At the Indy (or is it the Highlander?) hoping to cadge a ride. Dial Jayme Reynolds, who I believe now to be a dealer, and set down to wait. Perform some scriptwork on Battles, my laptop, trying to stay anonymous. As I edit, watch old acquaintances delicately brushing paint onto miniatures. Some kind of crafts night? Poolside in the main hall, Mark O & MaryAnn have tiny bas relief ovals set on dish easels and are carefully daubing the details in with sable brushes. At first I'm surprised either has the motor control to do such work, then realize the bas reliefs must all be masked. Though not with tape or rubber cement; some kind of clay perfectly fills the fine interstices between ivory-white leaves...
Jayme rolls into the parking lot in an old cadilliac & I dash out, hopping in the back seat and plonking my heavy bag down, prepared to do a li'l unpaid therapy to coax a ride (& perhaps a joint) out of him. Judging by his long face seems he's still experiencing contratemps with Amy-- and he's high, so we only circle a quarter of the lot before he's exiting curbside and in a bar. "Babysitting ain't never been easy," I console myself, and follow.
Cajoling Jayme out of the Highlander (or is it the Indy?) with Jayme's tiddly ass in tow I must circle back through the main hall of tables. MaryAnn's soused now, flirty but incoherent. All the spaces where we were are occupied by a fresh wave of players, most of them taking selfies with booze. Grown adults playacting as if they exist in whiskey ads, I swear. "No drinks on the felt, please, no drinks on the felt," I scold, making a rushed circuit of the room. Half the partiers hear but couldn't care. Nor do I, on automatic. Passing table 8, which is at least covered, I continue nursemaiding: "Please, no drinks on the felt. Please." And duck behind the counter to grab something from beneath the bar...
