PART 2 - Getting the Virgin His 'Hos MATT'S STORY Realizing that I had only packed dress shoes and they looked really stupid with my Bermuda shorts, I ran up to the Payless Shoes on Fremont for a pair of sneakers. I returned to downtown just in time to greet our Southern California friends. I'll just use first names because they are all big shots in the entertainment industry and they don't appreciate the infamy. They were Mike, Ghizal, Phil and Steve. Because I only see them once a year, and a year is a long time for healing, they were happy to see me again. Many hands were shook, and money was exchanged before we started discussing where to have dinner. I wanted to eat at the Western because I never had. Plus, their snack bar is cheap and I figured the money we saved would go a long way toward getting Jerry a skanky 'ho. We were not of mass mind, however, with none of the Southern California contingent even knowing who Jerry was. He was still locked in his room, and my friends don't like buying 'hos for strangers. Plus, Mike had just gotten over a severe case of food poisoning and he had no interest in the cost savings/unclean food trade-off the Western offered. We compromised by agreeing to eat at the Las Vegas Club's Upper Deck coffee shop. I went up and told Jerry to meet us at the Western. He asked where that was and I told him to go east on Fremont, quickly and with his eyes on the sidewalk. As always, the Upper Deck did not disappoint. The room is quiet and comfortable, the food is good and standard, and the prices are cheap. To add a little foreign intrigue to the evening, I tried the French Dip, like the French spies eat, for about four bucks. Others had pancakes, chicken, grilled cheese and rubbery steak. Our group settled into two adjacent booths and created dozens of new Old Lady Playing Keno jokes while we ate. Buoyed by our stuffed tummies and the prospect of a full weekend of shenanigans, our growing group ventured down
Well, once we had made some space for ourselves in front of the stage and live band, Phil and I treated Downtown Las Vegas to a clinic on headspins, back-busters, poppin' donuts, slithering wallises, tippy-toe sliders and the one move Phil perfected that I never did, the "720-degree Rump-shaker." The bass-heavy rhythms kept us in fluid motion, and the flash-bulbs of awed tourists lit up the evening sky. We ground and grooved, moving to the music and the wild applause we got. With the crowd begging for more and the bassist missing notes because he was too busy watching, we decided to leave the people wanting. We continued down to the Western for business and pleasure. After the dangerous walk past the shuttered shops and derelicts who reside between the Western and the rest of Downtown, we were glad to approach a familiar face. Bob S. Black slouched against the front wall of the Western dragging on a Camel Light, surrounded by a gaggle of new friends, most of them missing either teeth or limbs. I pulled my wife tight to my side, not because of the bums, but for fear of Bob's slippery ways. We entered the casino and my friends scattered like cockroaches when the light is turned on. I looked around and noted the improvements Jackie Gaughan had made to his property. The blackjack pit had expanded from six to ten tables, three or four with a $1 dollar minimum. All the tables were double-deck. He had also added a poker table to the pit, and a $1-$3 seven-card stud game was being played by a surly mob of the undead. In the back, the snack bar had been enclosed in glass to keep the thick, sickening haze of cigarette smoke from spoiling the meats. I wandered over to the dime roulette wheel, where I was to meet an Internet scam artist and test his strategy against Lucky Ned's IncrediSystem. At dime roulette, a twenty dollar bill buys you 200 dirty chips, or five unwieldy stacks forty chips tall. The croupier is almost always a rookie and spills the chips while sliding them across the table. I stood and watched as a bitter group of people covered the numbers with several dollars worth of chips. Fifteen minutes later, the scam artist still hadn't showed, but Carol and Michael, two Big Empire Buddies had. They courageously made the trek to the Western by themselves. My friends and I looked out of place, but Carol and Michael must have seemed like Martians. They appeared even cleaner and far more polite than us. Of course, anyone who knows them is aware they have a dark side, a thirst for cheap thrills that can only be sated when someone gets hurt. I gave up on waiting for the scam artist. The fact that he never showed, after saying he would, disappointed me and made me lower my regard for all Internet scam artists. It's a shame when one bad apple ruins the reputation of a whole bunch. No sooner had I left the roulette table and wandered over to the blackjack pit when Jerry burst into the casino, his face shiny with sweat and his breath coming in gulps. He carried one of his shoes in his hand, and his sock was bloody and torn to shreds. Jerry scanned the room; his eyes were crazy... bad crazy. "What the hell?" I wondered. Jerry spotted me and rushed past the blackjack pit. "You lousy son of a -" screamed the Vegas Virgin as he latched his hands onto my neck and shoved me back into a table. "I was almost killed." Even though I couldn't breathe, I had to smile. My little buddy was really making progress. In between gulps of air, Jerry continued his story and his grip on me tightened. "I got lost and I ended up in the yard of this abandoned apartment complex. Then this guy with a knife came out of the shadows and mumbled something. That's when I started running." The Western's security guard, a man so fat that his belly poked out between the buttons of his shirt, sauntered over to us. He motioned Jerry to take his hands off me, and Jerry complied. "Look, fellas," wheezed the guard, "you want to fight, do it outside. You can come back in when you're done." Jerry and I apologized and, after a couple of cans of Heineken, he cooled down. He bent over and put his shoe on his scraped-up foot. He was still breathing heavily and trembling with fear. Even though Jerry had just tried to kill me, I couldn't be mad at him. He was just too cute and too innocent. I put my arm around Jerry's shoulder and drew him in. "Let's not fight, Jer. Let's just say we both made mistakes. You made the mistake of trusting me, and I made the mistake of letting you. There's still a lot of weekend left, so why don't we start over?" Jerry eyed me warily, "No skanky 'hos?" "Don't ask me to make promises I can't keep. Here," I pulled a shiny five dollar bill from my wallet. "How about five dollars?" I held the bill up and I saw the anger in Jerry's eyes melt away. It was replaced by a look that said, "He's giving me money, how bad can he be?" I took Jerry by the hand and led him to the blackjack table. His eyes widened as he watched the silver tokens flashing in and out of the dealer's tray. His eyes danced as the cards were dealt. "Sit down," I encouraged him, and Jerry sat down gingerly, as though the seat were made of Ginsu knives. He put out his five dollars and quickly found himself in possession of five silver dollars. After a half-hour, it was obvious that Jerry had never played blackjack before. I sat beside him and fed him a steaming helping of misinformation. At first, Jerry used two hands and didn't know how to gesture when he wanted to hit or stay. I taught him to rub his belly for a hit, pat his head to stand, and do both if he wanted to double-down. I was cracking myself up, but it confused the rookie dealer and surly, keno-playing pit boss. They found it about as funny as the cocktail waitress's mustache, and they worked to undo my teaching by scowling and yelling at Jerry. "Why do you deliberately try to confuse me?" my bewildered friend asked after the third time the dealer ordered him to stop rubbing his belly. I answered, "Hey, you need to split those tens, so do a handstand." Eventually, Jerry learned the gestures preferred by the Western staff, but by then the dealer and pit boss were so sick of his antics they were yelling at him no matter whether or not he gestured correctly. DAN'S STORY Robert and I pulled up just in time to see a scraggly bunch of ne'er-do-wells ambling Spike-ward from the dingy side of town. I wanted to scream and honk, but Robert bade me desist, and I took the lesson in restraint. We found a spot, miraculously, in the jam-packed lot behind--as Garcia Lorca would put it--El Spike de Oro; and disembarked in time to catch Matt and Amy making their way through the lot to retrieve some rental-car-bound memento. I greeted Matt with a sucker punch to the stomach. We laughed a bit and he said, "No Katrina this year, Capice?" "Roger Wilco," quoth I. Then I cried a little. Amy cheered me up, though, by offering me a jolly little somesuch that made me smile. Later, I wadded it into a pocket and forgot about it until it had passed through the laundry. What it was, I now cannot say, for its current form is nothing more than a paper pulp clot. No matter, Amy's kindness remains with me to this very moment as I type. Pardon dear reader as I wipe a tear and sniff some patchouli--a sure-fire cheering tonic for all good souls. Up to the rooms, were Robert and I escorted. And what a joy did I feel to witness the reassembled kith of Las Vegas lore! Besides Matt and Amy, Mike was there. And Steve the Lawyer. And Phil--he is my brother--he is older than me. And Ghizal the poet, and Linda Carter was there. And two people who I didn't know but who looked about as friendly as a mountain apple pie on a summer's dusk. That's friendly!
To signify our re-bonding, Jerry and I traded the old ritual greeting, "What's Up?" "Not Much." And I gave him the customary noogie with my old noogie-giving knuckles. I tousled his hair. He tousled my stomach vigorously. We tousled over the old times, and the party really kicked into high gear, expelling "the jams" at a ferocious rate, if you catch my drift. Everyone talked and reacquainted. It turns out Steve had made a small fortune off his Stupak 3:16 shirts in the last year. By explaining the joke to as many people as possible, he'd created a cult following which blossomed into a modest media splash--and a new summer home. Mike began drinking heavily. It was water, but still I marvelled at his stomach for libation. I was introduced to the apple-pie people: Carol and Michael. It turns out they weren't as friendly as an apple-pie, but at least as congenial as a blueberry cobbler. Then we all changed clothes in for an evening of dicing and drinking and driving all over tarnation. During this, I caught a glimpse of Jerry's cute little heinie. That wife of his must think it's the most adorable little peachy-butt, and call it her "crumpet," or "cini-mini," if I may be allowed to make assumptions into his private life. That's when I decided it was time to bring in the mojo. I produced a lucky hoodoo candle that had been given to me by a
Ghizal especially had the hang of it, chanting mystical things which nobody could make out. Something about, "shomeethuh monee." I looked at young Jerry, his eyes aglow in the candle flame, and an old song came to me, one that goes something like "Make as though you were a deer and run run run through the forest!" Clearly, I was overtired. Therefore, it was time for Jerry, me, and the whole horrible crew of us to paint the town fuschia! MATT'S STORY Dan the snake-oil salesman promised Jerry a life of easy comfort and fun, and it didn't sit right with me. I needed a way to show Jerry that while Dan was having more fun than me, and sure nobody was being hurt, and sure it attracted ladies, and sure it was harmless enough, and sure it didn't require him risking his life, it was a shallow, empty kind of fun that only left you with a solid, contented feeling and nothing more. Somehow, I had to show Jerry the truth, that fun was better when it required hard work and real terror. And I had to do it quickly, before Dan had sunk the tendrils of clean-living into that virgin flesh. I watched Dan and Jerry with what many would call jealousy and envy, but not me. Ever since I took an anger management course and almost graduated from it, I have been able to understand the occasional bouts of rage that blur my vision and make me break other people's property. What I was experiencing was neither jealousy nor envy, it was righteous indignation. What had been mine was stolen away by Dan. Dan had lured Jerry in with an easy demeanor, a winning smile and his deceptive honesty; the three main ingredients in any crap sandwich. As I was itching to bust a face, Amy tugged on my shirt and reminded me that it was time to go pick up Stinky and his brother Mike from the airport. "I ain't going," I said. "You promised," Amy prodded. "Let pretty boy go," I suggested and nodded toward Dan. "Yeah, okay," offered Dan all too willingly. "Oh, no, you don't," I snarled. I didn't know what Dan was up to but I was going to stay one step ahead of him. "I'm going and you're staying right here." STINKY'S STORY I thought that for the third year in a row I was going to miss out on a night of action in Vegas, and barely arrive in time for the ice cream social on Saturday. A giant storm of some sort had crippled O'Hare airport, and all of American Airline's planes were stuck there. I managed to trick an unsuspecting ticket agent in Newark into buying me a direct flight on America West, whose plane was gassed up and ready to go, right out there on the tarmac. I considered it a personal triumph, and silently thanked Robert for all his years of tutoring in the subtleties of air travel. Matt and Amy came to pick up my brother Mike, who was in from Monterey, and me at the airport, and we headed downtown, passing the Strip on I-15. We took note of the progress of construction on the various Strip properties, and once again marveled at the ridiculous flashing lights running up and down the corners of the Luxor.
At the Gold Spike, my head swam a little, because I was so tired and hungry after the long flight, and because the smoke and yellow, buzzing lights in the casino sapped my energy. I bucked up, though, when I saw a very large group of old friends, many of whom I had not seen for a year or more. I was introduced to Jerry, who looked pretty wet behind the ears. Seeing the opportunity to finance my own trip by taking advantage of his naivete, I immediately asked if I could borrow five bucks, "until I get to the ATM." He agreed, not knowing enough to be suspicious, and I was ready for a $3 steak at Binion's Horseshoe. Because of the relative late hour, everybody aside from Mike and me had eaten. So while the rest of the gang made its way to the Plaza, we hung a left at the Lady Luck and walked into Binion's. Halfway through the meal, Mike left me to call his wife. Luckily, she was awake, because he had left her home alone with their two-month old baby, who was not fond of sleeping for long periods of time. DAN'S STORY Although I wished nothing more than to revel in the unparalleled look of happiness on Stinky's face as he arrived, first in this town of wonder, and second in this company of bosom compatriots, there was a lot more for friend Jerry and me to do than sit in the Gold Spike--no matter how sumptuous it was. Quaffing four jiggers of my favorite liquors out of cute little bottles packed expressly for the purpose of getting ripped took only minutes. Then it was time to hit the town--I mean to slap it like a bitch! Phil, Jerry, Mike, Ghizal, Robert, Carol, Michael, and I all headed out on the town. Crossing up to Fremont Street, we caught sight of a local denizen, dreaming drunkenly under a newspaper machine. He appeared to be dead, but nobody wanted to touch him, nor to entertain thoughts that we had already seen a cadaver this early into the evening, and so we decided he was sleeping--almost angelically--and moved on toward the obvious destination: the uniquely unanimous Plaza, towering symbol of might. Of course Biff, in the fictional "Back To The Future" movies, took over that hotel as his primary base of operations: nothing else could simultaneously appear so menacing yet inviting, glitzy yet grimy. We wended Plaza-ward, passing under the Fremont Street Experience, a veritable wonder of the modern world--perhaps the largest cartoon display available anywhere. And with the all-time greatest songs from the dead-center of mainstream music behind it, it's no wonder that it made Jerry's square jaw drop on its mandibular hinge with an audible pop. My heart swelled with something gaseous and ethereal, smelling faintly of catsup, as I watched his soul fill with three-story imagery of dancing guns, hoe-downing clowns, and boogey-ing outlines of the Great State of Texas. It was all I could do to pull him up the strip, so eager was I to show him more, more, more! Our friend Jeff was also scheduled to meet us in the area of the craps game shortly, and I wanted to make sure I got to him in time. This reunion of the three of us--all of the same alma mater--would be heartwarming in the extreme. You got puppies with big eyes? Forget puppies with big eyes! This would be more heartwarming! You got itty babies all gurgling and fresh? Well, those are pretty damn heartwarming too! Anyhow, the crowd on Fremont Street was formidable and several times, Phil vanished into it, only to reappear with an odd grin on his face. I wasn't sure what he was doing, but it didn't seem to matter until, as we crossed Ogden, he admitted that he was playing kid tag, and had already scored a redoubtable lead of 8 points. No fair! And stranger still was the fact that at least 8 children under 4 were being toted around in this merry-go-round fare in the wee hours of Saturday morning. To Jerry, I explained the joys of shooting craps: the rattling dice, the roar of the crowd, the dourness of stickmen. Then we all stopped for silly photos at Sassy Sally's. But they were not doing them this late in the evening, so we pretended to get our pictures taken, then hustled ourselves into the casino and laid our once-again-impressionable selves on the mercy of the hawkers. Charming Jerry, easy prey of villains everywhere, was rooked in minutes, and I watched him flow down the stream of the con-game. He put ten dollars in chips into a big shiny machine that glinted like sparking flint off his corneas. He lost every one without so much as a bell nor whistle. "I lost," he said, unbelievingly. "Naturally," I said. "These casinos are completely bogus. Pay-offs are unheard of here--isn't it wonderful?" Jerry looked like a little lost lamb, but as a question formed on his lips, I whisked him back out into The Experience and the group of us continued toward the Plaza. I had only enough time to tell him to bet on the Pass Line before we entered the teeming lobby of the greatest damn casino of all time. And there was Jeff, sure enough, at the craps table, already working up a sweat over a growing stack o' chips. The table was packed, and it was double-duty difficult for me to find not one, but two slots--in proximity with each other, no less--for Jerry and I, but muscle in, I did, upsetting an older woman with platinum blonde hair. What joy! To be standing at the bar, tossing in the double double-saw buck, feeling the felt-like feel of the felt. "Excuse me!" complained the woman. "Piss off." I told her. There's only enough joy here for me and my friends! MATT'S STORY By the time we hit the Plaza, Dan and Jerry were thick as thieves, which I found odd because only one of them actually was. The Plaza swarmed with its usual blue-collar clientele floating easily on the wide river of free liquor, or as I call it, "Old Boozey." The tables and slots buzzed with dim, yellow energy. The worn-down casino was stuck in a time warp where nothing ever gets cleaner or dirtier, it just stays dusty. The same band was on the same stage as the first time I stopped in here ten years ago. I strode up to the dollar craps table and worked my way into the action. I invited the Virgin to join me and learn from my crappy wisdom, but Dan had cleverly found a space beside him at the far end of the table. Fine, I thought, we'll settle this the way gunslingers did in the old west: with a craps war - dice blazing, chips flying, old men, women and children running for cover and begging for mercy. It was about to be a bloody melee with only the table and a dozen strangers to separate us. I glared down the table and Dan met my steely gaze. He knew what was about to happen. Then I ordered a mai-tai from the cocktail waitress. "And bring extra umbrellas, please. I collect them." At his end of the table, Dan placed his dollar on the pass line. At my end, I placed my dollar on the pass line. I chuckled and thought, we'll see who wins this one. As it turned out neither of us did. The shooter crapped out. Dan and I quickly reloaded, and the next shooter set a point before crapping out. Getting impatient, I snarled at Dan, "You're going down." He put a protective arm around Jerry, who looked a little scared. The dice shifted into Dan's hands and he laid his wager on the pass line. As I bent to lay my wager, the dice rocketed across the felt. The red cubes whacked against my fingers and tumbled to a stop. "Seven! Winner seven!" Dan grinned at me wickedly as the dealer slid a dollar next to his bet and I nursed the small welt rising on my knuckle. I quickly dropped my next buck on the pass line. Dan again hurled the dice at Mach Three and they careened off the table. I ducked and they shot past my ear, struck a woman at the next table. I stared at Dan, slowly shaking my head and clucking in disapproval while the innocent woman hollered, "My head! My head!" I refused to give Dan the satisfaction of knowing he had struck a nerve in me, so I did not let him see my soiled trousers. "Keep 'em on the table, sport," the dealer scolded my nemesis as he selected a new pair of dice. Dan quickly crapped out, and even though I lost a bet, I laughed at his incompetence. STINKY'S STORY Stuffed full of beef and news of one anothers' lives, Mike and I caught up to the others and bought in for twenty bucks
Mike, ever the impatient student, wanted to start laying come and prop bets right away. At first I discouraged him from prop bets and told him to take it easy on the comes, but he kept pushing me for information. Finally, I had to admit that I don't know how half of the stuff works anyway, so if he wanted to bet anything weird he'd be on his own. After everybody had been cleaned out by Jackie Gaughan's minions in shabby suits, we retired to the Gold Spike snack counter. I sat next to Jerry, casually working my hand toward his wallet, but he shifted around on the vinyl seat too much for me to get a good grip. So I settled in for some sulking and a piece of pie. MATT'S STORY I was a little weary, a lot beaten and completely blotto by the time my forty-dollar buy-in had disappeared. The fact that Dan had stolen my new friend would have really bothered me if it wasn't for my good friend alcohol. As it was, I was more than happy to be a third wheel on the way to the Gold Spike diner for a slice of pie and some coffee before bedtime. I guess I didn't realize exactly how drunk I was, but I quickly figured it out when I ordered myself a hot dog. The Gold Spike wieners are large. They are also ancient. All day, they slowly rotate on metal rollers, turning a deeper shade of bloody brown as the hours wile away. By three a.m., the franks achieve a spectacular degree of toughness. It made no difference, though, because in my state a slice of chocolate pie and a tasteless hot dog were exactly what I wanted. They were what Dan and Jerry wanted, too. And, so we sat and ate, fighting off sleep and swearing that
these were the tastiest hot dogs ever made. We bonded like blood
brothers, then went up to bed the best of friends. |
