Part 3: More Recent Hijinx

Or, What not to do at a Trade Show

I’m sitting in the Golden Nugget Casino on Freemont street, drinking in the contrast. If the strip is Disneyworld, this is…Newark. Shady, utiliarian, and fairly grungy, this little corner of Vegas was designed to part a fool and his money, and leave the task of distracting said fool for to the glitz and flash of the strip. You want lights, we got lights. You want booze we got booze. You want tits we got tits. Now lose some @#$%! money.

"So what do you do?"

I love that question, I think it’s in the manual somewhere for being a dealer at a Blackjack table. They don’t really care, and would prefer a simple answer like "Banker" "car salesman" or "rich inheirtor with a gambling problem who leaves Blackjack dealers massive tips." But it’s his fault for making small talk so I decide to let him have it both barrels.

"I’m president of Synister Creative Systems- we’re a small gaming company out of North Jersey."

The guy shoots me a look as he tosses down my cards. He clearly believes that if I was in the gaming business I should be playing better Blackjack than this. I clarify.

"No, we do roleplaying games."

"Oh, I loved Final Fantasy."

I swear, next person who tells me that after I tell them what I do is going to get beaned in the dome with a hardcover copy of Deadlands or something. I hate the next bit.

"No, print games. Like…D&D or Vampire."

"Oh, I got a cousin who does that."

Who doesn’t?

He smiles as he collects my chips. "You’re in town with that GAMA thing then?"

"Yeah, over at The Orleans.Not a bad joint. Buffet is okay. Waitresses’re top-notch."

"So I hear." He smiles. "I thought that convention was over already."

"It ended today. I decided to come out here because I had never seen Freemont Street. Just heard about it in the Tom Waits song- with the line "I sold my ass on Freemont Street." and all that. Sounded like easy cash. Last minute decision."

"Hm?"

"I was supposed to be out with this chick from some card game company tonight. She got sick and couldn’t make it so I decided to head out by myself. What was her name? Terry? Tori?…Ah…Hit me." He did. I busted. I mechanically placed another pair of chips on the green velvet.

"Was she hot?"

"Wasn’t like that… My girl’s back in Queens by now. We were just gonna go out to have a good time."

I’d had a good week, so this was money I was still technically "up." It had been pretty weird mixing to of my faves- the gaming industry and Vegas. They didn’t exactly go. I enjoy spending quality time with my dog and pornography, too, but I don’t necessarily want to enjoy them together. Still, Vegas is my home away from Jersey, and I’ve never enjoyed any city as much as this giant cartoon. I was oddly comfortable here. There’s a certain freedom that comes when absoltely nothing is real. Freedom leads to irresponsibility, and that leads to rediculous betting. I pile the rest of the chips on the table.

"This should do it." I smirk. Paying whatever hundred-odd bucks for four seconds of suspense seems like a good deal in a place like Freemont Street.Seconds later I am staring in rapt fascination at the ace and jack in front of me. A huge pile of chips joins the stack. I smile, tip him a red one, (I hope those were worth a lot) cash out, and leave.

As I walk out, I notice a bearded guy in a red baseball cap following me in a mirror. I decide to take an awkward turn back toward the hotel area. He follows. I dart down a side door and pop out behind the casino, walking briskly. Looking over my shoulder, I watch the door to see if he follows.

Nothing. I look around and my heart sinks. I’m dressed in my finest with over three hundred in cash in my pocket somewhere in the ghettos of Las Vegas. Smooth. I scan the horizon, hoping to find some sort of an idea. The phallic monument to cash, chance and ambition called the Stratosphere Tower stands proudly before me like a great big boner for the whole city. I figure my best bet is head towards that. At least there I know I’ll be able to find a taxi.

I’ve been walking for about half an hour and the scenery hasn’t much changed.

I’m back on the Strip, but it's just a seedy section of Las Vegas Boulevard punctuated by the occaisional porn shop or wedding chapel, which was actually a good sign. Residential areas are the ones to look out for. As I consider this fact, I look at the houses around me, then pause to listen to the sound of the car coming up the street. Sounds wrong…it’s going too slow. As I turn to run, the yellow camaro bursts up past me, onto the curb and halfway onto the sidewalk. Startled, I fall back on my butt and scrabble backward as the guy in the red cap lunges from the passenger side door. He gets my ankle and yanks me back toward him- this was one strong cracker. I tried to roll with it as he grabbed me by the hair (which I decide right there I have altogether too much of) and bounces my face off the hood of the Camaro. I fail and tumble to the dirt in front of the car. Then his buddy emerges from the driver’s seat, and all I see of him was a silhouette.

A silhouette with a bat.

Adrenaline is great stuff. Red hat makes another lunge for my ankle, but my random flailing catches him in the jaw. I see the driver raise his bat as I sprint toward the nearest house, into the backyard, and up over the fence, listening to them cursing and threatening as I run like I hadn’t run since I was a teenager in Newark. I bolt all the way back to the Stratosphere, and that must be over a mile- like I said, Adrenaline is great stuff.

I grab a taxi at the stand and wheeze out directions to the Orleans before I realize that I’m technically in the Midwest and the cabbise here speak English, and, better yet, know where they’re going. I’m shaking and pale and my face feels clammy. I’m exausted and thoroughly freaked, and the prospect of going back to an empty hotel room is an ugly one. I just want to tell someone what happened. I want to talk.

The doorbell buzzes once, twice … and a tall, darkhaired girl gets up from her bed and peers through the peephole to her room in disgust. Standing in front of the door, wheezing, and rubbing his head is a scruffy, wild-haired idiot in a rumple jacket and torn shirt, covered in grass stains.

"Sean…I’m not coming out. Go away."

I’m shocked. The sudden realization of what I look like hits me. Mike Tyson booty call anyone?

"But…I…Uh… I’m not…Something happened!"

"You’re drunk. Go away."

"But I.."

"It’s two AM! I’m going back to sleep!"

"But…I’m not drunk…I just …got my ass kicked…" I turn and walk down the hallway, thinking about getting good and drunk at the hotel bar instead. Gaming and Vegas just don’t mix. Don’t let anyone tell you different.

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Sean Jaffe is the designer of The Last Exodus.