Saturday afternoon, we’d wandered off to the Cherokee Nation’s Casino, at the corner of I-44 and loop 244.
There’s something I miss in most Indian Casinos that dot my western landscape – it’s that sense of abandon found in places like Las Vegas. There’s that idea of emerging from a pit of swirling activity at 4 in the morning, reeking of cigarette smoke, being trailed by the faint aroma of stale alcohol, just isn’t like that in the other places.
By my own observations, the Cherokee casino was pretty nice. I’m not sure I agree with all plastic payout but I didn’t lose much money – if any at all – with a couple of small to medium jackpots on nickel, dime and quarter machines.
All in good fun. Which lead to the restaurant, like the “Hey, I know this place, I think it’s around here…”
We paused to ask where the good restaurant was, overlooking the Catoosa (something). My guide asked one guard, and halfway through a lengthy iscussion complete with much arm waving and signal directions, another guard waved me over.
“Go out. Go left. Take a right at the light. Follow the highway. The place you’re looking for is about a quarter of mile before the bridge…”
Quarter of a mile before the bridge. Great, I’m sure we can’t miss that one. I was waiting for the requisite, “Remember where the barn was before it burned down? You turn there.”
I’m not a typical Texan
In the words of Ron White….
“I’m probably not a typical Texan in that I don’t hunt. I fish but I don’t hunt. And not because I think it might somehow be holier than thou to eat meat that’s be bludgeoned to death by someone else, that’s not it. It’s really early in the morning, it’s really cold out, and I don’t want to fucking go.”
Ron White’s words came back to me, in that Wal-Mart, in Tulsa. Broken Arrow, really.
I’d picked up a few fishing items, and my date was carrying a curtain rod. I offered to carry that curtain rod, and then made a joke about whipping her with the curtain rod, twirling said rod in my fingers.
We get to the check out stand, and my Tulsa hostess makes some comment about me hitting her again with it, see, the back story? She had an accident – long before I arrive – that involved her bruising her knee then getting a lump on her forehead the size (and color, presumably) of a Robin’s egg.
She made that comment, and in the friggin’ heart of the Bible Belt? I blushed. About 3 shades of red. I wasn’t sure, Tulsa, is it okay to beat your women? Or would I be met with a set handcuffs – not the fun variety – at the front door to the superstore?
