Driving through the Nevada dark, hour nine of ten. I have to admit, I'm feeling more Jon Favreau than Vince Vaughn at the moment; I just want to get a nice room and a good meal, maybe gamble a little, hit the sack.
But thirty miles outside Vegas, the sky starts turning from black to purple to red, and the the Strip comes into view. I'm thinking of all the Bugsy Siegals and Hunter Thompsons that have descended on this bright city before me, and all the energy and possibility down there. I exit onto Las Vegas Blvd, pass the famous sign, and cruise the strip. I turn on Shadowplay by The Killers, local boys, and give it a little volume. Okay, getting pretty fired up now.
I take LVB all the way to the less glitzy, more historic end of the Strip, past several tuxedo shops/wedding chapels, and park it near Fremont. I find my way to a Binion's blackjack table and sit between a country singer from Austin and a straight-faced businessman from Tokyo. We three are an odd bunch, but the dealer keeps busting, we keep winning, and friendships are born. I take my handsome profit back to the strip and get a room. Ever heard of Bellagio? Yeah, my hotel is right across the street: Bill's Gamblin Hall and Saloon, home of the $29 all-you-can-eat surf and turf.
I clean up and jaywalk the Strip to Bellagio. Ava Maria is playing and fountains are dancing as I stroll in. I am Danny Ocean. A burly man in a suit welcomes me. Thank you, sir, I'm gonna rob you blind.
It's midnight on a Wednesday, but the place is packed. Conventioneers in name tags, bachelorettes in heels, poker players in sunglasses. I settle into another blackjack table, and I'm following all the rules. Hit that, split those, vary the bet. But at a critical moment, I break rule #1: Don't bet more than you can afford to lose...
An embarrassingly high percentage of my net worth is on the table, and I'm dealt a 7-5. A fucking twelve. Dealer has a queen showing.
Hit. Ace of spades. Thirteen.
Sign of luck, right? I tap the table. Hit. Dealer flips me a card, it tumbles in slow motion...
Eight of hearts. Twenty-one. I gather and stack the loot. I'm rich. I'm Floyd Mayweather. I'm out.
Two-in-the-morning and it feels like 8pm. I find a bustling sushi bar inside the Bellagio, grab a table facing the casino, and order a $18 seared ahi roll. Miso, edamame, saki? Sure. I've got cash for days.
I'm looking out at a row of expressionless gamblers feeding slot machines, pulling the arms mechanically. Cocktail waitresses, failed actresses perhaps, in high skirts and low shirts. Cigarettes dying in ashtrays. Relentless beeping and blinking and the false sound of coins hitting metal, coming trough a speaker. This is really an awful place, manipulative, depraved, garish and godless. I need a friend, a shower, a church.
I hop in a cab at 3am. Spearmint Rhino, please.
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