Snake eyes in Berkshires

RICHMOND, Mass. - Many moons ago, our esteemed governor suggested that the way we should rebuild our bridges, our schools, our communities, our confidence is to build some casinos where people could spend their money like drunken sailors and rebuild the state coffers.

I was dismissive, suggesting it is positively immoral to raise revenue on the backs of people who, every study shows, have the lowest incomes. The idea of the Commonwealth of Massachusetts supplanting the mob, plying the populace with vice, and doing a better job at marketing it than the wise guys is kind of, um, skeezy.

But having read the report touting the economic gains casinos would bring our impoverished Commonwealth, and having spent a few days driving around the Berkshires - "America's Premier Cultural Resort," the signs say - I have seen the light, and it bounces off Jiminy Peak and extends all the way to this bucolic hamlet hard by the New York border.

Now, I know that report says the governor's job-creation estimates were a bit off. But what's 27,000 jobs between friends? Besides, I have found, in this beautiful hill town, the perfect spot for one of the casinos. Richmond shares a name with what was the capital of the Confederacy. This is all karma, begging us to create a new form of slavery: slaves to craps, blackjack, and slots.

The locals speak of the recent toga party the governor threw for legislators at his remote estate here in hushed tones, the way people in Roswell recall that UFO landing back in 1947, with a mix of fear and awe.

Never have the good people of Richmond met more guys wearing Sansabelt pants and reeking of halitosis that could melt the glaciers. Folks at roadside farm stands report of men roughly the size of manatees emerging from cars with low-number license plates to ask in barely discernible accents the same question: "Where's the closest packie?"

After getting directions, our honorable representatives, without exception, asked a follow-up: "How late they open?"

You may find this shocking, but the locals report that none of our solons took the road in the middle of town that leads to Tanglewood. This, I'm afraid, is what our glorious governor has to work with. And for that we should bless him and pray for him.

Now, one of my heroes in Richmond is the great Fran Malnati. Fran is a farmer, but more important he is an EMT and a firefighter who has volunteered his service for half a century.

Fran Malnati is The Man.

Fran loves the governor, and he loves Diane Patrick even more, because the first lady of Massachusetts is a lady, first. Fran has been up to the governor's spread. Unlike me. I never get invited to any of these swell places.

But Fran Malnati isn't big on casinos.

Fran Malnati has seen all sorts of terrible things, fatal accidents on the Pike, bad fires, suicides, you name it. But he could never, in his worst nightmares, imagine the sight of my aunts from Southie, armed with fanny packs and plastic cups full of quarters, jumping off the train at Richmond, looking for the slots.

Jumping off the train like hobos is what they would have to do, because there is no station in Richmond. Neither is there a store. There's just a post office and the volunteer fire department. Most of the trains that pass through are industrial in nature.

"They take the garbage through," Fran Malnati was saying. "Don't know where it goes. It just goes."

It just goes. Sounds like the casino plan.

Fran, you're still The Man.

Aunt May, I wasn't referring to you when I mentioned the fanny packs. Swear to God.

And Governor Patrick, just one question: Would you put a casino here?

If the answer is no, don't ask anybody else to put it in their backyard.

Kevin Cullen is a Globe columnist. He can be reached at cullen@globe.com.