By Don Hall

One of the benefits of my post-fifty life is that I’m far less angry. Less angry at the world, at random people inconveniencing me, at myself. In fact, I’d wager that I’m in a pretty goddamned good mood 92 percent of the time. The remaining 8 percent involves bouts of self-doubt, dissatisfaction with my weight, and a bit of frustration with both of the political extremes in America right now.

At the casino, which can be a true Petri dish of humanity, I walk among some folks who seem helpless. They blame the machines for taking their money. They blame the corporation for not fixing up certain things on the property. They blame other employees for not doing their jobs. They stare at their phones to watch the clock advance so they can leave and go home and bitch about how much they hate their jobs and if only they could be paid more and how boring it all is and convince themselves that they work really hard but it’s okay to not put too much effort into things because no one else does and who gives a shit anyway?

I’m talking to a guest playing Roulette. He’s a regular and we see each other on most days.

“You are almost always in a good mood around here. I think I’ve only seen you look tired or out of sorts once or twice. Always a smile, always dancing in between the slot machines. I wish I had an ounce of what you have.”

“I guess the knowledge of my freedom to choose my day is that secret sauce, you know?”

“Freedom? What freedom?”

“I dunno. I look at it this way: I could strip down naked right now, run to the pool outside and take a swim. Sure, there would be consequences...”

“You’d get canned...”

“Yeah, but I have that freedom to choose that action and no one in the world could stop me. When I look at my life as entirely my responsibility, my job as an agreement to work the floor for the money offered, my day as my own, it feels like I’m in charge of my destiny. I’m happy to be here, wearing a Marvel tie, in a smoky room filled with people chasing the dragon of financial windfall and drinking for enjoyment or escape, because I got up this morning and chose to come. If it’s my choice, it’s up to me to make the best of it, right?

I choose to stay married to my magnificent partner. I choose to go to the gym (or not). I choose to read the rantings of people online who would prefer to blame white people or men or Trump or Republicans or any Big Bad they can conjure for the plight of the world and I’m reminded that they are choosing to do that with their time.

I chose to move to Las Vegas last year and it’s my choice to stay and enjoy the weather and the horizon and the bigness of it all or wallow in the difficulties of a city built on the weakness of human nature. 

When the world offers me a shitty credit score or an insult or a barrier to my forward momentum, it is my choice how to react. I get to choose how those events affect me rather than a bank or an asshole or a job.

I think it’s safe to assume that if I choose to be anxious and angry that a massive asshole is our president, I must want to be anxious and angry. If I choose to be bored and uninspired by the work I do, I must want to be bored and uninspired. If I choose to blame some Other for my sorry place in life, I must want to find someone to blame rather than better my place. I chose these things and these states of mind.

“I guess this is to say, I’m mostly in a good mood because I choose to be. More fun that way.”

A pause.

“Well, I choose to lose some more money on this fucking game and drink a cheap bottle of horse piss beer.”

“Good choice.”