The woman in the snug Wrangler jeans and crimson tank top read the sign aloud, practically spitting the words. “‘Mud wrestling has been cancelled!’ Oh my God! C’mon, c’mon. We’re outta here.” With that, the man in tow—it might have been her boyfriend, or husband, or even her mud-wrestling trainer—was yanked by the arm and led out of Gilley’s Saloon and Dance Hall at the New Frontier. The blushing couple didn’t notice a more conciliatory handwritten sign near the entrance, saying, “We’ll miss you all.”
Cancelled mud wrestling and a simply “so long, y’all” were the signs of the times last week as the Frontier, which opened in 1942 as the Hotel Last Frontier, ambled to its day of closing, which was Sunday. At every turn there were unique sights, sounds and even odors of an aged resort experiencing its death rattle.
We took a final spin around the casino to find ...
• Hand-crafted signs throughout the casino informing guests that Frontier chips and tokens would be redeemable at the Riviera.
• Police tape haphazardly stretched across the entrance of “Arcade,” which sat dark and unoccupied.
• The lights in the “Bingo” sign turned off.
• A half-dozen gamblers peering into the coin-operated horse-race game set just off the sports book, watching as miniature thoroughbreds creaked and rocked around the track.
• A dried-out creek bed winding through the ground floor of the Atrium Tower, the hotel’s most recent renovation that was finished eight years ago.
• Bud Lite cans and a Hennessy whiskey bottle lying in the areas where planter boxes were once displayed.
• A seemingly bored security employee manning what was once the bell desk.
• A bartender being asked for a commemorative shot glass, but only offering any of a number of containers (including one of those oversized margarita glasses holding drinks that cost $15) before saying, “If you can wait a while, I can go to my locker and get a shot glass.”
• The unmistakable stench of stale vomit—similar to what you might encounter near the thrill rides at the county fair—in the area between the table games and middle bar.
• A pool that remained open, 24/7, with the warning that no lifeguard was on duty and to swim at your own risk.
• Talk of guests trying to pry the brass numbers from guest-room doors.
• The gentleman who checked us in saying he had filed for unemployment benefits for the first time in his 30 years at the hotel. He would be eligible for a severance package of up to $8,000, and he hopes a recent job fair will send him to another resort.
And as he typed our information into his computer, he said, “Room 688, Atrium Tower. You will be the last guests in that room.” Then he added, with a grin that was somewhat sad, “Enjoy your stay.”
Photograph by Richard Brian