Gambling with Postcards

I am at Hoosier Park in Indiana. It is a racetrack and casino, popular with many of the locals. I am sitting at the roulette table watching the ball go round and round. Occasionally, I would glance haphazardly around the room and see people forgetting their worries and having the time of their lives smoking, drinking, and losing money. I too, lose myself in the momentary rush of a spin and forget my misery, for I could not find a postcard.

Let me explain. I have an obsession with postcard. Ever since high school, I have bought a postcard at every place I’ve ever visited. This has created a nice collection of travel logs of different places I’ve been and things I’ve done. On the other hand, it has also caused me undue stress when a postcard cannot be found. This happened once in Houston – I did not get a chance to buy a postcard and to this day, there is a place-holder for it for it in my postcard album.

The day before, I arrived in Cincinnati too late to be able to visit the touristy areas. The museums had closed and I figured that I would have the next morning to find one. However, my host lived north of the city and since I was northward bound, it did not make sense to pay for a parking space in the city just for a postcard. After breakfast, I left in the direction of Indiana, thinking that I could pick up a postcard at some attraction on the way, or at, the very least, a gas station.

As it turns out, Cincinnati is merely 20 miles away from the border, and when I got on the interstate, I realized the shortness of time and distance I had to accomplish this mission. I stopped at the first gas station, having to fill up my tank anyways, and entered into the travel mart. No postcard. I feigned as if I needed the men’s room, used the facilities, and left. There were several more exits before the border, so I drove to the next gas station and walked in. No postcard. I had already used the men’s room, so I bought a bag of potato chips. At the next stop, I still had no luck. I thought to myself, “What are the chances that no gas station between Cincinnati and Indiana will sell postcards?” Five bags of potato chips, two Twinkies and a Gatorade later, I concluded “100%”.

After crossing the border into Indiana, I decided to change tactics. Instead of stopping at every gas station, I would stop at the first tourist attraction and go to the gift shop. Thus I ended up at the Hoosier Park Racetrack and Casino. I walk into the smoked filled room, made my way around islands of flashing slot machines and while inundated with background racket beeps and clanks. The room was filled with sad and miserable people, gambling their hard earned cash away in the hopes of something better. Retirees attached to oxygen machines stared intently at the slot machines praying for their jackpot. The gift shop too, was depressingly small and although there was a large selection of “Get Well Soon!” cards, there was not a single postcard. Dejected, I sat down at the Roulette table. I anted my postcard budget and joined the masses in forgetting my troubles.

I lamented this story to my friend whom I was visiting in Culver, Indiana. She cheerfully replied, “Well, Culver may be a small town, but I do know the hardware store sells postcards. In fact, I bought one last week there!” Happily, we walked to the hardware store that served the town of 7000. When we arrived, we saw a container marked “Postcards: $1.00” - empty. We questioned the owner of the store and he confirmed that not only were they completely out, but he had just sold the last one only moments ago. Seeing my crushed look, he quickly added, “But you can go down the street to the Poet and Painter. They sell postcards.” We made a beeline to the store and sure enough, there was quite a nice selection. I was happier than an ant in a sugar factory.

I bought 7 and put my roulette winnings to good use too.