Fat Old Woman in Las Vegas: Gambling, Dieting and Wicked Fun (8 page)

By the time I stepped off the bus, I opted to go into the Barstow Station, even if that meant climbing up ten steps to get inside.

Steps and stairs are not my friends, not with these knees. A victim of a botched up knee surgery and subsequent aging has me avoiding stairs whenever possible. When I do walk up or down them, it is one step at a time, each leg firmly positioned on a single step before I can attempt the next. If I were cast as an extra in a disaster movie, I’d be the old lady crushed to death by the fleeing crowd.

After searching for any handicap entrance or ramp, I relented and slowly climbed the steps into the building. Once inside, the situation looked grim. Dozens, of customers spanned the horizon in front of me. They gathered in long lines in front of fudge displays, ice cream vendors and racks of t-shirts with Route 66 blazoned across the front.

An arrow shaped sign on a wooden stairwell caught my eye. It pointed up to a third level that looked more like a storage area. Normally, I’d avoid any level that wasn’t accessible by an escalator. Yet, at that moment, I made a bold decision. I’d rather risk injuring my knees climbing stairs than peeing my pants.

The upper facility was not the main restroom, but it was one I might be able to actually use before racing back to the bus in slow motion. I hobbled up the steps and made it to the landing. A line wasn’t snaked around to the lady’s room. I was the only one who chose to climb the stairs.

I did what had to be done and headed back down to the main floor. I gave up the idea of purchasing a snack. I was too terrified of being stranded. I made it back to my seat within four minutes of departure.

Thirty seconds later, Akeisha returned carrying a large paper bag of Popeye goodies and an extra large drink. Her seatmate was nowhere to be seen. She snuggled near the window and pulled out what looked like a wrapped Po’ Boy sandwich. One bite and waves of ecstasy engulfed her shining face. Akeisha managed to take one more munch before her Brit returned and she slid the Po’ Boy back into the bag. For the rest of the trip, she’d occasionally reach inside the paper bag and grab a bit of the sandwich with her hands and place it discretely in her mouth.

Akeisha was likely a secret eater, just like I have been most of my life. I still remember when I was twenty-something and a friend said he didn’t understand why I was fat. He never saw me eat, not a single bite. We’d been friends for over two years.

The bus driver climbed back on board, and without even bothering to do a head count, or look back at the passengers to see if they were all there, he started the engine and sped off.

I turned my attention to the second installment of
The Secrets of Crickley Hall
. By the time it was over, the bus was speeding past the town of Primm, Nevada.

We were forty miles from Las Vegas. I shut off the video. I was too excited to do anything but stare out the window to catch sight of billboards, one after the other promising star-studded entertainment, fabulous food and the possibility of a fortune just up the road.

Before I left Minnesota, I’d downloaded every possible song I could find that had a connection to Vegas for me. The first song on my play list was
Holiday Road
from the movie
Vegas Vacation
. After that,
Born To Be Alive
, a petty disco era song from Patrick Hernandez blasted my ears. The one-hit wonder seemed more than appropriate for a road song. Hitting the jackpot one time—the big one, that is—and then walking away from gambling forever, is pretty much every gambler’s secret dream.

The only problem with that big jackpot though is, it is never big enough.

By the time we neared the city limits, Kanye West’s “
Can’t Tell Me Nothing
” lyrics ‘La la la wait till I get my money …’ had me dancing in my seat.

It seemed like an omen that as soon as the Welcome to Las Vegas sign came into view, Elvis sang the last bar of Viva Las Vegas. I clicked off my iPod. I didn’t need to listen to road music anymore. After two thousand miles of travel, I’d reached my destination.

The bus arrived in Downtown Las Vegas at 6:40 p.m. Unlike McCarran airport there were no taxis waiting at the Greyhound station to transport pilgrims to hotels and casinos throughout the city. Nor were there any shuttle vans filled with giddy and anxious passengers. The assumption seemed to be that a Greyhound rider would do one of two things—take public transit or walk.

The driver yanked my bags out of the luggage compartment and tossed them on the ground. I bit into my lip in order to suppress an urge to cuss at him. Getting on a Homeland Security watchlist was not in my best interest. The TSA, by law, has to listen to any lunatic driver’s delusional rant concerning any passenger they deem inappropriate.

Rescuing my bags from the stacks, I trudged two blocks to the back of the Golden Nugget Hotel. For the next three nights, I’d stay on the strip at the Excalibur, a seven-mile cab ride away.

Several taxis waited near the entrance of the Golden Nugget, the only four-star establishment in Downtown Vegas. I climbed into one and mumbled “Excalibur, please” and crossed my fingers. Taking a cab ride in Las Vegas is always a risk.

Check on any travel forum about Vegas and you’ll find a main topic of concern is being taken advantage of by a cab driver. Whether it is being driven through the infamous “tunnel” to or from the airport, thereby adding another fourteen dollars or so to the cost; or adding thirty minutes to the time by driving down the jam-packed Strip.

As always, I decided that if I ended up being screwed, it’s always better to know who was doing the screwing.

“How long have you been a driver?” I asked, wondering if he would head down Las Vegas Boulevard or jump onto the expressway. Of course, there was the possibility he might take the much saner and cheaper route of Dean Martin Drive.

“Twenty-seven years,” he answered, veering onto Dean Martin.

Cha ching! Score! I was a winner already!

“Wow,” I said. “That’s a long time. You born here?”

No one ever is.

He answered, “New Delhi.”

We continued in silence while we drove past Akeisha walking down the street, pulling her luggage behind her, tottering dangerously on her high heels.

“How’s business?” I asked.

“Slow,” he answered.

They always say that.

He didn’t bother to ask where I was from, nor did he seem interested in talking, though he was a pleasant enough fellow. We passed behind the Fashion Show Mall, Treasure Island, The Mirage, Caesar’s, Bellagio and continued southward. We were headed to the Excalibur where us poorer folk congregate to gamble, pray and play. My destination may have been the reason my driver chose the cheapest route.

We pulled into the back entrance of the Excalibur. The fare from downtown was fourteen bucks. I gave the driver a twenty and told him to keep the change. I limped inside, past rows of slot machines until I finally stood in front of registration. Twenty guests were in the queue and five clerks were working behind the desk. It took only a few minutes before I was heading to the twenty-first floor of Tower One. Over the years, my fear of heights had lessened to allow me to stay on higher floors in hotels, especially if they were in Las Vegas. My gambling obsession turned out to be stronger than any of my anxieties.

I stepped out and followed the directional arrows on the wall. My room was at the very end of the corridor, located right next to the stairwell. It is a room we in the mystery writer biz call
The Murder Room
. If you’re going to kill someone staying in a hotel, the room at the end of the hall is the perfect place. The stairwell made for easy access and an easier escape.

I gave it little regard, figuring it was more important I burn off calories walking the long length of the hall. Besides, weren’t there security cameras all over the casino? Or at least that is what I had always heard. I wasn’t worried in the least.

Now looking back on it, I should have been.

By the time I unpacked, it was 7:00 p.m. and I was starving. I struggled a bit about the sanity of leaving my room when I was that tired. It would be cheaper for me to order a thirty-buck meal from room service then to chance walking across a gaming floor.

My opting for sanity lasted around fifteen seconds. Within minutes, I was riding in the elevator on a quest for nourishment, vowing not to gamble. Not even a penny. Surely, I could resist the urge to wager and be happy with filling my gut? After all, I had a detailed—to the penny—plan. It wouldn’t be like that one disastrous vacation when Circus Circus ate up a grand in a matter of hours on the very first day, half of my spending allowance for the entire week. I was wiser now. My funds were paper clipped together in daily bundles.

How could I ever justify spending more?

Two hours later, I was a bit heavier from eating a grilled shrimp chili lime salad from Baja Fresh but my wallet was extremely lighter—by three hundred and twenty dollars.

It was going to be a long week.

At 6:00 a.m. sounds of raucous laughter stirred me out of my slumber. After a night of partying, a gaggle of young women stood congregated in the hallway. The hooting and hollering echoed through the walls and under the door. I stumbled to the peephole to view the giggling bachelorette party. The soon-to-be bride’s ensemble included streams of packaged condoms pinned to her skintight dress, a few of the rows shorter than the others. A wad of currency stuck out of her cleavage. A pre-wedding tradition for the Vegas bride-to-be is that she and her bridesmaids sell condoms for any price they can get at the nearest bar. One young woman told me she’d once received a hundred bucks for one condom. Others said most of the men they pleaded with made a buck donation. A few of the women said they were offered additional money if they’d include slipping the rubbers on the purchasers. A couple of the drunker ones did.

The ladies across the hall were so inebriated they could only stand upright in a huddle, holding on to each other as they fell into their room.

It was Good Friday, Las Vegas style.

I walked into the bathroom and hit the red button on the electric water pot I had brought with me. I’d filled the pot with water the night before, as well as laid out the foldable coffee filter and a container of finely ground coffee. Within a few minutes I was sipping my daily mud. Like any good addict, I travel with my drug of choice and the necessary paraphernalia needed for its consumption.

Vegas hotel rooms do not offer coffee pots … not unless it’s a suite and even then it’s highly unlikely. The last time I checked, a pot of room service coffee was twenty-two bucks a pop and if you wanted a second cup for your roommate it was an additional nine dollars.

After I finished my first cup, indulged in a long shower, perused my email and checked out the local news stations, I decided to count my stash of cash.

Like most gamblers, I use creative accounting when it comes to gambling. For instance, the money spent at Diamond Jo’s in Iowa didn’t figure into my vacation gambling budget, not one penny of it. Because my husband rode along for that portion of the trip, I considered it a “family” trip and therefore did not have to be held accountable for any money I may or may not have lost.

My budget for Vegas included seven days of gambling, entertainment and food for a total of twenty-one hundred dollars, roughly three hundred dollars a day. Over two frickin’ grand! That is a huge amount of money if you don’t gamble—and a ridiculously small amount if you do, especially if you travel two thousand miles to wager.

My hotel fees didn’t figure into my Vegas budget. Because of the free room offers sent via email and various players’ discounts my hotel cost for the entire eight nights was a total of $387.00. I’d worry about paying that credit card charge later, after I returned home. Right now, all I had to be concerned with was staying within my daily cash allotment.

My husband and I are like kids when it comes to money. We each get a monthly allowance which we can do with as we please. Anything over that has to be accounted for at a family meeting, which we usually manage to put off until the next month, month after month.

Because I prefer to keep my gambling expenditures private, and thereby lessen the chance for lectures, I save up all year for my annual gambling trip. A portion of my allowance and profits from selling my junk on eBay are added to it. Therefore, when I lose in a single week the two grand it took me a year to accumulate, I still feel like a moron, but a frugal one.

I can gamble on one twenty-dollar bill for ten hours—or I can lose it in a matter of minutes. It all depends upon the luck of the machines. My hope for Vegas was to be able to carry over my stash from one day’s allowance to the next. I had six hundred dollars cash to start with, almost all of it hidden in my homemade bra safe.

If I were lucky, that amount would last me the entire trip. I wouldn’t have to wait in line at an ATM before pressing accept when asked if I agreed to the eight dollar withdrawal fee. Again, not a typo. Any fee is higher in Vegas. Don’t bother to ask why. It just is.

I decided to devise a food plan for the day. I was serious about staying on my grain, gluten and sugar-free diet. I’d managed to do it on the train with no problem. Now that I was actually in Vegas, it would take a bit more determination and strategy.

Buffets appeared to be my best bet. They offered a large salad bar with all the fixings, fresh fruits, cooked veggies and an abundance of grilled or roasted meat, poultry or fish. There was little chance of starvation.

My plan was to skip breakfast every day and have a massive lunch followed by a tiny dinner. But because it was a holiday, I decided my very first full day in Vegas eating would be different. Holiday eating in Vegas can be a bit scary and time consuming.

One Thanksgiving in Las Vegas, my husband and I waited in line an hour and twenty minutes at the Wynn Buffet. We paid an additional fifteen bucks on top of their forty-five dollar charge for dinner to be admitted to priority seating. Those who didn’t pay the additional surcharge waited three to four hours to be seated. The buffet at the Wynn is just that good.

So on my first morning in Vegas—Good Friday—my plan was to load up on a big breakfast at the hotel. Later, I’d have a light lunch and dinner purchased at a fast food joint that offered salads.

Unfortunately, on my way to The Buffet at the Excalibur, I couldn’t resist stopping at an
Iron Man
penny slot. The image of Robert Downey, Jr. splashed across the machine called to me. I slid a five-dollar bill into the slot just to say hello. Within a matter of minutes I was down twenty-two bucks. Oh well. At least Robert would understand. Downey is a man who knows a thing or two about addiction.

Once inside The Buffet, there were only a few patrons at the tables, maybe twenty or so. The hostess instructed me to find a table on my own. As soon as I sat, a server laid utensils in front of me. She pointed out the beverage service area where I could get coffee or juice. A mimosa or Bloody Mary would be an extra charge. She offered to retrieve the booze-laden drinks.

I shook off her offer and headed straight to the food station. I grabbed a plate and piled it high with scrambled eggs. I passed over the offerings of huevos rancheros or eggs benedict. Unlike higher end buffets, Excalibur didn’t offer an omelet station where I could order one made to my exact liking.

Next, I added two sausage patties and three slices of crisp bacon. Wedges of cantaloupe and melon were added with a heaping tablespoon of salsa verde for my scrambled eggs. Though it was breakfast, a hearty Asian offering of sushi and noodles stood by. I stuck with my American styled breakfast. I waddled to the beverage bar and filled a cup of coffee and managed to carry both plate and mug back to my table. Had it been one of my many bad knee days, I couldn’t have done either and would have chosen a sit-down restaurant. But, Vegas is all about excess and nothing says over the top like an all-you-can-stuff-into-your-mouth buffet.

I ate in silence, planning the rest of my day. I would take the free tram from Excalibur to Mandalay Bay, and then work my way back through the Luxor, Excalibur, and ending up at my favorite casino for gambling: New York-New York. It is the one casino where the Vegas magic happened to me, once. I’ve been chasing the same experience ever since.

My goal was to experiment with a YouTube project I’d announced on Facebook. I am a big fan of YouTube. I can easily spend an afternoon perusing everything from tiny houses to tiny hamsters living in tiny houses eating tiny pizzas while sitting on tiny furniture in tiny outfits. I am more easily entertained by some housewife in Yuma than I am by phony Hollywood stars.

I also watch gambling videos, specifically live play slot videos. Unless you’re an addicted slot player like I am, or a really old lady with nothing to do, watching a live play slot will literally make you hang yourself in boredom.

But I, and hundreds of thousands of other viewers, enjoy the vids. I feel they give me an edge, understanding how the different slot games work and their different bonuses or payoff features. The best of the videos have lively commentators who bemoan their losses or loudly celebrate their wins. Many of them engage in high stakes gambling at ten, twenty or one hundred dollars a spin. Others, like me, concentrate on the lowest possible bet, twenty-five or forty cents.

The category called Live Play Videos involves live gambling for a specific time or money amount. I decided to combine both. I’d slip a twenty-dollar bill into every casino on the strip and video it. I’d gamble for five minutes max or until my twenty was history. Then I’d move onto the next casino and do the same. Twenty-nine casinos at twenty dollars a pop equaled five-hundred-and-eighty dollars wagered. My own mini-series of mini wagers.

Unfortunately, my planned scenario had a few possible hiccups I’d have to address, like the fact that casinos generally do not allow videotaping or cameras. Before the onslaught of camera phones, warning signs were posted on every entrance. No camera or recording devices allowed! Security guards would not only stop you from taking a photo but often asked you to leave the premises. A few have been known to confiscate the equipment in order to assure other gamblers’ privacy. Jackpots were often denied when a casino discovered the play had been videotaped.

The privacy of any player was one of the reasons rules against cameras were put into place. Grandpa Joe may not want the world to know he’s sitting at a slot machine gambling his kid’s inheritance. But in this age of cellphone cameras, casinos often turn a blind eye, perhaps realizing that vacation videos are free advertising. Still, the thought of being caught while I taped didn’t sit lightly with me.

My other concern was my inept skills with my iPod, the only device with a camera I carried. The only videos I’d ever taken were a few of my husband as he sat at the dining room table telling me to turn the camera off. In only one of them did I manage to capture his entire head. I hadn’t a clue how to save the video or send it to “The Cloud”, whatever that is.

If this is a bit confusing, just picture your great-grandmother trying to figure out a Samsung television remote. That’s exactly the level of tech savvy I possess.

I swallowed the last of the coffee, left a few bucks for the server and headed out of the restaurant. I angrily scurried past the
Iron Man
slot where I’d lost twenty-two bucks earlier. Briefly, I wondered if I could win it back. A part of my brain views a slot machine as a sofa, and all of the money I’ve lost over the years is hidden somewhere in the crevices.

“Hey young lady, would you like a photo taken with me?” a baritone voice called out.

I bristled. I hate it when anyone calls me a young lady. It is an insult to my intelligence. It’s as if a salesman thinks I will buy whatever he is selling because he pretends he thought I was younger than I look. Preparing to let out a rant, I swung around and realized there was no need. The young man who said it possessed the intelligence of a dust particle. He was the perfect example of a steroid enhanced Bimbro.

The Bimbro stood next to another dancer from Excalibur’s production of
Thunder From Down Under
, Australia’s version of the Chippendale dancers. He and his bud were tanned, muscular and smiling through a set of gleaming pearly whites. Tight black leather pants caressed their bodies, enhancing every ripple and bulge. The only things on their expanded chests were gold chains and sweat. For a brief moment my aging body forgot its continuing decay and managed to locate the last remaining drop of estrogen.

I almost said, “Oh wow!” out loud.

I declined their offer of posing for a photo for my “mates” back home. Nor did I succumb to solicitation by another pair of over-the-top sexual beings. Two nearly naked women offered an additional photo op. They wore pink short shorts that rode above their butt cheeks and a miniscule bra made of an industrial strength material to hold their enormous, silicone enhanced breasts. White fluffy bunny ears wiggled about on their heads. Their feet were encased in pearl-colored stilettos. The duo jumped up and down, their hands held in paw like positions, enticing everyone who passed to take an “Easter photo for your basket.” More than a few groans of desire came from men who were thrilled with their intentional euphemism.

I exited out of the Excalibur and ended up on a landing where I could choose walking across a bridge to New York-New York or taking the free tram ride to Luxor and Mandalay Bay. I opted for the tram. Ten minutes or so later, I stepped off onto Mandalay Bay property. I headed down the long hallway toward the casino, passing dozens of shops and eclectic vendors along the way. Every inch of Las Vegas real estate is designated for one purpose only—making money.

At the south end of the strip Mandalay Bay sits as a tribute to all things golden. The forty-three-story hotel and casino, sitting on one hundred twenty acres glistens boldly on the desert landscape. Every window is tinted gold and held up by white beams of steel. The interior of the complex reinforces the feel of wealth. Touches of gold are everywhere from the floors to the ceilings. The casino is light and airy. Unlike so many of the old school interiors for gaming, Mandalay Bay’s openness is a welcome relief to the old school of thought that believes gamblers prefer doing their dirty deeds in the dark.

I cruised the slot aisles before deciding to sit at a penny slot. I pulled out my twenty and my iPod. But I suddenly realized I was sitting directly on the center aisle. Not a good place to be if I wanted to remain hidden from security.