”
Talk about addiction! The Barthelme brothers, in a two-year period, binged through hundreds of thousands of dollars; wiping out their inheritance, bulking out credit cards, borrowing and exhausting bank accounts, yet never quitting even after being arrested on a trumped up charge of cheating, which
was eventually overturned in the court room.

The Barthelme brothers both teach at the University of Southern Mississippi, where Frederick directs the writing program and is editor of the Mississippi Review, and is author of several novels including the appropriately titled, “Bob the Gambler.” Steven is the author of a short story collection, “And He  Tells the Little Horse the Whole Story,” and has won awards for his essays.  Lesser known than their late brother Donald, a writer of greater renown who I once interviewed when he visited Portland, the Barthelmes have managed to acquire  infamy from writing of their unbelievably reckless descent into the dark side.

To be honest, I approached “Double Down,” essentially a “Lost Weekend” of  gambling addiction, with a little more concern than curiosity, admittedly seeking insights into those quirks of personality that make writers what we are. It was a motivation similar to that with which, many years ago, I began to
explore Hemingway’s alcohol psyche in A.E. Hotchner’s “Papa Hemingway,” half-knowingly seeking clues to my own.  Yet the Barthelme’s published confession is less contrite than embarrassing, as well as fatalistic. They
simply don‘t seem to care a whole hell of a lot, despite the fact that intellectually they acknowledge they are on a slippery pathway to financial ruin.

“Neither of us worried much about losing. We drove to the coast, played all night, lost two or three or five thousand dollars, went home, taught our classes, made jokes about how horrible it had been, and waited for the next chance to go. In hindsight, this response--not being horrified--should have tipped us that something wicked was afoot.”

I understand, for there is a delicious feeling of  “going to hell” at work here. In late middle-age, as are the Barthelmes, I find that much of life’s savor, the risk-taking involved in love affairs, booze, physical danger and other folly, has been left behind. One must now confront the inevitability of growing old and
infirm, alone perhaps, so why not blow a part of your savings during a night at the casino. 

After all, why have you been saving all these years? 

Look around any casino and it is obvious that mostly older people are attracted to gambling. Perhaps as a last chance  to gain back some of what they have paid into the world; perhaps as a way of squeezing some small excitement from what is left of life. I have seen them in walkers and
wheelchairs, with oxygen tanks and so weak they could hardly spin their wheels, but they seem alive, if only for the moment.  And there is a community aspect to all of this. A society of mostly losers who are in it together, having
shared the bus ride down, the low-cost buffet, the free coffee and soft drinks, and who whoop when some fellow traveler hits a jackpot and unleashes the bells and whistles of victory.

All hope that Luck will be a lady tonight. 

I once sat next to a woman who bet according to a number in her morning horoscope. Another would bet on her grandson’s age, a husband’s birthday, the year of their car, and etc.  At Spirit Mountain they may belong to the “Coyote Club,” with its special privileges, the little cards that fit into the machines; and all other tokens of “belonging” that humans, particularly older,
disenfranchised ones, require, are in evidence. There are smiles and “good lucks” and politeness from staff and dealers who want your money, of course, but also there is recognition that, even though you are losing, you have a reason for being here. 

The Barthelmes write: “Between the beginning of August and November 11, 1996, we visited the casino sometimes three times a week, two- and three-day trips. In that period, we lost just over eighty thousand dollars. We loved the place. We liked the friendly smiles on the dealers’ faces, the friendly
greetings from the pit bosses, the sideways inside jokes people made that seemed to say, You’re one of us, you guys belong here. We loved all that.” 

Somewhat romantically, the Barthelmes lost their money on Mississippi riverboats; I find the same romanticism in giving (though sometimes taking) money to members of the Grande Ronde Tribe whose casino is set against a backdrop of mountains that mark their ancient ancestral lands.  This tribe, once disbanded, scattered and now brought back together, has, through its casino, created an expanding and lucrative enterprise with great benefits to its people: property, health care, education, businesses other diverse investments expanded from a tenuous foothold in an ancient cemetery. 

On a fair day I enjoy the trip from Portland, driving through the valley contained within soft green hills that remind me of England. There is the anticipation, a feeling of hope, as well as the reality that I may return after dark without being much wiser than before.  For reasons that are not my own, the Barthelmes descended much farther than I dare to go. Though you never know? It’s like Pinocchio drawn to Pleasure Island. The sound of distant drums. 

“We knew better,” the Barthelmes admit, “but sometimes the satisfaction of being taken for a ride exceeds the satisfaction of knowing you haven’t been. That is, it’s more fun to go for the ride, no matter how you get there or what the cost.”  And in addressing their own drummer, perhaps the drummer that is filling casinos through the country, good or bad, reaching something unfulfilled in the American soul, the Barthelmes, despite their binges and troubles with the law, question their future--and my own.

“We would think of it later,” they write. “In the meantime, at the casino, as long as there was money to play with, we never had to think about anything but the cards, and in the cards, everything else disappeared.”

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Since opening in October 1995, Spirit Mountain Casino has become the most successful Indian casino in the Pacific Northwest and  Oregon´s No. 1 tourist attraction.  Spirit Mountain is wholly owned and operated by the Confederated Tribes of Grand Ronde.  All of the  Casino´s profits have gone into building the 5,050-member Tribes´
programs and investments, or have been distributed to community charities through the Spirit Mountain Community Fund.

Other Oregon casinos:  Wild Horse (NE Ore) |  Kla-Mo-Ya   (S. Ore)          Seven Feathers (S. Ore) |  The Mill  (North Bend, S. Oregon coast)