A friend of mine suggested looking in Brookside, a small section of Tulsa, and so we planned on starting our search there. All dressed up and ready to dance, I met Kaytie at her house. As we set out, we hoped to experience something other than our routine small-city lives, and maybe catch the smallest glimpse of what teens in New York City or Chicago get to experience. But despite our best efforts, the only new experience we had that night did not involve partying like the big cities do. Through the course of events, we managed to wind up in a smelly casino: a veritable magnet for broken souls, empty wallets, and annoying security guards.

At the start of our evening, we cruised down Brookside, expecting to see club after club. What we did see were a few nice restaurants and a couple of unkempt looking bars, but no clubs. Disgruntled, and wanting to find somewhere new to visit soon, we searched for some sign of a nightspot we could visit. After an hour or so of driving, Kaytie and I had seen neither hide nor hair of any clubs, although we had seen some beautiful and some slightly scarier parts of downtown Tulsa. Some of the parts of downtown were grungy. Scattered in them were homeless persons, dark alleyways and broken-down buildings way past their prime. The better parts of downtown were well-lit underneath towering skyscrapers. However, downtown Tulsa did not present any possible place we could both have a new experience at, so we began to consider other promising venues we could visit.

Stepping out of Kaytie's silver Ford Taurus, the two of us were immediately greeted with an intense smell of cigarette smoke and greasy foods, reminiscent of bowling alleys. Walking into the Creek Nation Casino, we had our wallets ready with our ID's, presuming that we were to be carded as we walked into the door. Soon we found out that this wasn't the case. We were both disappointed - having just turned eighteen, we were ready to show off that we could legally enter the casino. Instead of security ready to check our identification, we were welcomed by the sight of tacky red carpet and ugly mauve walls. Not to mention slot machines. The slots were everywhere, wall to wall, huge, flashing beacons, ready for unsuspecting victims with pocketfuls of money to be drawn in. The smoke was visible in the air. Light smog wafted ubiquitously, an inescapable fog of potential lung cancer. Kaytie and I quickly stepped into the much smaller non-smoking room, and as we stepped in, I observed a man with a pipe in his mouth stepping out. So much for smoke-free.

Older people were everywhere in the casino; almost everyone seemed to be above the age of sixty. They would sit and press buttons for long periods of time, presumably not getting the results they were expecting. Their eyes seemed to glaze over as they stared at the flashing screens, scanning the computerized reels as they spun, with cherries and sevens and other bright images. Kaytie and I sat down to try one of the cheaper slot machines; we slid our dollar bills into the bright beacon and tried to figure out how the heck it worked. Mostly we pressed random assortments of buttons, trying to press the right combination in order to win. A helpful, but slightly annoying, security guard came to our rescue. He was young, overweight, and he spoke with a lisp. He showed us how to play the slot machines, and when he was done with his explanation, he stayed to watch us play for around ten minutes. Kaytie and I assumed that he stood chatting with us for so long because he thought we were attractive, because surely talking to two eighteen-year-old girls for ten minutes would be frowned upon by other security guards. Kaytie was much better at the slots than I was, or, as she put it, “better at pressing buttons.”

We didn't stay at the casino for very long, mainly because we found that it was just plain boring. It was quieter in the casino than I was expecting; I suppose it was due to the immense concentration that pushing buttons must obviously take. The slot machines seemed to be more work to figure out than they were worth, and winning a few bucks definitely did not seem worth the second-hand smoke inhalation from just standing inside the casino. Our night may have not ended with the excitement that I was expecting, but I did realize that, in life, it is probably better just to put in a hard day's work, rather than spend all of your time in a smoky, old person, tacky carpet-filled establishment.