Among the monolithic ruins of Bethlehem Steel is the checkpoint between the street and the Sands Casino. The rusty fences open to a post-industrial mecca at the security gate. Allen flits like an aggravated buzzard between his small shack and the double yellow line, directing traffic and checking identification. I walked up the road entertaining excuses such as "It's no big deal, I'm just a student," or "I'd just like to wander around and take pictures," but when I asked as demurely as possible, his answer was simply "I'm not authorized to do that."
Allen calls every man "guy." At first, I thought the initial man he addressed was named Guy, but after three different men in three different trucks passed the checkpoint, they were each "guy" to Allen. Beneath a black mesh hat and a mop of graying hair, his leathery skin sprouts a mess of stubble, and he carries a folded pink shirt in his back right pocket. "I wear this on the floor," he mentioned.
Allen has lived in Bethlehem since birth, though he seemed hesitant to talk about his past. What I could glean was the following:
1. He had previously won 10,000 dollars at Trump Plaza
2. Aside from security, he has an unnamed source of income for which he does not have to "work" for
3. He has been in a shelter because he had once gambled away his entire savings
4. He does not believe he needs the counseling of Gambler's Anonymous
5. Allen has considered funneling his addiction into "other addictions" to which he added, "but I only drink moderately"
He nodded casually at each passing car whose drivers were mostly floor girls or waitresses at Sands. Their cheeks shone beneath layers of blush and glitter. Allen winked at a few. "I bet you could get a job like one of those girls," he mentioned.
Before employment at Sands, Allen worked as an office guard at Bethlehem Steel. He motioned toward a multi-story brick building, a skyscraper in this dirty town, carefully avoiding too many details about his previous work. "I'm not telling you much," he kept repeating. "I'm not authorized to do that."
Allen speaks with a slight lisp and his lips are thin and rough in appearance. He offered his phone number and, insisting I immediately record it into my cell phone, reminded me that he had no voice mail. "So long as I can do my job," he stated, "I really don't mind the company. It gets rather lonely out here."
Three hours later, I was leafing through marinades at the grocery store when I noticed a missed call. Allen. The voice mail said only this:
"It gets rather lonely here in this shack....."
Click.
Allen works the noon to midnight shift. I am being cautious.
Despite (or perhaps because of) the glowing spectacle of Sands Casino, being lonely in Bethlehem does not seem like an uncommon narrative.
Allen calls every man "guy." At first, I thought the initial man he addressed was named Guy, but after three different men in three different trucks passed the checkpoint, they were each "guy" to Allen. Beneath a black mesh hat and a mop of graying hair, his leathery skin sprouts a mess of stubble, and he carries a folded pink shirt in his back right pocket. "I wear this on the floor," he mentioned.
Allen has lived in Bethlehem since birth, though he seemed hesitant to talk about his past. What I could glean was the following:
1. He had previously won 10,000 dollars at Trump Plaza
2. Aside from security, he has an unnamed source of income for which he does not have to "work" for
3. He has been in a shelter because he had once gambled away his entire savings
4. He does not believe he needs the counseling of Gambler's Anonymous
5. Allen has considered funneling his addiction into "other addictions" to which he added, "but I only drink moderately"
He nodded casually at each passing car whose drivers were mostly floor girls or waitresses at Sands. Their cheeks shone beneath layers of blush and glitter. Allen winked at a few. "I bet you could get a job like one of those girls," he mentioned.
Before employment at Sands, Allen worked as an office guard at Bethlehem Steel. He motioned toward a multi-story brick building, a skyscraper in this dirty town, carefully avoiding too many details about his previous work. "I'm not telling you much," he kept repeating. "I'm not authorized to do that."
Allen speaks with a slight lisp and his lips are thin and rough in appearance. He offered his phone number and, insisting I immediately record it into my cell phone, reminded me that he had no voice mail. "So long as I can do my job," he stated, "I really don't mind the company. It gets rather lonely out here."
Three hours later, I was leafing through marinades at the grocery store when I noticed a missed call. Allen. The voice mail said only this:
"It gets rather lonely here in this shack....."
Click.
Allen works the noon to midnight shift. I am being cautious.
Despite (or perhaps because of) the glowing spectacle of Sands Casino, being lonely in Bethlehem does not seem like an uncommon narrative.
No comments:
Post a Comment