Lost Weekends at Motel Marijuana

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February 17th, 2017
Back Lost Weekends at Motel Marijuana

I knew it was a mistake to move from Phoenix to Charleston, S.C. the moment I pulled into the apartment complex and stepped out of my car.

The incessant buzzing of insects. Mosquitos and love bugs in the ai. And no casinos.

The nearest casino cruise ship was in Little River, a three-hour drive north. Jacksonville, FL. had a couple of casinos, but it was four hours south.

I hid my feelings about Charleston. My daughter and grandchildren seemed happy with the place, so I dug in my heels, began fishing off the pier at Folley Beach, and spent my afternoons lounging around the swimming pool at the complex.

But inside I yearned for the casino action I was used to and had found in Phoenix, Las Vegas, Florida and the Caribbean.

My daughter had lured me to Charleston after meeting a guy in Phoenix. They became a couple and he told her his dream was to buy a charter boat and make money catering to tourists who liked to party or go deep sea fishing.

The fishing from the pier was spotty, sometimes good but more often bad. One day I caught a big one that I fought for more than 20 minutes before it broke my line. I never saw the fish, but the pier veterans assured me it was a shark.

'Probably a hammerhead,' one told me. 'They're tough to catch.'

I heard about the casinos in Jacksonville and decided to try them out. I would drive down to Jacksonville, following Highway 17 south through Savannah, GA. until I crossed a long bridge that led to the outskirts of Jacksonville.

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BestBet owned two casinos, one located down Highway 295 and the other on Monument Road. There was a motel about three miles from the Monument Road casino where I would stay.

The rates were decent and the manager, who was from India, had a good smile and walked with a limp. He always asked me for my identification (I used my passport) and had me sign a couple of papers before he handed me my key and the channel selector for the television set. He also collected a $10 deposit that would be returned when I gave him back the key.

My room was usually half a block away. I would walk through the motel complex, passing strangers in darkened doorways, and smelling the aroma of marijuana. Sometimes there would be reggae music coming from one of the roads and I could see people drinking from brown bottles or pints.

I was wearing my black Stetson and a serape and invariably a voice would come out of the darkness, 'Hey Cowboy, where's your horse?' I would respond, 'I left him in Arizona,' and we would share a laugh.

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Usually I stayed at the motel Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday before heading back to Charleston. I became familiar with some of the regulars at the motel. They included two taxicab drivers, a military veteran suffering from his two assignments in Afghanistan, and a former exotic dancer who once lived in Las Vegas.

The manager from India always had a pot of fresh coffee brewing in the morning. When he handed me my $10 bill for the key, he would also give me a cup and invite me to have a cup of his coffee. I never refused.

In a month or two I am heading back for Phoenix. I miss the Southwest and Las Vegas. The voters legalized marijuana and it should be interesting to see how the casino management handles that. Goodbye, Motel Marijuana. Vita Las Vegas.

“smelling the aroma of marijuana”

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