"You guys goin' to Vegas?" he asks through a smile.
"How did you know?" I reply puzzled.
He says nothing and waves us onto the plane.
The ticket reads San Francisco.
Maybe he overheard a conversation?
Maybe he saw my connecting ticket?
Maybe he watched us chug those 24 oz beers in the restaurant across from the gate.
No. I decided that we are oozing some kind of unmistakable Vegas aura. The stoke factor is high: we're heading for the bright lights and the dessert. Sunny weather. New rock. New friends. New adventures.
We arrive in Las Vegas just after midnight and we're hung over already. A cab takes us to the Sahara Hotel. Fifty years ago the Sahara Hotel was the camel's pajamas. A lot changes in fifty years. Frequent exposure to cigarette smoke takes a tole on the luster of any wall papering and the new atmosphere of the Sahara attracts a budget clientele. I watch row upon row of joyless slot-players in the dingy smelly open room. A 70 year old woman sits hunched over the "Playboy" slot machine fondling buttons with pictures of girl's asses. I ponder the health effects of n-th hand smoke and I spend $1 on the slots. I don't understand the game - how do I make these things align? I suck at this game. We leave the hotel to search for late night eats, but the nachos were synthetic. At least the beds are soft.
The next morning we go to The Strip, find some much better food, and then head to digest it by the pool. We make it half way to the pool before getting distracted by signs advertising "Indoor Skydiving." We jump off the bus and don full-body jump suits. The four of us enter a vertical wind tunnel and take turns experiencing simulated free-fall. After twenty minutes, we are ready to forsake reality forever and spend our life's savings on a wind tunnel - how hard can it be?
Darkness falls fast and we change out of our jump suits and into our alter egos: moustaches for the gents and dangly earrings for the lady, we all have retro 70s regalia and cool aliases like Chaz, Wayde, DeMonte, and Feather Johnson. Dinner, margaritas, and our own renditions of Queen kick the night off right. The group comes together. Then the Bellagio and six straight wins at the black-jack table. Soon, I'm betting the farm on green. Fate's fickled finger points to thirty-three red and we feel the first loss of the night. Humbled, Chaz and I briefly retreat to safer bets.
Not destined for a conservative night, soon the chips start to roll and I place the first big bet of the night.
I'm not thinking. Black. $100 chips feel just like $5 chips until they're on the table. I regret the bet immediately.
"No more bets" and a wave of the hand.
I can't watch. I walk away and from a distance I watch Chaz watch the wheel spinning. What have I done? What a waste.
Chaz winces and lowers his head in defeat. Walking over he groans, "sorry man." My heart and my colon meet.
"You @#$%ing won!!" he lights up. We laugh and I promise I'll get him back for this deception. We have beat the Bellagio - it's time to move on.
"You @#$%ing won!!" he lights up. We laugh and I promise I'll get him back for this deception. We have beat the Bellagio - it's time to move on.
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| Feather, Wayde, DeMonte, Chaz (Front to Back) |
Time to hit the clubs. Feather gets us VIP with ease. "Except him," says the bouncer, "you'll never get him in anywhere wearing those." He points to my choice of footwear for the evening. People don't appreciate high-end flip-flops.
We're already on a first name basis with the security guard. She jovially escorts us to a store where we can buy shoes. Closed.
Plan B: We begin to canvas the area looking for men with size 10 shoes. I offer up to $150 to anybody who will part with their footwear. Only one taker - his feet are too small. Fifteen minutes pass and I'm still unshod.
Plan B: We begin to canvas the area looking for men with size 10 shoes. I offer up to $150 to anybody who will part with their footwear. Only one taker - his feet are too small. Fifteen minutes pass and I'm still unshod.
Plan C: We find a new store. It's open but sells no shoes. I buy a $4 pair of navy blue socks and put them on over top of my flip flops. Back to the VIP line, we breeze past the first bouncer. Then we're through the full body search. Elation! We're in! $30 cover? We walk away.
I disappear from the group. It's time to get Chaz back for his tricks. Soon a crowd of ten plump 50 year old women are all cheering loudly. "Chaz! Chaz! Chaz!!" He answers the call. He's so smooth. I egg on the crowd more until their cheers change "Do it! Do it!" Chaz looks baffled. "What!? What am I supposed to do?" he screams over the cheering. It takes a while - then the largest of the women yells "Your Elvis Impersonation!" It takes a second but soon Chaz is twitching his legs and twisting. He grunts "ah huh huh" over and over, but he clearly doesn't know a single Elvis lyric.
It is true that if you double your bet every time you lose, then you'll almost certainly recover your loses. However, my pocket book failed to sustain exponential growth and we quickly found ourselves facing the inevitable catastrophe. We consulted the fates and they decided that we should go for it: one final spin of the wheel with the rest of the night on the line.
We lost. But walked home with everything we had wanted to win
(... except for all that money)
We lost. But walked home with everything we had wanted to win
(... except for all that money)
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| Photos courtesy of Cowboy J |
