I ask him what he likes about SugarHouse. “A hundred bucks, at the most, in three-four hours.”
Jim, an old guy, heavy, in a sweatshirt, comes in from Maple Shade: “I don’t lose too much,” he tells me as he feeds a slot machine. The slots players, they’re the ones who go to play alone. Feel free to think of me as a bleeding heart, but there they are, my cards on the table. It’s a Wednesday at 4 p.m.Ī necessary word on my attitude, which sucks: I pretty much fall in line with the tribe on the left that believes Philadelphia is in the gambling business because the city desperately needs money, and slots and craps and so forth are an easy tax on the poor and the foolish. The Delaware and the Ben Franklin Bridge beckon beyond the big plate-glass windows in back, where a duo in the corner plays Todd Rundgren, but only a lonely blonde bartender is gazing in that direction. A vast room of pinball alleys - although they are really slots, of course, with a little blackjack, three-card poker, craps, and baccarat thrown in. Willie Nelson, dance music, and White Christmas slap each other around. A dump of light and noise, drunk girls in hot pants and halters. Inside, SugarHouse looks like all casinos. And that’s about right, once you’re inside. You take a gander at SugarHouse from Delaware Avenue, you practically think it’s a happenin’ place.
