the original sinners are religiously praying

I can’t remember the exact circumstances why, but a while back I made a list of the most depressing places I’ve ever had the misfortune of visiting. It’s all relative, of course. I’ve never set foot inside a hospice for terminally ill children, for example, so my definition of “depressing” could very well differ from yours. I just wanted to get that out up front, lest someone think I’m a callous son of a bitch.

Some of the places on the list are self-explanatory, like the psych ward of the Bedford VA hospital or the nursing home for head trauma patients where my grandfather spent the last couple years of his life. Others require some clarification, like the reception area for my previous dentist (before I lucked onto a job with a dental plan), a man who built his practice around ruthless efficiency and affordable rates. As a result, his patients tended to be a wide cross-section of folks who had been kicked in the teeth, literally and figuratively, by the American Dream -- purple haired punk rockers (take a guess who that was), haggard looking middle aged women wearing too much makeup, non-English speaking immigrants, and impoverished senior citizens.

And then there is Keno Mart.

“Keno Mart” is the nickname the wife and I use for the convenience store a couple blocks over from our house. I don’t even know what the place’s real name is, though it gets regular mention in the police blotter of the local paper. It’s a pretty standard suburban convenience store in most respects, selling discounted cigarettes, microwaveable junk food, and overpriced household essentials to folks with neither the time nor inclination to travel to the supermarket a mile down the road. That in itself wouldn’t qualify it for my list, but as the nickname suggests, Keno Mart also happens to function as the local Commonwealth-sanctioned betting parlor.

As it’s just a stone’s throw from my house, I visit the place often enough to pick up the paper or a bottle of tonic. The parking lot is always full of cars, from immaculate black Cadillacs, to dinged up minivans, to older model European luxury jobbers whose status symbol luster has since rubbed off through a lengthy succession of owners. It’s not a gallon of milk or a pack of Camels their owners have all come for, though. They’ve come for the chance against all reason that this will be the day that their dreams come true.

I’ve spent enough time around aspiring creative-types to be familiar with the stink of desperation, but nothing could prepare me for the pure, uncut variety that permeates the atmosphere inside the store like an ionized mist. The crowd is diverse; soccer moms and chubby retirees rub shoulders with long-haired biker dudes and skinny guys wearing unlaced sneakers and sweat-stained work clothes emblazoned with the logo of a company that went under five years ago. (Yesterday, I was in line behind a gentleman in his sixties with a massive facial tumor who peeled several twenties off a decent sized roll to pay for a bundle of Daily Numbers quick picks.) They all radiate the same aura of hunger, and possess the same willingness to drop a hundred bucks on scratch tickets (the very essence of a “loser’s game”) while still managing to keep one eye on the big screen that projects the Keno results.

It’s an insatiable hunger, too. The rare winner never cashes out and leaves happy, but always chooses to let it ride, plowing their meager winnings back into the grand game. As someone with a staunch aversion to gambling (the only bit of Protestantism that has stuck with me over the years, unless you count my judgmental and elitist tendencies), I find the environment fascinating even as I feel my soul start to erode within its confines.

Keno Mart, where the American Dream, reduced to a means without end, goes to die (taking as many desperate souls as it can with it when it finally croaks). If you weren’t too lazy to drive the extra mile to the grocery store, you’d never even encounter the rotting smell.

For today’s musical bill, here are some other tales of quiet desperation:

Nick Lowe – Marie Provost (from Jesus of Cool, 1978) – Based on the sad story of this actress, this song perfectly balances pathos with black humor with sparkling pop music.

Anti-Nowhere League – Streets of London (from The Complete Singles Collection, 1999) – They look like they could be Vyvyan Basterd’s favorite band ever, but the tough exterior masks a sensitive side, honest.

Carter USM – A Prince in a Pauper’s Grave (from 30 Something, 1991) – They should have been the biggest pop band in the world, and at one point, it seemed like the could have been, yet something went wrong somewhere. (Also see this.)