The Refectory Manager

The refectory . . . A place to nourish the soul. A place to share the savory comestibles, the sweet confections, the salty condiments of the things that matter. A place to ruminate the cud of politics. A place to rant on the railings of religion. A place to arrange the flowers of sanguine beauty. A place to pause in the repose of shelter. Welcome, my friend. The Refectory Manager

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Location: College Place, Washington, United States

Saturday, March 05, 2011

On Entering a Casino

So I am sauntering up to the front door of "Wildhorse Casino." Trying to be discrete. This snappy woman passes me on the left. I can see her smirk out of the corner of my eye. The thoughts oscillating behind her rolled-back eyes ooze out at me, "Another math-challenged dumb ass thinkin' he's gona get rich at this place!"

But about then I sense this presence coming up behind me, on my right. And then a very slight tap on my shoulder.

An instantaneous wave of panic: It's the guardian angel. About to whisper to me that it is against her religion to go in there with me . . . but if I insist, I simply must wing it on my own. She'll fly back to heaven, but return if I subsequently repent and insist. . . .

But the whisper was the soft voice of a man.

"You have a sticker on your back."

I stop. Turn.

An incredible manly face, week-old beard, soft brown eyes, grin from ear to ear.

"Sticker?"

"Yea, a sticker."

I attempt to reach to my back, try and find it.

"It is lower down."

Still can't find it.

"Would you take it off?"

"Sure."

And he peels off that garish adhesive strip! W50 L29! Blaring out, three times. Prominent enough for a smirking woman to see.

He hands it to me.

"Thank you, so very much."

He laughs. "My daughters caught me like that once!"

Damn!

The Refectory Manager

[My objective was to visit the Tamastslikt Cultural Institute located at the resort, but in another building about 2 miles from the casino. The less-than-one-minute it took for the security guard, just inside the door, to give me directions was enough to erupt a splitting headache . . . massive frontal assault of second-hand cigarette smoke.]

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