Vice Doesn't Pay

So...yesterday I went back to the doctor to hear the results of the test he did in his office, and the one he sent me to MoBap for. Both results were normal, which means good in the big test result book of Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. However...that doctor wanted me to undergo another procedure, for which I see no need, and I declined, and he got a bit pissy and said he would close my file. Don't let it pinch your nose on the way shut, I say.

Anyhoo...it was too early to go to lunch at Imo's, my chow-down place of choice, where I have not been for several years. So we (and by that I mean I) decided we could drop in at the casino to try our luck on some of the hard-won scratch-off money hoarded by Mrs. Hillbilly Mom. I have also not been to the casino for several years. The last time I was at this one, I rode the gambling bus with my favorite aunt.

Oh, how times have changed. Since this particular house of chance changed hands, the ambiance has gone downhill. Where I used to feel like a Vegas high-roller, I now felt like a bit-part actor from the D-list. The physical setting was mostly the same. Same parking garage, same elevators, same long hall, same two casinos, same customer service desk. But the lighting was different, the arrangement of the gaming devices was different, and the crowd was different. That's because there was no crowd. Sure, we were there on a Thursday morning at 10:00. But it was the Thursday before July 4th. Years past, you could not book a room during that time period. They filled up months in advance. But on this day, we only saw a smattering of gamblers. The parking lot was nearly empty. The parking garage had plenty of slots up near the elevator. I suppose people can't afford to gamble nowadays. Or else the are taking their suitcase stuffed with money across the river.

Farmer H offered to drop me off at the door, but then he drove around to the parking garage, because he said he could get close to the elevator. Except that when the elevator arrives on the ground floor, there is still the matter of a football field or two to cover before reaching the casino proper. AND, this management group had taken out the benches near the main entrance. The ones you could sit on to watch people, or wait for a companion, or catch a breath if you were convalescing, five weeks out from multiple bilateral pulmonary embolisms. Actually, breathing was not the issue. My knees revolted, and threatened to dump me on the squishy carpet or hard tile, depending upon which side of Farmer H I was walking at the time. Thank the Gummi Mary, we stopped at the restrooms just before getting our player's cards, so I had a brief respite on the toilet.

We waited in those roped-off metal pole switchback lines to get the player's cards. Only five people were ahead of us, though, and there were three workers at the counter. That meant two kind of hefty ladies were in front of me, and they were next in line. As Even Steven would have it, a shiny penny lay face-up on the tile, winking at Farmer H. That penny was about three inches behind the heel of one heifer. "You can't. Don't try to pick that up now. DON'T! She will turn around and think you're a perv. Your head might hit her buttock."

Farmer H had that devilish look that said he might just go for it. I had to step between him and ol' Abe. Out of sight, out of mind. At least the two heifers got called to the counter. Then Farmer H pounced on that penny like Shirley Feeney on a Ritz cracker at a hoity-toity cocktail party after spending a weekend as human guinea pig without food. He pocketed that cent without even offering me half. And after I gave him gambling money from my stash!

We got our player's cards, but not a stretchy colorful tether thingamajig like the old casino used to hand out. Bare bones, this one. And because of their penny-pinching, Farmer H actually forgot his card in the slot machine when we were ready to leave. Out of sight, out of mind, remember? If that card had a neon green spiral tail hanging off it, Farmer H would not have had to go back. I kept walking. On to the restroom so I could sit down. By then, I was halfway to the parking garage, so there went my chance for Farmer H to drive around and pick me up.

I think maybe I overdid it. My legs are terribly sore today. It could be because I was not wearing my usual white leather broken-down comfortable New Balance, but rather my black nylon running-style New Balance previously worn only to the emergency room. Still, I am about to sprain my arm patting myself on the back because I walked a great deal without collapsing. So the lungs must be on the mend.

Oh, and neither of us won any money. I was discombobulated, not playing my system. Twice I could have cashed out a $25 profit, but I foolishly put it back in play. It's not like Mrs. Hillbilly Mom gets a trip to the casino every day.