street

Maikolin and other names
2002-01-15 09:35:46 (UTC)

Back from Vegas

...I tried not to think about it as we left. I had no money
and no business gambling, but I went anyway, busting about
400 dollars that I was surprised I could even get out of an
ATM machine -- all in about 72 hours. My buddy Jose and me
stayed at his sister's house in a perfect beige development
on the outskirts of the city; she and her husband and her
two daughters live on Silver Mallard St. We went to two or
three Stip nightclubs a night, each three nights we were
there, and had Grand Slams at Denny's as the sun came up
each morning. We didn't see Vegas in any real daylight the
whole time we were there. And they say Berkeley's out of
touch -- Vegas is quite possibly the most pointless place
in the world. Where did it come from? Why? How did it
become what it has? What dreams do all those armies of
cocktail waitresses and card dealers have -- did they grow
up wanting to work in some seedy casino on the Strip? And
the people from all over the world, here to spend money and
not do much else. What sins.

It was cold in Vegas. Nothing reminded of the first time I
went there, cramed in a car with no air conditioning with
my five-deep family in the middle of an unrelenting July.
We had made no reservations to stay anywhere, which meant
we spent an entire night going from hotel to hotel looking
for vacancies. By morning, when we finally uploaded at
Excalibur, we had to wait in the car until we could be let
into our room after 11 a.m. By sunrise, the heat was so bad
we were already sweating. Later, we swam in the pool to
cool off and, as soon as we got out of the water, the
moisture would evaporate off our skins in an instant and
we'd be hot all over again. That was when I was 12, and
later 14, and I think once when I was 16, on our way to see
Victor in Elko by the Utah/Idaho borders.

But this past weekend I was there as a legal adult; I
gambled and drank and tried talking to women. Smoke is
practically weaved, for good, into all of my clothes. This
girl Ysa from Texas broke my heart at Studio 54. I bought
her two drinks and got two dances, and then we parted.
Outside, with my recorder in hand, I met Rhonda from
Chicago/U of I, and I walker her and her friends back to
Excalibur, we gambled a little, and made plans to see each
other the next night. The next night, at Rum Jungle at
Mandalay Bay, Jose and I had no game, so we went back to 54
to try our luck again. That's when I fell in love with this
local girl Linda, from D.F. Her chilango English killed me.
We danced and danced well; people were watching us. Then
she had to leave, and all I could do was give her an
outdated business card.

But I saw Rhonda again. I bought her a drink and we talked,
but she had a flight back to Chicago the next morning and
all I could do was give her another wack-ass old business
card. Then our final night there, we went to old school
downtown Vegas and got lured into a ghetto casino on
Fremont Street by girls in ridiculous "calypso" costumes
handing out beads. We went in, had shitty drinks and lost
money. Then I saw Tasha, a bartender, goofing off in some
back room by the cashier booth. We made eye contact. I went
to the bar and we talked; she got my email address. Other
guys there were trying to talk to her, but she said: "Can't
you see I'm trying to get Daniel's email address here?!"
The sloppy drunk dudes at the bar shook my hand and patted
me on the back. "All she wants is my email address, man," I
said. I tried to get her to come to House of Blues with us,
but she couldn't. So we went, our final nightclub night,
and I danced with two girls I could tell were trained
dancers, but who weren't really interested in guys per se,
and then a couple Salsa numbers with a Persian girl from
Long Beach who told me I was good, but not too good. She goes
to the Mayan in downtown L.A. where professional salseros
take her to floor and sweep her away. "Those dudes are
trained," I said, trying to save myself. "Salsa's in my
blood. I've never taken a class in my life."




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