A Vegas Tradition

The elevators ding open to the beeps, bells, and chimes of the MGM casino floor. We hang a left, a right, another right, then trough through throngs of tourists.

Excitement tingles in our fingertips. We could throw lightning bolts from our hands, it’s so strong.

This is how it always is. It’s become our Vegas tradition.

Our first destination is the Zuri Bar. Dark shadows criss-crossed with crisp blue lights cast an unsettling web on the walls. Deep bass boom-boom-booms into our bodies. It’s a club atmosphere meant to psyche up even the most anxious player. To us, it just adds to the soundtrack of Vegas, followed by the singing of slots and cheering at craps.

Smoke waifs our senses. Occasional puffs pollute our noses. It’s a city of all sins, especially the self-destructive and peer-destructive ones. It’s a place where one goes to die a little each day, literally, morally, perhaps even spiritually. That’s okay though. As soon as you leave, those mutilations remain. What happens in Vegas, well, you know.

We crash into the couches and survey the scenery. Some of the guys see them as prey, with their loose wallets, polished ATM cards, and optimistic naivety. Me, I like to people-watch. I make up stories for each one.

For instance, that lady in the little black dress over there, sitting by herself? She’s having a clandestine rendezvous with a high roller she met at the Mirage. Being that she was staying at the Mirage with her husband, she had to arrange this meeting at the MGM.

Little does she know that her husband is also having his own secret rendezvous… with that high roller’s… brother! Gasp.

This is all a manifestation of my mind’s meanderings, of course. Take off its leash and it will run loose in all kinds of directions. The scotch whiskey doesn’t help either.

Oh, I didn’t tell you about the scotch whiskey? Macallan. 21-year, maybe 25-year if we’re feeling especially lucky. The 50-year? Well, one day. Like mellow velvet down your throat, the water back brings out hints of toffee and cloves. It takes off the edge for those who have such a distaste, and it accentuates the flavors for those who have such a taste.

Price: a Benjamin and change.

We savor our Macallans slowly. It is a rare delicacy that we appreciate in all its elegance. The sounds, the smells, the sights… every sense is tempted as much as it is offended. Just the way we like it.

The waitress serves as eye candy we devour hungrily. Short skirt, low top, and lots of skin. The uniform designers sure know how to rile up their audience. A comment here, a joke there, and she giggles. The fact that this act increases her tip notwithstanding, we smile and feel invincible. What better way to measure a guy’s manhood than by how many times he can get a hot chick to laugh?

Then the psychology begins. We torture each other with taunts and torments. We encourage each other with enthusiasm and applause. Break ourselves down and build ourselves up. Just like in the army. Our way of becoming Vegas Strong. Fuck yea.

Once we’ve been molded appropriately, we’re off to our next destination. The high-limit slots. We’re not talking your Grandma’s slots here. I’m sure she’s a lovely lady who once made that big win of three hundred dollars. Good for her.

I’m talking about a Benjamin a pull. Feed the beast a one-hundred dollar bill, then stroke its shaft. One pull each. Maybe two or three more if we’re feeling incomprehensibly indestructible. Fortune favors the fools on Friday, we fathom. It’s the beginning of the weekend, the perfect time to lure the lustful with luxuriousness.

The first victim pulls once. Hits one-thousand right away.

The second victim pulls once. Nothing. Twice. One-thousand and two hundred.

I pull once. Nothing. Twice. Nothing. Aw shit, why not? Thrice. One-thousand and six hundred. Thank you beast, for regurgitating such regal riches.

Price: a Benjamin. Reward: ten-fold or more.

Armed with confidence, indestructibility, and optimistic naivety, we approach the tables to start our attack. The rest of the trip is dictated not by tradition, but by the tides of fate. We enter it with the full knowledge of our odds. And that, my friend, is our Vegas tradition.

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Red

My Mom would kill me if she knew I put $1000 on red at a roulette table. Oh, wait, she reads this site. Hi Mom! Guess what I did this weekend?

Since a few coworkers and I have been at our company for more than four years now, we’re all fully vested. What’s the best way to celebrate being fully vested? Why, blowing all that hard-earned cash in Vegas, of course!

Disclaimer: I’m not much of a gambler. In fact, the most I’ve ever won in Vegas is negative-twenty-bucks. The working assumption under which I act is: the cash I bring to Vegas will be the cash I lose in Vegas. And so far, I haven’t been wrong.

Two hours before we had to check out of the hotel and catch our plane, I was $1000 in the hole. I was in better shape than my friends, but still, that’s a big chunk of money.

My mind raced. What could I do to win back that $1000 easily and quickly?

I think it was a combination of things that lead me to the answer. First, there was the alcohol. I had a Bloody Mary that morning and the dull taste of stale scotch still lingered in my mouth from the night before. Next, there was the lack of sleep. I’m sure I had more sleep than most people, but four hours of winks isn’t nearly enough for my old bones.

Finally, there was the sheer stupidity of my brain. Because, only a stupid brain could honestly ask a question like: “What could I do to win back that $1000 easily and quickly?” with a straight face.

By now, you know the answer already. My stupid, tired, drunken brain told me the answer was… roulette!

I approached the table with a mixture of adrenalin, anticipation, and sweaty palms. Also: a $1000 bulge in my pocket. (Now how’s that for a pick-up line?)

I looked the dealer in the eyes, whipped out my money clip, and threw ten $100 bills onto red. The dealer grinned and spun the ball. My eyes locked onto that tiny ball as it spun and spun and spun… and finally, it landed on…

…well, before I get there, let me tell you how this weekend started. Right after we dropped off our stuff in the hotel room, we prepared ourselves with a glass of 30yo Macallan Scotch Whisky each. Then we strolled into the High-Limit Slots area to blow a quick wad. Of money, I mean.

While a friend sat down at a $100 slot machine, I opted for a $25 machine. After two simple pulls, I made $1175. Not bad for the first hour in Vegas, huh?

Now back to the roulette game. As it spun, another player looked up at me with a smile. “I’m rooting for red for you, man!” he cheered. I kissed my empty money clip, touched it to my forehead, shoulders, and chest, and uttered a silent prayer. The dealer chuckled and nodded. And finally, it landed on…

…oh, let me tell you about my great new gambling strategy. Each time I sat down at a new game, I allotted only $200 to play. If I lost it all, I’d stop playing and move on to another game (or stop playing for a while). If I won more, I’d stop playing and leave with my winnings. It’s a prudent and conservative strategy that saved me from losing mucho dinero.

And in direct conflict to this prudent and conservative strategy was my other great new gambling strategy. I only played when I began to “feel” it. If I didn’t “feel” it, then I’d get a drink or watch my friends play. “It” being the vibe, the warm tinglies in my gut, the sense of being a Winna!

This novel strategy was applied liberally to games of lower odds, like slots and roulette. Why? Well, remember what I was saying about my stupid, tired, drunken brain? Good.

For instance, I occasionally would get a very strong sense of “Red red red!” Whenever that feeling hit me, I’d look at the roulette table and pretend to bet on red. And what would win? Red! Same for “Black black black!”

I only pretended to bet because, at the time, my confidence level in roulette was still pretty low. These pretend bets served to hone my “feeling” to be more, uh, accurate. Um, yea.

So if I was “feeling” the right colors, I should play them, right? Right. Now let’s get back to the roulette game in progress.

As it spun, I reflected back on my entire weekend of excess, greed, and gluttony. What have I become, I asked myself. Here I was, throwing away $1000 in hard-earned cash. Because of what? A “feeling”? Some little voice inside my head? I worked hard for this money. Now I was gambling it all away. What the hell was I doing??

Fear and grief began to creep into my stupid, tired, drunken brain. I began to regret dropping that much money onto the table. There was nothing I could do though; it was too late to take it back now.

I tried to turn away from watching the ball, but couldn’t because, hey, we all love a good car wreck, right?

And finally, it landed on…

…on…

…on…

…don’t you love suspense…

…on…

…Red!

Holy shit I won! I just won a thousand friggin’ dollars!! Gambling rules! That little voice in my head rules! My new gambling strategy rules! $1000! Woooooo!!

Whew! That was too easy. I’ve broken even. I won back that $1000 easily and quickly. What do I do with all this money now? Let it ride? Hmmm.

Don’t worry Mom, I didn’t gamble anymore. I put it into my pocket and didn’t take it out again until I was at the bank to deposit it.

But still… I could be depositing double that right now. Because after I won that round, I had the “feeling” again.

“Red red red!” Which must mean that red is another Winna!

What’s the most you’ve gambled?

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Vegas, Baby, Vegas!

“The best way to make money in Vegas,” said the dealer, “is to stay home.”

We smiled and bet a silver for the dealer. He’s a good dealer; he chats with his players, gives them advice from the book, and cracks an occasional joke. Those are the best dealers. Those are the ones we tip graciously and generously and frequently.

Not the cold ones. Not the Dragon Ladies. Dragon Ladies are the stone-faced Asian ladies whose smiles could put ice in a gorilla’s ass. They laugh when you lose, grin when they win, and taunt you with their cold eyes.

A good craps roller makes everyone smile though. Everyone. A good roller can last ten, twenty minutes. Even longer. (Both on the table and in bed, they’re so fond of saying.) The good ones know how to roll. They place certain numbers up, hold the dice a particular way, and throw them just like that. And the dice actually come up with the numbers they want.

You can always hear cheers and applause from a craps table. Only occasionally on a blackjack table. There’s a lot more hand waving on a blackjack table.

The casinos on the Strip are full of these tables. Along with hundreds of tourists. Languages abound. Walk through a casino and you’ll hear Japanese, German, French, Hindi, and other flavors of the human tongue.

You won’t get that in a local casino though. A friend took us to one. It was twenty minutes outside of the Strip. The minimums were much lower. One dollar craps tables. One dollar blackjack tables. Waitresses who’ve never heard of Sapphire gin. Old men with oxygen tanks on one side and a cigarette on the other side. And dozens of little old ladies huddled over noisy one-armed bandits.

I took a cab back to the Strip and the driver remarked, “We don’t never get no foreigners in this here casino.” Locals come here for their daily gambling fix. Tourists rarely do. Apparently I was quite an oddity here. At least they were real friendly and didn’t shoot me and bury me in the desert.

One-armed bandits, on the other hand (no pun intended), are not friendly. Not for me, at least. A friend fed one of those bandits five hundred dollar bills. And on his first pull, the bandit spit out fifteen hundred dollars. Fifteen hundred dollars! The Gods of Slot Machines must have been with him that day.

The Gods were not with me though. In my pocket was the cash I intended to spend. “I am only going to play this money,” I told myself. “Nothing more.” Then my friends repaid me for their hotel rooms in cash. And the cash in my pocket grew. It grew without any warning.

And just as quickly as it grew, it shrunk. It shrunk before I realized what was going on. When I finally caught on, the cash in my pocket was a mere whimper. Which was exactly the sound I made when I realized this. It had been eaten away by the craps tables, the blackjack tables, the slot machines, and just about every other devious enterprise Vegas put in my path.

Damn. I knew I should have taken that dealer’s advice.

What Vegas advice to you have?

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The Greatest Vegas Story Ever

Jimmy leans back in his chair and clears his throat. “The last time we were in Vegas, the most amazing thing happened to us.”

Mike chortles. “Yea, you have to hear this,” he says with a smirk. George, Thomas, and I sit up and listen.

“This was… what? Several months ago? I arranged Mike’s bachelor party to be in Vegas. Only, things didn’t go as planned with the bride and the wedding.”

Jimmy passes a glance at Mike, who nods solemnly.

“But we decide to have the bachelor party anyways. It’s a bachelor party without a wedding.”

We nod collectively.

“So early one morning, we get into an elevator and there’s this woman in there. She’s kind of good looking, probably in her late 30′s or early 40′s. Good looking for her age. And she starts talking to us, asking us if we’re having a good time in Vegas, blah blah blah.

“I tell her that we’re here for Mike’s bachelor party, only it’s a bachelor party without a wedding. She goes, ‘Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.’ And she continues to try to console him throughout the elevator ride.

“Finally, the elevator stops on our floor. We get out, but she holds the doors open and continues talking to us, like she doesn’t want the conversation to end. I’m thinking, ‘Okay, that’s kind of odd, but I guess she’s just really friendly.’

“Then she says to us, ‘Have you boys seen a pair of boobs today yet?’

“We answer, ‘Um, no…’

“‘Well, okay, here you go!’ she says. And she pulls open her blouse… and flashes us! Right there and then. In the elevator. Full on boobs!”

“OH MAN!!” We all roar. “THAT’S SO FUCKIN’ COOL!”

“Yea! It totally made our morning!” Mike adds with a big smile on his face.

Jimmy nods. “They were a great pair of boobs. As perfect as they come. And I mean, wow, that kind of thing NEVER happens! And it happened to us! It was definitely very cool. After that, the whole day was fantastic. It was like the day was blessed by those pair of boobs. And… we even saw her again on the elevator later that day!”

“Whoa! Did she flash you guys again?” George asks with eyes wide in wonder.

“No. But she did try to get other random girls in the elevator to flash us. She kept telling these random girls, ‘Hey, this guy just lost his fiancée. Cheer him up and show him your boobs!’ The other girls didn’t. But man, that woman was awesome.”

“Next time we go to Vegas, we gotta use that story again!” Mike winks.

“Wow.” George leans back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling. “That is like, the greatest Vegas story ever.” Jimmy and Mike share a nod.

What is the greatest Vegas story you’ve ever heard?

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Feelin’ Old

At the party of an English college professor. Four of us are seated around the dining room table. One guy is dealing out Blackjack hands.

Dealer:

[Towards me] You have seventeen.
[Towards Tall Girl] You have a pair of queens.
[Towards Girl With Glasses] You have six.
[Towards Guy With Tank Top] You have nineteen.
[Deals to himself] Six showing.

Me:

[Waves hand over cards]

Tall Girl:

Um, what should I do?

Me:

You have a twenty. Face cards are ten each. Since the highest you can get is a twenty-one, you should stand, because you already have a pretty high number.

Tall Girl:

Oh, okay. I stand.

Girl With Glasses:

[Taps table] Mmm, hit me.

Dealer:

[Deals out a face card] Sixteen.

Girl With Glasses:

[Pauses] Mmm, stand.

Tall Girl:

Wait, why did she just stand? Shouldn’t she try to get more cards?

Me:

The chances of her getting a card that will push her over twenty-one is pretty high. If you’re over twenty-one, then you bust and you automatically lose.

Dealer:

Yea, ‘cuz I could have sixteen showin’. ‘Cuz you should always assume my hidden card here, see? My hidden card here could be a ten. So the most I could have, is like, sixteen. And so the dealer has to hit on sixteen, but stand on seventeen. So if she has a sixteen, it’s safe to assume that I might, like, you know, bust and go over twenty-one.

Tall Girl:

Ohmigawd. That is so complicated. I can’t take this, I’m only eighteen.

Guy With Tank Top:

You’re how old??

Tall Girl:

Eighteen.

Dealer:

[Slaps table] Holy shit!

Tall Girl:

Why, how old are you?

Guy With Tank Top:

Twenty-one.

Girl With Glasses:

Mmm, I’m twenty-two.

Dealer:

Damn, I’m, like, old.

Me:

Really? How old are you?

Dealer:

I’m, like, twenty-three.

Tall Girl:

Wow, you’re old.

Me:

[Eyes fixate on my cards]

Dealer:

Yea, my life is almost half over.

Guy With Tank Top:

That ain’t so bad. Twenty-three, you’ve still got a lot of years ahead of you man.

Girl With Glasses:

Mmm, yea, you’re still young.

Tall Girl:

Wait, how about you? [Table turns towards me]

Me:

[Looking everywhere but at them] Huh? Are we still playing?

Dealer:

How old are you man?

Me: Ummm.

[Pause] I’m twenty-eight.

Everyone:

[In unison] HOLY SHIT! Twenty-eight!

Dealer:

Twenty-fuckin-eight! Damn man, you’re hella old!

Tall Girl:

Twenty-eight? You’re twenty-eight?

Girl With Glasses:

Mmm, you know, I would have guessed you were thirty, tops.

Guy With Tank Top:

I dunno man. Twenty-eight. Well, I guess you could still have a few years ahead of you.

Me:

[Picturing self crawling into a hole to die] Um, okay. [In a whisper] Let’s keep playing now…

When was the last time you felt old?

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Gambling Luck

Some people got it, some people don’t. Me, I don’t got it.

I’m talking about Gambling Luck. Vegas Luck.

You know, the most I’ve ever won at Las Vegas is negative twenty bucks. Pitiful, isn’t it?

Of course, I’ve only been to Las Vegas twice in my life. So maybe I just haven’t had enough time to build up my Vegas Luck Bank. Maybe I’ve got to walk by a few more slot machines to attract Vegas electric charges and build the Bank in a static-cling sort of way.

I’ve never been a big fan of gambling. But without Gambling Luck, can you really blame me?

Take a friendly poker game for nickels and dimes. I put in ten dollars, I lose ten dollars. Take a friendly blackjack game. I bet two dollars, I lose two dollars.

I have plenty of examples just like that. Because me, I don’t have Gambling Luck.

“But Mike, if ya know how to play da game, you can turn dem odds in yo’ favor.”

Oh. Umm, really?

“Yea, dis Gambling Luck, dis Vegas Luck yo’ talkin ’bout, is all ’bout knowing yo’ odds of winning versus yo’ opponents n’ minimizing da risk ta yo’self.

Oh. Uh, yea, I knew that.

“An’ avoid those damn slot machines man. You ain’t gonna win shit on those, unless yo’ willing to sit dere n’ throw down a whole lotta quarters.”

Oh. Okay, yea, yea.

“So what’s dis Luck yo’ talkin ’bout? It’s all ’bout skill man.”

Ah. Okay. So what I was talking about was, er, Gambling Skill, right? Vegas Skill. Okay, that sounds more like it, huh? So that means that I lost that friendly poker game ‘cuz I ain’t got da skills. I lost that friendly blackjack game ‘cuz I ain’t got da skills.

Boy, that’s more depressing than thinking I don’t have Gambling Luck.

Sigh.

Oh well. Some people got it, some people don’t. Me, I don’t got it.

Do you have Gambling Luck?

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