Around the World in 80 Dates (18 page)

“You know, I actually feel excited to be here; in fact I'm even looking forward to dating. I don't know that I ever did in Europe; there always seemed so much of it.”

We then chatted about normal stuff—how her baby Connie was, the fabulous pair of boots I'd bought on Rodeo Drive—before saying good-bye.

Although it was late, I felt really cheery and full of energy, so I popped next door to the House of Blues to catch Arthur Lee & Love. It was good, simple, loud fun. Talking was impossible; I smiled and shrugged at the guys who tried to engage me in conversation. Encoring with a scorching version of “Smokestack Lightning,” Lee removed his sunglasses for the first time and croaked to the audience: “Hey, ya'll do me a favor: Love each other.” So different from the hard-nosed comedy crowd across the road, the audience cheered and danced wildly.

This felt like a good omen and I cheered and danced along with everyone else. Lizzy was right, I felt happy and flirty, and seemed to be getting chatted up like mad as a result. I can't explain why, but for some reason I knew I was on the right path, doing the right thing. My Soul Mate was getting closer; things were going to change, I could feel it.

 

“So where are you stripping tonight?”

It took every ounce of willpower I possessed not to turn and see who in the Southwest Airlines check-in queue had just been asked that question.

It cleared one thing up, though: why so many big-haired, big-boobed, teeny-outfitted blondes were walking around L.A. airport. One woman wore a small (and I mean tiny) red T-shirt and red plastic shorts that covered just the top half of her bottom. As she bent over, struggling to lift her heavy bags onto the check-in scales, she oozed from her shorts like peanut butter out of a sandwich. The queue watched, helplessly transfixed, unsure whether we should call a porter or a gynecologist to help.

Thursday afternoon was obviously when all the strippers traveled to work: We were catching the Red Thigh to Vegas.

 

“You wanna see a show tomorrow, ma'am?”

The top-hatted ticket tout waved flyers energetically at the fiftysomething woman and her husband ducking into the air-conditioned sanctuary of New York New York to escape the searing heat of the Strip.

“We're going to a wedding tomorrow,” she barked back in a thick Brooklyn accent. “That's the biggest show there is.”

Las Vegas is famously both the wedding and gambling capital of America. You've got to wonder if there's a relationship between the two. Apart from legalities (i.e., it's quick and easy), why do so many people get married in Vegas? Is it because, a theme park in the middle of a desert and cut off from the rest of the world, Vegas brings out a
what the hell
impetuosity? Or having bet and won in the casinos, do people feel more prepared for the ultimate gamble?

And if relationships are a crapshoot, could I learn anything helpful from a professional gambler? How much was luck and how much was knowing and playing the system? I'd arranged to meet Chester through a third-generation Date Wrangler. Aware this could be a little dicey, we were having a drink in my hotel bar so I'd feel more secure on “home territory.”

The problem was that my usual hotel, the Alexis Park (cheap but really homey, with three swimming pools and huge comfortable rooms), was full at the last minute, so I had to stay at the Days Inn off the Strip.

It wasn't a bad hotel; actually I grew incredibly fond of it by the time I had to leave, but it was threadbare and in a very iffy neighborhood. A dark bar ran the length of the lobby, a cluster of slot machines was behind it, and a large, basic diner was through an alcove off to the right. All was guarded by a one-armed maintenance man in his seventies called Neville.

The place was full of old people, all waiting either for the slots to pay out or the macaroni and cheese to be served up. Outside it was more lively. On the first night I was chased by a gang on chopper bikes. The second, I narrowly missed getting hit with a chain in a fight between rival chopper gangs. On the third night, a brawl between rival chopper gangs exploded onto the hotel porch where I was sitting quietly. The Days Inn was like an old people's home in a cul-de-sac off Armageddon.

And it was here that Chester came for our date.

Chester, a big man in his late forties with dark hair and an expanse of Desperate Dan stubble, and I sat at the bar. He immediately became engrossed in a poker game on TV and stayed engrossed for the duration of our date.

Poker is huge in America. Not only are the games televised (including a long-running series of celebrity poker), special wrist-cams have been developed so you can see the hands of star players and follow their progress.

Chester didn't want to miss the big tournament currently under way and after several failed attempts to engage him in conversation, I resigned myself to sitting and watching with him. I set a two-drink time limit: If the program was finished and we'd talked by then, great; if not, I was going to my room to catch up on email.

The game wasn't particularly interesting, but I found the intensity of the players utterly compelling. Chester did too. “Look at his hands,” he said, nodding up at the screen, “they're shaking. That means he's got a good hand.”

“Really?” I asked, impatience immediately forgotten. “How do you know?”

“You can tell a lot about a player and what they're holding by their body language,” he replied, his eyes never leaving the screen. “See him stare at his cards, that means he's got a good hand. When they stare at their chips, that means they've got a bad hand and they're wondering how much they can afford to lose.”

This was what I had come for. “So that man tidying his stack of chips, does that mean anything?”

Chester didn't answer immediately, lost in the game again, but then with distracted impatience snorted: “It all means something. If you're going to gamble, you've got to study your opponent; you can be damned sure they'll be studying you. Man who tidies his chips? He's probably a real careful player: thinks things through, don't take a lot of risks. Man who leaves them loose, he's aggressive and harder to call. And look how they're sitting: See the guy who just sat back in his chair? He's about to fold, knows he's out of the game….”

And sure enough, the man laid his cards down and the dealer swept his chips away into the center of the table.

This was fascinating. I had witnessed similar body language among the speed-daters. The mumbling analyst had leaned right back in his chair, whereas the management consultant/street flosser—presumably more confident of his hand—jutted forward, his face pushed quite intimidatingly into mine.

After the intense flurry of insights, Chester was silent again, engrossed in the game, acting as if we were two strangers at a bar (which, of course, we were). I took tiny sips of my warm beer, half watching the game, half watching Neville slowly clean the frayed carpet. Chester suddenly let out a big sigh. I turned back to the TV: The game had finished and Chester was slumped slightly, the tension he'd been holding for the duration of the game leaving his body.

You'd think gambling or comedy would be fun jobs, but so far these were some of the tensest people I'd met. Was this how I'd seemed to people when I was working?

“The thing about gambling,” Chester explained, turning his stool to face mine for the first time, “is that it's not a game at all: It's a job. You've got to work at it and take it seriously. You can't put it down to luck and go in unprepared.”

He was obviously very serious about it, as were all the people I'd met when it came to their professions. And where did that leave Love? Was I right to approach my Soul Mate quest like a job, or could you be lucky in Love?

“What about beginner's luck?” I asked.

“Just that,” he replied dismissively. “It don't mean anything and it don't last.”

“So what do you need to play well?” I asked him. “What makes a good player?”

“Well,” he replied, blowing out a little more of the tension before taking a swallow of his whiskey and coke. “A good player has done half his work before he even gets to the table. Are you in the right frame of mind; have you set your limit; who's the opposition?”

Although I could see parallels, so far gambling was about winning at any cost. I didn't want a man at any cost, I wanted the right one. But being able to read my Dates would help me decide if I was on the right track.

“I know this sounds stupid, but is it always about winning?” Chester looked intrigued by my question, like I'd graduated from basics and made it through to the next—but still basic—level.

“You gotta think about what you want. I mean, obviously you want to win, but you gotta think about how much you want to win and how much you got to lose. You gotta set your limit and when you reach it, get up and walk away; never throw good money after bad.”

That made sense: I'd never set a limit with Kelly, I always thought I was in too deep to go back and if I just tried a little harder, gave a little more, we'd be fine.

“That must take a lot of control,” I said humbly.

“Playing is all about control,” Chester observed bluntly. “You don't play angry, you don't play drunk. It's not just your cards you're playing, it's people. And at the exact same time, they're playing you. You need a clear head to think through that, then imagine yourself winning.”

“Imagine yourself winning?” I repeated, perplexed. “Wouldn't that make you overconfident?”

“Not at all,” Chester disagreed. “It's called positive visualization, like being a runner: See yourself making it across the finish line, you pace yourself better, run a better race too. See yourself winning at poker, you make the winning calls. See yourself as a loser, you've not got the self-belief or determination to play well, no matter how much money you gamble.”

I was shocked to hear the words of the Love Professor echoed by Chester: Like yourself and you'll win; think you're a loser, and sure enough you'll end up losing.

“That's why none of these weekend gamblers got the first clue,” Chester said, showing emotion for the first time. “Gambling takes patience: Before you even sit down at a table you have to watch, study, and learn. You make all the moves in your head first; you can't just rush in.”

Although I thought Chester was right about being prepared, I also thought he was being overly harsh. Weekend tourists weren't professional gamblers, they were people enjoying themselves. And surely that was okay? Like all of us obsessed with our careers, Chester was assuming that everyone took gambling as seriously as he did.

“But surely most people coming to Vegas just gamble for fun,” I countered.

“Yes, ma'am, they do,” Chester agreed. “And there ain't nothing wrong with fun.” And with that, he leaned over and kissed me.

I was absolutely not expecting this. I mean, not remotely. Not like when Frank in Holland kissed me and I wasn't expecting it, because Frank and I had spent the whole day chatting and had got on really well. Chester had hardly even spoken to me, let alone established any kind of rapport.

Horribly afraid that Neville was watching, I grabbed the edge of the bar to stop myself toppling backward off my stool and slid sideways, away from Chester's kiss. He smiled good-naturedly. “Sometimes you just gotta take a chance,” he said.

In a fluster, I got up and thanked him for his time. I didn't say what I really wanted, which was: “Oh, so suddenly now you believe in luck?” It seemed when it came to romance, even professionals forgot the theory and followed their hearts (well, one of their organs, anyway).

 

The next day I thought about what Chester had said. The body-language tips had been useful; so had the one about setting limits (though I had learned this in Paris). What I found completely invaluable were his comments about positive visualization. This was one step on from the Love Professor's
like yourself
philosophy: It implied that once you liked yourself, you should then imagine what the lovely new you wanted and deserved.

I booted up my laptop and reread my Soul Mate Job Description:

God, whoever he was, he sounded lovely. I concentrated on the job description and imagined us together: making each other laugh; arguing about politics; getting lost in exotic countries; curling up in front of the TV. I smiled, a little sadly, wondering if I would ever meet him, then remembered I liked myself and was meant to be positively visualizing him. He was out there and I would meet him. I would.

And suddenly I realized I actually believed it. Not because I was meant to, but because, in my heart, I truly felt it.

 

The next morning I came downstairs as a couple of other Days Inn-ers—Earl and Rhea—were heading off in a bus with their friends to renew their wedding vows. They were going to the famous Little White Wedding Chapel and, seeing
that cute Briddish gal,
asked if I wanted to come along. They'd been married fifty years and clearly relished each other's company (in a teasing, mock eye-rolling way). Rhea looked lovely in a peach-colored silk suit, Earl resplendent in an
“If it's got tits or tires it's gonna git you into trouble”
T-shirt.