Places Where Time Doesn't Exist
"Time is a flat circle. Everything we've ever done or will do, we're gonna do over and over and over again." - Rust Cohle
I mean, it's possible that Rust was talking about Eternal Return and that the universe is an eternally recurring space. But, I'm an optimist and I'd like to think that he was talking about those places where time doesn't seem to matter anymore and anything goes. These are those places where you don't clock in and clock out. Those places where you can go off the grid for a bit and no one can bother you. Those places where, honestly, you aren't really required to give a fuck. You know, like airport Chili's Too restaurants.
You roll solo into an airport Chili's Too at 7am and I promise you'll see a whole slew of middle-aged alcoholics complaining about SportsCenter while drinking old-fashioned glasses filled to the brim with Absolut. No ice. Just straight fucking vodka. Hell, half of these motherfuckers probably brought in a to-go bag from Einstein Bagels so they didn't have to make a decision between the $12 breakfast burrito and the $10 Texas cheese fries. Time constraints and real life mean jackshit to these straight-shooters. Jobs? Money? Wives? Yeah, they'll think about those things when they get to their Minneapolis baggage claim. That time in Chili's Too? That's their happy place. Their safe-haven. That's where everything is on the company tab. Where they can enjoy their me-time and spread their wings. That's where they can be themselves.
Last May, I was stuck in LAX during a Chelsea-Atletico Madrid Champions League leg. I saw a group of eight Mexican men run through sixty Tecates from game start to injury time over their layover. The game started at fucking noon. "¿Qué hora es?" These hombres give a fuck.
The beautiful thing about golf courses is that you don't necessarily lose track of time as much as you just don't give a FUCK about time. The social constructs of "oh, you can't drink whiskey-cokes at 8am" and "who dips at 7:30 in the morning?" fly out the window. Are you allowed to eat a bacon cheeseburger at the turn, even if it's only 9:30? Fuckin'-a right, you are.
And if anyone gives you shit for the copious pre-afternoon tobacco and alcohol abuse? Tell 'em, "tough titties" and never EVER stop doing you.
There's a reason these places don't have clocks on the walls or let you check your phone while at a table. On Saturday, ya boy was on a certified HEATER at an Indian casino on the craps table. Hot-handed, just pounding Miller Lites and smokes, one after another. Left and right, I had rednecks coming up to me profusely thanking me for making them so much money while I rolled, as if skill somehow played any type of factor.
In between hot streaks, you could also find me absolutely murdering the dancefloor in the casino's club. I was the guy reverting between body-rolling and 60-year-old-man dancing. After last call (which is the only inkling that time may have an effect on anyone in casinos), I played half-cocked blackjack until I pissed a guy off by simply debating splitting 10s. I told homeboy to suck it before heading over to the food court for a plate full of all-you-can-eat chicken fingers and french fries. When I asked my friends what time it was so we could try to catch a casino shuttle, their answer made my jaw hit the ground harder than (omitted Ray Rice joke). Four fuckin' thirty.
Can't beat it.