In this grainy, dark, and not-so-good photograph, I have just survived the shock of walking through the madcap mayhem of the garish Tropicana casino. In the back pocket of my jeans, there is a neatly folded five spot, which I was going to hand to the bellhop who I assumed would tote my carry-on for me. But there was no bellhop; I had to self-schlepp to my room.
In this photograph, I have just realized there is a mirror attached to the ceiling above my bed. Like in a corny movie, I began to laugh. I said, 'hello' to myself and lay there for a second, looking. Then I rolled onto my stomach, reached for my cell phone, and called my cousin Matt. He was twenty minutes away, he said. "But I'm starving!" I screamed. He is custom to my histrionics, and so he said, "It's okay, Verns (that is what he calls me), meet me near the registration desk; we'll eat."
Twenty minutes.
I was too wired to read or write. I was alarmed by the idea that my daughters were at a lake in California being brilliantly cared for by the spousal unit, his mother, and his sister and that I, for the rest of the weekend, was responsible only for myself. I tried to sit with this for awhile, but my lack of 'quiet mind' has been well documented here, and soon I was hopping around the room, trying to find a way to pass the time.
And that is how I ended up taking pictures of myself in the faux bamboo mirror beside my bed. It's a good thing I did, too, because now I can remember the way I was before I met Matt downstairs and before we walked over to the MGM Grand. Before we ate sandwiches and potato chips smothered with Maytag blue cheese at Wolfgang Puck. Before we figured out that the eerie look-alike quality of the surrounding males--regardless of ethnic background--had much to do with that evening's upcoming Ultimate Fighting Championship. And, most importantly, before I learned how to play video poker.
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