The better the gambler, the worse the man. ~Publius Syrus
It has now been two weeks since I picked Mrs. Santa up at the Virgin River Casino in Mesquite, Nevada. After arriving and giving my wife a big bear hug, my sister-in-law Sharon Tomlinson, treated us to lunch. I opted for some of that $9.99 prime rib I'd read so much about on the billboards ever since passing through Primm. I must say, it was quite tasty.
We had to wade through the casino and its thick barrage of smoke to get to the restaurant. I took note of the the casino patrons. Though gambling has never held any allure for me, I've always thought gambling must be fun, because so many have it as a hobby or at least, an obsession. Well, not one of these gamblers looked they were having a good time. Maybe it was the fact most of them were badly dressed. That can be depressing. But then, if you know you look like a refugee, you probably wouldn't have dressed that way in the first place, unless you are just unaware, or don't own a mirror. Maybe the stools they are sitting on are hard on the back side. I know I have a difficult time smiling, if I'm perched on uncomfortable furniture. At any rate, as I made my way to the eatery, not one person smiled at me, I got stony stares, sneers, pouty frowns, and some hollow-eyed people glaring right through me as they clutched their paper buckets full of nickels. My pleasant greetings and nods were a complete waste. It would have been more fun to converse with a turnip. Perhaps they thought I was lurking about looking for a winning slot machine, ergo horning in on their territory.
I was however pleasantly surprised at the decoration and cleanliness of the restroom . There was no gang graffiti carved into the toilet seat, though there was plenty of disparate carving in the wood posts which held the water closet door. I understand the desire for immortality; to let the world know that you were here. But I'm not sure I have any desire to leave my Kilroy-was-here epitaph in a place where one eliminates waste from his body.
We had a great visit with Sharon, and our niece, Suzie at the table. Lunch was pleasant. We did have a hard time communicating with our waitress. She was very, very nice, but I think she was at least partially deaf. Once we shrieked our orders into her good ear, all was well. After our repast, we repaired to our respective vehicles where like a Reservation trading post, we exchanged some temporal goods. We eventually got all my wife's belongings loaded into the sleigh (aka SUV). Boy the things a person can collect in four weeks! There was only one belonging I was interested in; my wife. It's so nice to have her back!
Once all the "good-bye's" were said, I was back on the road heading southward on I-15, this time with Mrs. Claus in tow. So, the trip back should be a piece of cake, right? Wrong, wrong, wrong. We moved along pretty well 'til we got just outside of Las Vegas. Our clipping right along turned into the world's longest parking lot. It was as if God reach out His hand and said, "Not so fast!" So, with apologies to Shakespeare, the traffic now crept "on at its petty pace."
The pain in my knees is bad enough, but the constant back and forth from gas pedal to brake took its toll. It didn't take long for the pain to become excruciating. It literally felt like spikes had been driven through them. You would think my being Santa and all, that though in pain, I would bear it with patience and good grace; I didn't. Missus tried to get my mind off the pain by engaging me in deep conversations. It did help some, but Santa still used colorful language that would make a sailor blush. Another thing that I found really annoying on the trip; there was a big beige semi with a giant bucking bronco logo on the side. On the back in huge letters was the phrase, "Life is a highway!" This rig with it's idiotic philosophy did nothing to quell the road rage building inside me. And the da@#ed thing was in in my sights all the way to L. A. Seven and a half hours later, after making good use of my ability to yell and choice four-letter words, we pulled onto the 210 heading east off of I-15, I was finally rid of the semi but not before yelling, "Bite me," at him.
Here's my advice. If you have to drive south on I-15 through Las Vegas on your way to Los Angeles on a Sunday afternoon; just don't! You see, by Noon, all the California gamblers who have spent the week-end blowing their pay checks, have at that point, had time to nurse their hang-overs and have brunch and get on the road. I kept wishing I had had one of those tricked out James Bond vehicles where I would have the ability to blow everyone in front of me off the road. Or, that I could make use of flying reindeer on more than just Christmas Eve. Where are those wretched antlered creatures when you need them, anyway?
Anyhow, that's how Santa sees it!
