the hairdresser is almost certainly in the pocket of the gaming lobby. they pay the rent at her salon loft, for the big flat screen tv and the cable, and for her shelves full of only the best from j beverly hills. they pay for my decaf and the assortment of creamers in the mini fridge, and over my hour (and the two hours on either side of mine during which a friend of mine occupies the gaming lobby sponsored chair) the hairdresser drops that, yes, it couldn't have been more than two days since she was last at the casino, and that the tarzan machine was paying out big. not more than two days ago she won over twelve hundred dollars in not more than an hour. the day before that she hit the triple seven with her first pull at the lucky 7 slot machine. and did we know that there were specials on tuesday mornings? a fistful of free play for the early birds on tuesday mornings! and sure, that pull at the lucky 7 had cost her three dollars, but that three was two hundred no sooner than her hand was off the lever. she could tell us more on the boat at buckeye lake.
the gaming lobby does not, unfortunately, pay for my haircut, which is understandable, because they wouldn't want to give up, so to speak, the game. but they've chosen their representative wisely, and she does good hair. i want her to shave the part to look like a portuguese soccer player, nothing of the shoddy spanish imitations, and she understands exactly what to do.
then there's nothing to be done the following monday. the beginning of the work week has been postponed until we can charge our cards with our free play credit on tuesday morning, and the doorman in front of the spanish renaissance revival building of the athletic club of columbus doesn't open doors to portuguese soccer revival haircuts. they say that the place is family oriented, but we all know what hides behind those unopened doors in the midwest. for the exception of that coveted entry the work week might have been allowed to start early.
and they say too that when it rains it pours, and now it's pouring and there's even less to be done about the monday. but then the post knocks, and there's a letter. an update from fort freedomland. the vintage airstream has found a home in southern oregon. it has a deed, but it can still only be reached at general delivery, cave junction. nearby, she writes, there's a swimming hole for sasquatches. they will work on an outhouse for visitors. i will learn how to shoot. it's been a while since she's asked at the post office, she apologizes, so she doesn't know if i've written. for that matter, she doesn't even know if she's reached me. more likely i'm in baltimore or somewhere making rich men delight in drinking my urine (even if not at the athletic club of columbus). with the rain outside and the grind not set to restart until tomorrow, i just wonder: if she hasn't actually read any of my letters, then how did she know?
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