By Craig P. Dixon, southcoast247.com correspondent Social Commentary 115
June 11th, 2007
About three months ago, I took a trip down to Foxwoods with a young lady.
I'm not a big gambler. But I wasn't going for the cards, if you smell what
I'm cookin'.
But even those extracurricular activities were falling off the
table, as this young lady insisted on talking about subjects that did not
concern me.
"Do you watch The Pussycat Dolls show?" She asked.
"No," was
my sharp reply. That should've ended that conversation. We can only be so
hopeful.
"You should. I love The Pussycat Dolls. They're so talented." And
blah blah blah, she kept droning the whole ride long about The Pussycat
Dolls this and Britney that. By the time we pulled into the casino, I was
tempted to commit seppuku. If only I hadn't left my Swiss Army knife at
home....
I managed to comfort myself by promising to play the cheapest
slots I could find. These penny, nickel, and dime slots are favorites of the
elderly. I'd sit there for hours, sipping on a free rum and coke. Pulling
the same goddamned handle over and over, immersed in the smoke and sweat
stench of the elderly. It'd take all my patience and concentration to
persevere. But it'd be worth it when she broke down. Then, and only then,
we'd be even.
I'd committed to the plan and begun to prepare myself
mentally for the slot onslaught when my lady friend ran into some guy she
knew.
"Hi!" She shrieked. Gave the dude a hug. "I haven't seen you in so
long! How are you?"
"I'm well. And you?" The guy had the biggest, reddest
nose and cheeks I'd ever seen. He smelled like a paper mill. He'd probably
been there for three days.
These basic greetings led to an in-depth
conversation that I had no business engaging in. My presence may've been
recognized with a grunt or two. Otherwise, I was persona non grata. By the
time this acquaintance of my friend finally took his leave, I was
infuriated.
The lady quickly explained this was a former teacher of hers,
and a family friend. I wanted to inquire whether she'd been physically
intimate with this friend of the fam, but held my tongue.
"It's such a
small world." She quipped with a smug smile. I bet she'd planned on saying
that to me DURING the conversation. The moment was so unbelievably clichˇd.
I wanted to puke.
"No," I wanted to say. "The fact that you ran into some
obviously alcoholic, pervy gambling addict friend of your rents at Foxwoods
doesn't make it a 'small world'. It's a no-brainer.'
'And this whole 'small
world' thing: What's so great about it? I long for the huge world days of
the past, where a trip from New Bedford to New York took days and a voyage
across the Atlantic took a month or more to complete. Strange, wonderful,
romantic days when there was still world to explore. That big world died,
and I mourn it.'
'Your small world coincidence doesn't exist. The world as
a whole has grown all too tiny and interconnected. You can be in Europe in a
matter of hours. Communicate with a 'friend' in Japan via video chat. Gone
is the adventure. Gone the time invested in such journeys. Now you can just
point and click. So take your goddamned clichˇ and shove it up your ass. You
can call for a ride, or take a cab home. I don't care what you do. I'm down
the road."
That's what I should've said. Instead, I sighed and mumbled, "It
sure is." Then I took her arm and led her toward the roulette tables. For
some reason, I suddenly felt like a gambling man.
Comments? craig@southcoast247.com
About three months ago, I took a trip down to Foxwoods with a young lady.
I'm not a big gambler. But I wasn't going for the cards, if you smell what
I'm cookin'.
