Hit Me

A Vegas novice takes on Sin City

Somehow I made it to my mid 20s without going to Las Vegas. I’d been invited several times, but I never saw the attraction. I don’t love gambling. It’s not on the water. It’s 2,700 miles away. Celine Dion is there. But when two high-school friends, Jason and Elliot, proposed a trip last month, I finally got on board. I wanted to see why these guys keep going back, because as far as I know they’re not huge Wayne Newton fans.

Day 1

We rendezvous at our hotel, the MGM Grand, on a Saturday night. This is the biggest hotel I’ve seen in my life. Small planes could land on the front desk. If the lobby were a saltwater marine habitat, it would take whales months to migrate from one side to the other. And beyond the lobby lie more slot machines and tables than… than… anything I’d been programmed to comprehend. I’ve been to Mohegan Sun, but this is Mohegan Galaxy.

Jason, Elliot and I head to our room and await the arrival of our party’s fourth member, Elliot’s college buddy Leftwich, who’s more high-strung than the cables of the Golden Gate Bridge. “It’s good to have one crazy guy in your group,” Elliot informs me.

Leftwich arrives and we march out to the Strip on our way to Tangerine. I hadn’t seen the Strip on the way into the hotel, so when we walk outside, it explodes onto my retinas like a blow to the head. The word “gaudy” doesn’t begin to do it justice. I expected all the casinos to be aglow with neon; what I didn’t expect was that everything is aglow with neon. Even the CVS has its innocuous letters lit up with giant red chaser lights screaming around the building, as if to say, “Sure, I’m a CVS and I sell Odor Eaters and reading glasses, but we’re in Vegas, bitch!”

We make it to Tangerine sometime around midnight, which is unfortunate because the club features regular burlesque shows, and the last one went on at 11:30. As consolation, many of the girls crowding the dance floor are basically naked, which makes for good people-watching (read: lecherous staring). I like to dance, but not when I’m with three dudes, so we follow a strict sit-and-drink agenda until about 3:30 am, when Leftwich bounces out onto the dance floor and disappears. We assure each other he can take care of himself and return to the MGM to gamble for a few more hours before seeking late-night food. The waitress mixes up my order with Elliot’s, we eat each other’s food without noticing, and finally head off to bed.

Day 2

The next morning, Leftwich is still MIA. We’re speculating on his whereabouts when I get a phone call from the front desk: “Do you know a Mr. Leftwich?” Moments later he stumbles into the room, raging drunk but still full of energy. It’s 11:23 am. “I’ve been playing blackjack for the past six hours,” he says hoarsely. “I couldn’t remember our room number.” This is a bad thing in a hotel that has more than 5,000 rooms. I expect Leftwich to pass out now and sleep it off for the rest of the day. But he’s ready to hit the pool, his only nod toward hygiene coming when he grabs the bathroom disinfectant off the cleaning lady’s cart and sprays a shot in each armpit.

After an hour at MGM’s 6.6-acre pool complex, we leave Leftwich passed out under a palm tree and head to the sportsbook. Sports betting is Jason’s specialty, and he wins me $20 on a Cardinals-Braves game. Jason has bets on everything, including $50 on Kerry to win the presidency. “I’ve never voted in a presidential election, but in this one I am because I want to win money,” he says. In case you’re wondering, Vegas has Bush as a 2-to-1 favorite.

Beginning in the sportsbook, I go on a modest winning streak: I win at video blackjack. I go up about $15 after playing at a $10 blackjack table for a half hour. Jason wins me $20 in the sportsbook. And, while looking for a sandwich shop, I come across a game called Lucky Larry’s Lobster Mania. Any game represented by a cheerful gambling cartoon lobster must be lucky indeed, so I feed $6 into the machine and hit a button. Lucky Larry immediately goes nuts with the bong-bong-bong-bong-bong-bong-bong that signifies that I, a guy feeding money into a machine called Lucky Larry’s Lobster Mania, am a winner. I cash out, $24 richer and now convinced of my invincibility.

After dinner at Nine Fine Irishmen at New York New York (where the fish and chips made up for the fact that earlier I’d had to call the front desk and say, “Could you connect me with Nine Fine Irishmen?”), the next evening is spent predominantly wandering around and gambling. We’re down a man, as Leftwich has discovered that staying up till 11 am drinking and gambling has a downside when he’s still retching at 8 pm.

Remember how I said I wasn’t into gambling? Somewhere between Lucky Larry’s Lobster Mania and the second night, that’s changed. Suddenly, I no longer need to ask Jason if I should split eights when playing video blackjack. Instead of playing a quarter at a time and milking comp drinks, I’m hitting “max bet” and losing $20 in 30 seconds. Sometime in the wee hours, Jason and I sit down at a $25 blackjack table, something I never would’ve considered doing in the past, and I quickly lose $100. Then Jason convinces me to place $100 on a color at roulette. “You need to feel that sick feeling in your stomach,” he says, “It’ll make your article better.” I put my lone $100 chip on red. The wheel spins, my eyes glued on the swirling ball, until it lands on... double-zero.

Licking my wounds, I retreat with Jason to a video poker bar, where a girl is chatting up Elliot. But Elliot’s engaged and she’s not hot enough to become unengaged over, so after I lose another $40, Jason and I pull a move that’s normally reserved for women: We get up from our seats and start walking, saying “Nice to meet you” to the girl and beckoning Elliot to come with us. Eventually he says his goodbyes and we leave, making this possibly the first time in history that a cock-block has been executed on a girl.

Day 3

I awaken hungover, overtired and financially smarting from my vicious losing streak. I drag myself out to the soda machine in the hall and deposit $1.50. I push the button for a bottle of water and get... nothing. You know you’re unlucky when you lose to the soda machine.

Before 2:30 pm, I ride the New York New York roller coaster, drink a Bud Light while playing blackjack with a borrowed $20, and drink enough iced coffee to kill a chimp. One thing I forget to do is eat, and this suddenly catches up with me as we’re wandering down the Strip. An appropriately apocalyptic thunderstorm drives us into the Paris casino, which in my broken condition seems like the open maw of hell itself. I’m so hungry I’m nauseated. I’ve slept only eight out of the last 57 hours. My losing streak is becoming a losing skid mark leading straight into the concrete wall of Gamblers Anonymous. But food will make things better, and deep within the complex, we find a crepe stand. Nobody ever says, “Boy, I could really go for a crepe right now!” but the first mouthful is heavenly. On the second mouthful, I bite a tine off my fork and hurt my mouth. “You don’t look like a serial killer anymore, at least” Jason informs me. “Now you just look morbidly depressed.”

That night I get my first real food of the day at Diego, a highbrow Mexican restaurant in the MGM that features a guy who comes to your table with a cart and makes guacamole. After I’ve stuffed my face with the best Mexican food I’ve ever had outside of Mexico, my trip comes to an ignominious end with a rush to the airport. Working on the naive assumption that I’d still feel human after three days in Vegas, I booked a red-eye flight home, and I have to be at work in 12 hours. But I’m ready. It’s time.

A few days after I get home, the post-trip summary e-mails are flying. Elliot writes, “Ez, it’s probably good you left when you did. The 40-year-old Asian man dressed up as Michael Jackson circa 1985 dealing blackjack was an amazing sight, but I don’t know if it was worth the three-day hangover... The last night I really understood what insanity is, and it seems I almost crossed that fine line.”

Well, Elliot is getting married next summer and I’ve got a roulette table that owes me money. I think I feel a bachelor party coming on...