Three Jews and a Mexican: Day 15

Because Las Vegas is the place where memories go to die, this entry is unlikely to have much substance. Vegas is so much fun that you rarely remember it. We were busy carousing and, when not carousing, praying for death to release us from the constant hangover that occurs any time you spend more than a few hours in Vegas. Therefore, there is nothing in our log book chronicling our visit to this fair city. All we have is a scattered collections of events that, when patched together, turn into a highly incoherent narrative.

I do remember that, when we arrived, the first thing we did was go to the Holy Shrine of West Coast Fast Food establishments: In-n-Out Burger. Long cherished by those on the left side of the map and long envied by those on the right flank of the continent, In-n-Out has terrific burgers, easily worth the 20 minute wait and preceding death fight through the throngs to get to the counter.

We stayed at the Tropicana, a hotel that has seen better days. Think of it as the Larry King of casinos. It really had its best days (if any) years ago, but remains accessible and relevant thanks to a sort of nostalgia that everyone has for things that owe most of their reputation to how well time has served their idealization. Confusing, tacky, and oblivious to its own shortcomings, the Tropicana nonetheless boasted cheap rooms and a convenient location. It would do.

Like I said, upon arriving in our room, I pretty much threw my suitcase in the bedroom, screamed, “See ya!” at Dustin and Moldman, and booked it for the casino floor. There, I threaded water for a while, while the Yids cleaned themselves up for the night.

I have no idea what happened the rest of the night, which I think was a lot of fun. I do remember though, that we came back to the Tropicana circa 4 a.m. and saw a $5 blackjack table. We shrugged and said “why not?” much in the same way one would grab a candy bar at the supermarket checkout line.

We sat down and started playing, mostly out of inertia. The table was riddled with cigarette holes and our dealer spoke some hybrid of Russian, English, and Drunk-speak. Our presence at that table was a sad sight to see at that hour of the morning.

Still, there were moments of excitement. But because this was the Tropicana, they were fraught with peril. At some point, Moldman got an ace and a king, for a profit of $7.50. Understandably overjoyed, he extended his fist across the table to give me a celebratory pound.

Then our dealer lost it. DO NOT BLOCK THE CAMERAS! He began pointing at Moldman and then pointed at the ceiling, screaming at him to STOP BLOCKING THE CAMERAS and PUTTING YOUR HAND ON THE TABLE BLOCKS THE CAMERAS and NEVER BLOCK THE CAMERAS and DO YOU UNDERSTAND ABOUT THE CAMERAS?

We nodded, politely took our winnings, and booked it away from there before he could stab us in full view of the cameras.

The next day was spent mostly exploring the Strip, drinking margaritas out of yard-long plastic containers, and generally doing that which people in Vegas do during the afternoon. The night, again, regrettably, is mostly lost in a blurry haze. I am happy to report that we did not lose anyone in the party, and we never did have a tiger in our hotel room.



The second night, however, the Tropicana almost came thisclose to being evacuated, thanks in large part to us and, more specifically, to Moldman.

When we were leaving the hotel to take Moldman to their airport, we were waiting for the elevator. Moldman, tired, no doubt, put his hand against the wall to lean against it and rest. The problem was that he put his hand directly on a fire alarm, and, when he realized where his hand was, pulled it back in a panic, narrowly and by the grace of God avoiding pulling the alarm. He came close, however, and to this day, Dustin and I regret that Moldman did not pull that fire alarm by accident, capping off what had been an all-star trip all around.