stuff sit open for a while before consumption.
Oh, hell,
he thought,
go on and get a little on your tongue
.
He poured a few drops into a cupped palm, then held it to his face and dipped the tip of his tongue into it, expecting the
worst.
It wasn’t so bad at all. Just a barely perceptible sweetness. It must have needed to breathe a little. No way he was going
to brave an actual swallow of it again, though. No way.
He put the cap back on and left the room.
That first afternoon it felt right to just wander. He opened with a few shots of the dome and the atrium and the rest of the
interior splendor, then moved on outside and explored the grounds.There were a handful of beautiful but small stone buildings that had once housed some of the mineral spas. A fountain highlighted
the center of the garden, and Eric discovered there was a small cemetery on the hill above, looking down at the dome. He took
a few experimental shots from the ground, shooting at the hotel past the tilted gravestones, and was pleased with the results.
This spot needed to be incorporated into whatever he did—anytime you could shoot down on something so grand with gravestones
in the forefront, you should.
He went back down the hill, amazed at the heat on this first weekend of May, his shirt already clinging to his back, his forehead
wet with perspiration, and then walked to the end of the brick drive—past an even more sweat-soaked man with a weed eater,
who returned Eric’s nod with a surly look—and then stood beneath the stone arches and shot back up at the hotel. The sun was
still high, glaring off the dome, and he thought that it would probably be pretty powerful if he could catch it at just the
right stage of twilight some night, as the sun fell and those old-fashioned lamps came on.
There was no shortage of options and angles here; the place offered a sort of visual potential he hadn’t seen anywhere else.
He took some shots up from outside the arches, using a slow zoom up the brick drive, trying to create the effect of walking
up on the place, then went back to the car and headed toward French Lick. It was within walking distance, but not when lugging
his equipment under the scorching sun.
Once inside, he had to give the French Lick hotel a bit more credit—it was pretty amazing in its own right. It would have
seemed extraordinary in this little town were it not for the big brother up the road. As he walked through, Eric felt a mild
sense of sympathy for Thomas Taggart. He’d built a hell of a place here,only to have it outshined by something a mile away. That’s how it could go, though—there was always somebody a little bit
better.
He shot video in the hotel and the casino, wandering, and found himself drinking another beer in a basement bar, where the
walls were adorned with antique electrical switchgear. The Power Plant, they called it. Whatever—the beer was cold, and the
lights were dim, and that helped his headache. He wasn’t sure what that was all about. Eric had never been prone to headaches,
but this persistent little bastard had been with him all day. Could be he was coming down with something.
He ate dinner at the casino’s buffet, taking his time, nothing left to do until nine, when he was supposed to meet the graduate
student. The kid had told Eric he’d be driving down from Bloomington that night, so they’d agreed to meet late and grab a
drink at the hotel bar. Not much else had been said in the e-mail exchange, so Eric had no idea how helpful the kid might
be.
When he got back outside, the grounds were bathed in long shadows, the sun fading behind the tree-covered hills above. There
was a back road connecting the two hotels and the casino, used by shuttles to ferry gamblers back and forth, and he took that
on the return trip. Ahead of him was an old Chevy Blazer with a worn-out muffler, steep tree-lined hills on the left, a low
valley with train tracks on
Oh, hell,
he thought,
go on and get a little on your tongue
.
He poured a few drops into a cupped palm, then held it to his face and dipped the tip of his tongue into it, expecting the
worst.
It wasn’t so bad at all. Just a barely perceptible sweetness. It must have needed to breathe a little. No way he was going
to brave an actual swallow of it again, though. No way.
He put the cap back on and left the room.
That first afternoon it felt right to just wander. He opened with a few shots of the dome and the atrium and the rest of the
interior splendor, then moved on outside and explored the grounds.There were a handful of beautiful but small stone buildings that had once housed some of the mineral spas. A fountain highlighted
the center of the garden, and Eric discovered there was a small cemetery on the hill above, looking down at the dome. He took
a few experimental shots from the ground, shooting at the hotel past the tilted gravestones, and was pleased with the results.
This spot needed to be incorporated into whatever he did—anytime you could shoot down on something so grand with gravestones
in the forefront, you should.
He went back down the hill, amazed at the heat on this first weekend of May, his shirt already clinging to his back, his forehead
wet with perspiration, and then walked to the end of the brick drive—past an even more sweat-soaked man with a weed eater,
who returned Eric’s nod with a surly look—and then stood beneath the stone arches and shot back up at the hotel. The sun was
still high, glaring off the dome, and he thought that it would probably be pretty powerful if he could catch it at just the
right stage of twilight some night, as the sun fell and those old-fashioned lamps came on.
There was no shortage of options and angles here; the place offered a sort of visual potential he hadn’t seen anywhere else.
He took some shots up from outside the arches, using a slow zoom up the brick drive, trying to create the effect of walking
up on the place, then went back to the car and headed toward French Lick. It was within walking distance, but not when lugging
his equipment under the scorching sun.
Once inside, he had to give the French Lick hotel a bit more credit—it was pretty amazing in its own right. It would have
seemed extraordinary in this little town were it not for the big brother up the road. As he walked through, Eric felt a mild
sense of sympathy for Thomas Taggart. He’d built a hell of a place here,only to have it outshined by something a mile away. That’s how it could go, though—there was always somebody a little bit
better.
He shot video in the hotel and the casino, wandering, and found himself drinking another beer in a basement bar, where the
walls were adorned with antique electrical switchgear. The Power Plant, they called it. Whatever—the beer was cold, and the
lights were dim, and that helped his headache. He wasn’t sure what that was all about. Eric had never been prone to headaches,
but this persistent little bastard had been with him all day. Could be he was coming down with something.
He ate dinner at the casino’s buffet, taking his time, nothing left to do until nine, when he was supposed to meet the graduate
student. The kid had told Eric he’d be driving down from Bloomington that night, so they’d agreed to meet late and grab a
drink at the hotel bar. Not much else had been said in the e-mail exchange, so Eric had no idea how helpful the kid might
be.
When he got back outside, the grounds were bathed in long shadows, the sun fading behind the tree-covered hills above. There
was a back road connecting the two hotels and the casino, used by shuttles to ferry gamblers back and forth, and he took that
on the return trip. Ahead of him was an old Chevy Blazer with a worn-out muffler, steep tree-lined hills on the left, a low
valley with train tracks on
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