September 12-13, 2005

attempting to use the barter system

We begin the evening at the Thunderbird Lounge for some swing dancing with the locals. I am told that this bar, housed in the Aruba Hotel & Spa, is where Frank Sinatra and the Rat Pack used to do their thing. And now we’re doing ours. My companion has won fifty dollars on the video poker machines embedded in the bar counter, so the first drinks are on him. I order another bar burger and, while it’s good, red meat is getting tired.

I am learning Argentinean swing while returning the glowing smile of a large bosomed red head in a short-yet-flowing black skirt. She dances naturally and I struggle to keep up. It is someone’s birthday and I sign a card though I have yet to meet the recipient. We drink a number of martinis and say our goodbyes before shuffling off toward the Circus Circus casino. There are so many lights out front that walking under the large seizure-inducing canopy is like entering a heated room. I begin to sweat, but soon we are inside the fridge-like air-conditioned gambling area. I find a roulette wheel and immediately split a fifty-dollar bet on red and twenty-six. Black four.

We drink beer in take away cups as we play slots and my man, again, wins while I feed more of my cursed quarters into the easy-loading machine. A Porsche rotates hypnotically above me and colourful reels spin and make the unmistakeable (standardized?) bleeping noises. I can’t imagine a more satisfyingly dull way to lose money. There is literally some manner of circus on the floor above, but it is not open this evening. The lady next to me is steadily pumping coins into her monkey-themed machine. So steady in fact that I am beginning to wonder whether she is a robot put there to fill space. She elects to pull the large-knobbed lever to send her reels into a dizzy frenzy, though it is not strictly necessary as there are now buttons provided to ensure that no energy is wasted unduly. Diamonds and cherries reflect in her glasses and on her sweaty brow.

As we move down to Frontier, the next casino on the list, someone on the street yells, “I’m Rick James, bitch!” The speech is slurred however, and I cannot tell if maybe they didn’t wail “I’m Rick James’ bitch!” We pass by the rotating cars and at the bar we obtain Heineken for ninety-nine cents before settling down for some heady karaoke. It seems that the casino name appeals to cowboys and there are several Texans here to represent the breed. The girl who is currently singing is doing her damnedest to impress and is stomping her way through a country song with matching cowboy boots and hat. We approve and join the crowd in making bawdy calls and suggestive gestures. The whistling is overpowering the small area, but is still not enough to drown out the one Dale Earnhardt fan who is repeatedly calling for the lady to remove what little clothes she is wearing. Her beer belly is jiggling in obscene opposition to her breasts, both of which are spilling out of her tight shirt, enhancing the appeal of her chicken dance.

Next up is a balding man who shocks the crowd by singing a flawless rendition of a U2 classic. There is complete silence when he finishes, save my appeal for his becoming less clothed. Suddenly, we are looked at with disapproval - or is that malevolence? Fortunately for us it is time for one of the good ol’ boys to make a drunken appearance. He is terrible, in a fashion having no redeeming qualities. We sneak out the side entrance while the crowd cavorts to Bruce Springsteen.

My compatriot suggests that we head to a show in the alley behind the Beauty Bar. I agree on the condition that I am able to purchase a translucent visor emblazoned with the name Las Vegas. That item ends up being easily procured and we head to see the internet band in the alley. The place is ripe with cookie cutter emo kids and we feel older than entirely necessary. The show is energetic and appealing enough, and I am approaching a state of equilibrium in the area of blood vs. alcohol so there are no complaints. Afterwards, we drink for a while with the band and learn that they are from Chicago. They thank us profusely and repeatedly for coming to their “little show”, and thanks again for all the support. I will buy their album. I reach out to pluck at the bald member’s sideburns thinking they are surely attached to his glasses.

They are not. Things get hazy here.

We leave and drive to a Vietnamese market/restaurant to procure some storied pork sandwiches. The acid pepper burns my lips beyond feeling. We attempt to sneak into a Celine Dion concert, but have difficulty finding the exact location of the performance. We look for the rude puppet show and, while we are able to find it, sneaking proves impossible.

On the street my friend is attempting to use the barter system and broken Spanish to procure one of the blinking neon signs. Unless my limited understanding deceives me, he is promising “more future chickens”. As he does so I am propositioned by a gay male and a prostitute. This is not a city for standing around idly. Brusque movement indicates to all that you not only have somewhere to go, but also something that, upon arrival, must be accomplished. And that is not the profile looked for by the type of people who are likely to accost you.

I play several rounds of blackjack at Stardust, and win a little. I’m pretty sure my winnings are spent rather than lost or stolen, but I have no idea what is purchased.

I am driving on a street off strip. When did I pick up my car? Why am I driving? Should I be driving? I swerve to miss a parked car – so no. This is in fact not my car, and while I’m pretty sure it is the turbo monster belonging to the person I’m staying with, they are nowhere to be found. I pull over somewhere just before the sirens light up and drive past.

My friend plays a gigantic slot machine somewhere. He hits a jackpot and the lights go crazy, bells and whistles start a commotion, and he is scrambling to pick up the money it spits out. Or did he lose it all and beat the box in anger before we are pushed on? Both perhaps. I seem to recall both.

I remember sleeping, but I don’t remember driving out into the middle of the goddamned desert in the heat of the day. Yet here I am, and with all my camera gear. It makes scrambling over rocks difficult and my head hurts. There is a third person now. They are saying, “It’s just a little farther ahead.” I can’t go on, I am dehydrated and I believe that I feel the effects of an impending heat stroke. I head back to the car, but I don’t know the way. There seems not to be a trail and the bushes grow razor blades. My knees are aching and my shirt is torn when I do reach the vehicle – and I am too weak to drive.

Later in the evening we head to a casino theatre and see a sexually and emotionally charged Chinese film. Leaving the theatre we are both introspective and neither of us speaks for the hour it takes to get to the sake house. In my case at least, I have been forced to recall my entire past as a lover in two hours. It is not something I recover from quickly. I fall asleep next to (as fortune would have it, not in) my bowl of ramen and wake up with a cup of sake still in hand.

I awake again next to a woman who is berating me for having fallen asleep. I think I am in the Winn, but I am not sure – either way the lobby is opulent. She is telling me that I can’t sleep here and that I should go back to my room. A cab driver outside asks if we would like to “see something”. He will take us to a club free of charge, but we inform him that that is not the type of thing we are in for right now. He presses on, following us at dangerously low speed along the strip. When my companion vomits near his rear wheel he finally presses on. A woman asks if I would “like something” and I snap, “Must everyone here be so obtuse!”

We wordlessly decide that it is time to return to the apartment for rest, and do so.