“It’s time for war on the idolatry of addiction. The assumption we are compelled to do what does us harm. The idea that others have the right to deem what is harmful to us! Pshah!”
He was seated in the back, away from counter traffic. He had a view of the little airport and the jagged hills beyond. Well-being flooded him. He loved it out here. He could sit as long as he liked, musing away.
The climate was raw when windy, painful when over 110 but mainly sunny and warm. The colors were incomparable and ever changing. Subtle pastels. The night sky was visible.
Even successive gambling losses, should they occur, would hardly touch him.
“How stupid to think my gambling is an addiction,” he thought. “If it were, I’d be down the hill pouring every penny onto the green instead of here reading odd theology.”
Boulder City did not allow gambling. But casinos were close by. Like the Gold Strike down the hill toward the Dam at the end of Lake Mead. Binions was Adam’s Fremont Street favorite, only a half hour down Boulder Highway in his used Mercedes Diesel.
Just then, he noticed someone who, even by Nevada standards, was a loser extraordinaire. He burst through the side door wearing but one piece of clothing. A pair of khaki-colored boxer shorts.. The man's nether parts were barely concealed. The sight was not edifying.
The man moved to a booth in the back. He started motioning to Adam and calling, "Come here, Mister!"
Adam did as he was asked. He sat down facing the nearly-naked fellow. "Do you have any other clothes?" he asked.
"f*ckers," the man responded.
Adam sat poker-faced.
Just then, a team of some sort came through the side door
The woman of the duo, of indeterminate age and dominating size, hurled herself into the seat next to the strange man. She reminded Adam of his former semi-wife Ganya on a tear. The man, bald and rangy, sat next to Adam, blocking his exit.