Same Boy You've Always Known

True Vegas Stories Through the Years

January 1979 was a simpler time, a time when going to Las Vegas meant a frigid couple of days spent on desert-wind-hardened soccer fields. This particular year, "frigid" took on a whole new meaning. As in, it snowed. Hard and deep. Playing soccer in the snow is not fun. Every time you'd kick the ball, even at the hell-bent-for-leather age of 11, it felt like your foot would shatter into a thousand jagged pieces. The other ramification of this weather was that we couldn't exit the city. The pass was closed. We were snowed in.

That Sunday evening, I dined with my Dad and Uncle. We were at an Italian joint that had something to do with the Leaning Tower of Pisa. They were planning on hitting up the casinos that night and wondered what I was gonna do back at the hotel with my remaining teammates. Yes, simpler time. The parents pretty much left us on our own. I replied that we didn't have any real plans, would probably just sit around and "jack off."

That's what I said, "We're gonna sit around and jack off."

I've mentioned before that I was raised in a pretty strict Southern Baptist household. I'd heard the phrase "jack off." I had no earthly idea what it actually meant, defining it in my head as "fooling around."

Spaghetti flew from my Dad's mug. My Uncle began to laugh uncontrollably. Soon finding out I didn't know its expressed meaning, Dad passed it off, saying I shouldn't use that term. He didn't tell me what it DID mean, though I found out the next day from my older--wiser--brother.

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It was late. Or early, depending on your perspective. A long night of winning craps had merged into dawn. And we were exhausted. My lady and I had spent the better part of the last three hours stuffing black chips into her purse. We'd gone on one of those craps rolls that feel like magic. But we were done.

The casino floor was almost desolate and totally empty near the restrooms. While she entered to do her business, I sat at an empty blackjack table and started rummaging around for those black chips.

When I felt two hands on my shoulders, I vaguely thought I was about to get robbed. "What do you think you're doing?" asked a brusque voice. I relaxed. It was a cop if I've ever heard one.

You can imagine how it looked. A disheveled degenerate foraging through a woman's purse pulling out couple thousand. They impatiently listened to my explanation, nodding their heads, but deciding they'd go ahead and wait until the "girlfriend" came out of the toilet. I'm glad she didn't pass out in there.

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Coming out of the cafe at the Flamingo after seeing another Vegas sunrise, I slipped and fell down a short flight of stairs, nearly toppling into a family of six enjoying their breakfast.

"I'd be so laughing at you right now if I weren't so tired," my buddy Jorginho dead-panned.

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Big Head (not to be confused with Human Head) was my most frequent Vegas companion before he got married and turned into Big Pussy. He was also one of the more loud and obnoxious drunks you are ever likely to find. This particular night, he was on a solid bender. We were playing double-deck blackjack (cards down) at Barbary Coast and he decided on a new strategy.

Needing a ten or a face, he'd request the dealer hit him with a 4. Needing a little card, he'd ask for a jack. Deception, he called it. Oddly, it worked. The dealer gave him the opposite of what he asked for a large percentage of the time. After one such hand, he raised his arms above his head, spread the fingers on his dancing hands and proclaimed

"YOU ARE MY PUPPET!"

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"How do you pronounce your name?" Big Head asked the dealer. His nametag said "Reem."
"Rem," he replied. "Rhymes with 'them'."
"You sure it's not 'REAM'!?!?!' Because that's what you're doing to me!"

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Early one morning at the Golden Nugget, the dear and patient wife was about three drinks past lucid. I sat at a blackjack table with several other drunkards and we exchanged laughter and conversation freely.

The cards hadn't been coming very well, however, causing The Mrs. to complain to the dealer, who was a very friendly sort. Finally, she'd had enough and exhorted him to

"GIVE MY BABY A BJ!"

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Morancito and I were having a conversation at a nightclub around four in the morning. We were there with a large group, many of them dancing. I had just about reached my saturation point and was barely hanging on. It's usually about this point in the festivities that I begin to miss my family.

"Wouldn't it be great if our wives just showed up right now?" I asked him.

"No."

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