Why I Have Negative Knowledge (A Casino Security Reminiscence)

two handheld radios
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I feel compelled to share some thoughts about an experience I had when I worked casino security. This isn’t a tale of a foiled robbery or other heroics. It’s not a story about seeing people at their worst or making a difference in someone’s life. No, it’s something a little more mundane, and hopefully relatable.

Now that I have sufficiently lowered expectations, I will begin.

Security at the Atlantic City casino that employed me used standard two-way radios to communicate. I never liked it when people called them walkie-talkies, which seemed unduly juvenile. We all just called them radios.

On any given night, you would have a few dozen officers sharing the same frequency, along with supervisors, shift managers, security command, and whoever else might be listening in. And you never knew exactly who might be listening in. Perhaps the director or VP were onsite (common for day shift, less so for swing, and a rarity for grave with a few exceptions) or someone else. When officers got a bit too jokey, Command (our dispatch and nerve center) would admonish us.

“Command to all officers. Be advised, this is an open frequency. Monitor your transmissions.”

Which was a very polite and formal way of telling us not to be an embarrassment.

A little side note: above the door of the shift manager’s office hung a sign: “Through these doors walk the finest private security personnel in the State of New Jersey,” or some such. My first couple weeks, I kept hoping to see these elite forces at roll call, and even considered asking someone when they showed up. Then I realized that the sign was referring to us. That triggered a weird mix of pride and disappointment.

So anyway, our radio talk tended to be formulaic. Mostly, it was Command directing us to report to a location, escort people carrying cash or coins (yes, it was that long ago), or do a specific task, and officers sharing their location, advising that an escort had begun/ended, or relating that their task was complete. Not much personality, as we tended to stick to the same script. Something like:

“Officer Schwartz to Command.”

“Go to Command.”

“Be advised, I am 10-7 my 10-8.”

“Received.”

I just told Command  that I was done my break, which they acknowledged. You might be curious about why I said, “Be advised.” Wouldn’t it be more economical just to give them the facts? Probably, but adding “be advised” made it feel like we were privileged observers sharing truly mission-critical information. And if sounded more professional.

We often tried to sound professional, not because we had delusions of grandeur, but because it was expected of us. Mostly, I admired that and did my bit. But one thing that people said always rubbed me the wrong way.

I noticed that there were three words everyone else seemed terrified of speaking. Three words that no one uttered, at least not on my shift (swing, for my first year). Three words that seemed so honest and important to me, but everyone else avoided like the plague.

I don’t know.

No, I didn’t forget the words. The expression no one ever used was, “I don’t know.”

Instead, when asked a question that they didn’t know the answer to, everyone would respond with what seemed a verbal monstrosity to me: “I have negative knowledge.”

Part of it was being young and thinking I had more answers than other people. Thinking that doing well in English class made me some kind of master rhetorician, sensitive to every word’s weight and pulse. Certainly, saying “I have negative knowledge” was impossibly pretentious, just the most stilted, arrogant way of saying, “I don’t know.”

Certainly, we, the elite private security force that daily safeguarded property, enforced compliance with state gaming regulations and company policy, and protected the health and safety of guests and employees, certainly we were sure enough of ourselves to admit, in plain, honest, truthful words, when we didn’t know something.

But everyone, it seemed, was a soulless minion of orthodoxy, vomiting out “I have negative knowledge” when all of us listening knew that they just didn’t know something.

I would never, ever commit this crime against honest language. I would speak the truth. I would not be ashamed to admit when I didn’t know.

You might see where this is going.

Then, one day, it happened. I was involved in a situation important enough to attract the attention of the security shift manager, or S-1, as the person in that position was known. My boss.

“S-1 to Schwartz.”

“Go to Schwartz.” Rarely did I do something that merited a glance from S-1, let alone a radio conversation. I suddenly felt simultaneously bigger and smaller. He proceeded to ask me a question about the situation that was, unfortunately, out of the range of my knowledge through no fault of my own.

This wasn’t something that I would have been particularly ashamed not to know. It was a simple fact that was not, at the moment, in my possession. As I had been dispatched after the incident had happened, not having this information wouldn’t reflect negatively on my perceptiveness or attention to protocol; other people just didn’t have the answers we needed.

The radio fell silent, as S-1 and my co-workers awaited my response. The slot machines never stopped spinning, the coins never stopped jingle-jangling, but it felt to me, in my small world, that the whole casino was holding its breath. At last I spoke.

“Be advised, I have negative knowledge.”

Why?

Because I was afraid of sounding stupid. Because what kind of dope would admit to their boss that they just didn’t know something. Because I was no better and no worse than anyone else with a radio.

Probably no one else noticed. But for me, those six words sparked a realization: it’s easy to critique, to criticize. But when all ears are on you, unflattering truths can be hard to say. So maybe we should withhold judgment—you know, the old thing about walking a mile in someone’s shoes.

Throwing a rope that might make this whole anecdote even tenuously relevant, I will say that I think of my negative knowledge journey sometimes when I am speaking with people as Ombuds because it gave me an insight into how difficult it can be to say simple things, even when the stakes are laughably low. How much harder it might be when the stakes are high?

Thinking about negative knowledge throws into relief for me the empathy and appreciation (with maybe a touch of understanding) that sometimes we act in ways that seem illogical to those on the sidelines, but can make perfect sense to us in the arena.

So until next time, expect the unexpected, stay informed, and I’ll stay informal.

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