The Unique Joy of Spending Thanksgiving Alone in a Casino
In the last two weeks, I’ve lied to everyone who even casually inquired what I was up to for the holiday. I begged out of every kind invitation to Thanksgiving dinner that came my way. Using lies. Every time. I lied like a stinking rug.
I should relate, however briefly, the sloppy daisy chain of my holiday untruths. Last week, I turned down a Thanksgiving dinner invitation from my oldest friend, Tracey, telling her that I was going to Jim and Jeanine’s house for football and supper. A day later, Jim called and I told him I was going to eat with my brother in Albany. In turn, I gave my brother, Pete, a bullshit story about how I was going to see my long-lost college teacher for the holiday. I told them all: Thank you. I’m good, good for the holiday. I’m covered.
The thing is, on Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I’ll get up early, take a look at the weather, throw a bag in the car, buy some coffee, then drive across the state to a casino I like, where weeks ago I rented a fairly pricey room in the hotel tower with a nice view of Adirondack foothills. I’ll spend this afternoon playing poker before grabbing dinner, where I’ll slowly and gloriously read the newspaper over my only holiday drink, probably something unlike me—something festive and dopey, with spices, like a hot toddy. Then I’ll eat a pot gummy, dick around with some dice, and go to the sports book to bet Thursday’s football games before heading upstairs to take a long bath and maybe watch a movie.
On Thursday, the tradition of solitary re-alliance continues. That’s when I’ll go down into the belly of the whale—the nearly empty casino—to spend the morning drinking coffee and playing low-stakes blackjack. I’ll skip lunch, watch football, get bored, go upstairs to lie down, watch some more football. Pretty much like lots of other Thanksgivings, really. Around 4:30 I’ll put on a jacket (this is just my way) and head down to the top-flight restaurant, where I’ll eat a piquant, if slightly unfamiliar, holiday dinner, which I bought entrance to last week. On Ticketmaster. I’ll even eat desert, which is unusual for me. Not a pie, since I used to make those for the holidays. Cake. I’ll be after some sort of cake.
How do I know it will go this way? Because I did the same thing last Christmas, and the one before that. It was easy. I lied about my plans. Spent the day by myself. Long drive, casino, cards, newspaper, bath, television, silence, a long elevated view of the deep wild under slate-gray skies, and food.
Every year, they forget. I’ve had a lot of loss these last couple years. I live alone. The whole deal, my self-styled retreat is the convocation of my various selves: husband, former husband, companion, thinker, coward, stepfather, sometimes-good brother, father, and long-ago boy.
It’s not that I am ungrateful. I am not without thanks in my heart. I have had many wonderful holidays that live in my memory. I have held children while laughing, while cooking, while catching footballs in the crook of one arm. I have brined turkeys in bathtubs and learned to carve from Julia Child’s tapes that I borrowed from an Indiana library, because I cared. I myself made the best pie I’ve ever eaten: apples, whiskey, buttery, somehow ancient crust. I can’t find the recipe so I’ll probably never do that again, but I am thankful that I tried. Trying is the heart of the matter when it comes to Thanksgiving dinner. I learned that much long ago.
I live alone now, as I said. One of my sons is spending the fall in Chile, where he is climbing rock faces. He will post an Instagram message, I know. I am thankful. My other son lives with his wife in Seattle. They just had a baby boy. Blessed, blessed thing. It’s their first holiday together. They are on their own, at a proper distance, creating their own moments. I am thankful.
Even so, there is nothing wrong with wanting to be alone on a holiday. And why should I suffer the holiday trope of a table for one at a Chinese restaurant in some snowy rustbelt city? Fuck that. Really. Go your own way, and be thankful for the free cocktails.
So I’ve built my own tradition in an attempt to survive until a new one invites me back. I love the muffled half-heartbeat of a cavernous, carpeted casino on a holiday morning, when the dealers are sanguine, working time-and-a-half, and don’t mind chatting.
At the end of the day, I love retreating to my room, where I’ll call my boys whom I love more than they seem to know, just to tell them that much and more. I love the view from a high window under dark skies, where I’ll sit looking out, when I’ll call my friends to tell them I lied about my dinner plans, that I’m out here again on my own, in a casino, of all places. I’ll tell them again: I’m good, good for the holiday once more. I’m covered.
Spend your holidays with Esquire. Subscribe here.
You Might Also Like
