Prose

“Mostly we just check ID’s and stand around.”
            It was my first night as a casino security guard and my training had fallen to Officer Frank DiTelio.  His instruction and advice were all delivered in short staccato statements made surreal and robotic by the device he pressed against the plastic lined tracheotomy hole in his neck.  The same hole that, on breaks, he would insert his cigarettes; an irony he failed to see and no one wanted to point out to him.  His deep frown lines attested to his utter lack of a sense of humor and his 6’6” frame carrying 250 lbs more than likely discouraged critiques of any kind.
            We had spent the better part of the shift; graveyard, midnight to eight, touring the building.  At each new room or hall or store or restaurant he would point with his right hand while his left brought up the mechanism.  A mechanical Grand Ballroom or Main Lobby or 24 hour Buffet or Employee Lounge narrated.  The building was huge.  The customer areas were bright and gaudy while the hidden employee areas were cramped and often mazelike.  I knew I wouldn’t remember much of what he said but I never asked him to repeat anything.  And despite an almost overwhelming curiosity, I never asked him about the hole.
            We took a lunch break at three.  I ate rubbery chicken and slightly undercooked French fries and managed to get down most of it as I sat across from Frank and his cheeseburger.  As he ate he would hold a napkin up to the hole.  After he chewed and swallowed a mouthful of food he would bring the napkin down, casually glance at the small circle of brown grease and then replace it and take another bite of his cheeseburger.  Despite the crowd, no one shared our table.  I tried not to stare and he seemed not to notice when I failed at it.
            On my tour it seemed like everyone knew him, just not very well.  While almost all of the employees we passed would give him a curt nod or the hint of a smile, none of them actually said “hello” or “how are you” or “who’s the new guy.”  It was as if they liked Frank well enough but the voice, the robotic interpretation of his words, was something to avoid.  As if it was uncomfortable to listen to him.  I understood this almost immediately.  Frank preferred to speak softly and would lean in close so you could hear him.  He would look you in the eyes and you could try to look back into his but, inevitably, you would look down six inches at the device.  The click it made as the device touched the plastic hole, the low hum that filled the space between his words, it was all too distracting.  And the smell, a combination of cigarettes and what could be described as rotting fruit or perhaps week old flowers.  A sickly sweet smoky ambrosia, not altogether unpleasant but, when you considered the source, and how could you not, made you wonder if he’d recently eaten fruit or if perhaps that was just how lungs smelled.
            To my almost constant relief and, I imagine, the relief of all he spoke with, Frank took no notice of wandering eyes.  He made no attempt to explain his condition, either.  It was much like talking to someone with, say, a large strawberry birthmark on their face, a poorly healed harelip scar, bad teeth.  It was like some kind of unspoken agreement; I won’t mention it so you won’t mention it.
            At the end of the shift Frank asked me if I had any questions and even though I had several I said no.
            On my second night I was assigned to one of the casino floor entrances, a position covered by two guards.  Frank was to my right.  I nodded to him as I had seen so many others do and he nodded back.  As the shift wore on I noticed that for every one person Frank carded, I carded ten or twelve.  I begin to pay closer attention to the crowd and it quickly becomes obvious.  He’s not letting people pass so much as people who know they look young, know they’re liable to need to show ID, tend to veer away from Frank.  They see the hole and they avoid it.
            Frank and I didn’t exchange more than a dozen words during the eight hour shift.  Each time I heard the robotic voice say May I see some ID or no children past this point I made a conscious effort not to look but failed as often as I succeeded.  I don’t want to see the reactions, the inevitable look of surprise, sometimes shock and disgust that quickly metamorphosis into averted eyes as fingers fumble through wallets and pocketbooks.  Sometimes afterwards the person would take a few steps into the casino then turn and stare.  Some laughed.  Three different women said ‘oh my god’ to the men they were with.
            Frank reacted to none of this.  He acts as if it has nothing to do with him.
            Our shift ends and Frank gives me a nod.  I assume he means ‘good job’ or ‘see you later’ but I’d like to believe it means ‘Fuck you and fuck everybody else.”
            In the locker room I watch him press a Marlboro to his throut, take a puff.  As he lowers the cigarette a wisp of smoke escapes the hole.  I try not to stare but it’s impossible.