The desk worker who programmed my $5 onto a machine spoke softly, as if to avoid disturbing a room full of sleepers. The childish noises of video keno dominated the room, creating a soundtrack of hope and disappointment. It was 3 a.m., and a few silent women sat facing Pot-O-Gold machines. We rang the bell to be let in (the sweepstakes kept its doors locked at all times), and once inside, our conversation stopped. We’d been at a party, interacting with people like us-mostly white folks, young and creative, poor in a way we assumed was temporary.
I first entered the sweepstakes on a cold night in March 2010, when my housemate Geilda and I were walking home from downtown. It was these people who came inside to play video games of chance. Most residents passed these new businesses without knowing what they were, but a few knew their true purpose. Sweepstakes were sprouting in strip malls all around Wilmington, with signs that offered business services and Internet time where the market had not previously demanded them. It was on: Our new local casino had plugged in gambling machines under the premise of selling phone cards. Soon, a green light bent into a shamrock was placed in the window of a once-dead retail space between a gas station and a dry cleaner. A white neon sign with a red “24/7” was the first indication that a sweepstakes was opening in my neighborhood.
