The First Vegas Scene: Decision

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I don’t remember what happened after I struck out (voluntarily, I will claim) against surprising Jewish competition and a run-of-the-mill Asian pitcher. Maybe I lamented the first penetration of a JAP by a Jap. Perhaps we hit on some girls on the way back. More likely, me and Kentucky wandered drunkenly to the motel and passed out, because we both woke up with banging hangovers underlining our lack of banging in life.

For a week, our bodies punished us for the two nights of debauchery in San Francisco. By Thursday, all traces of the hangover finally disappeared, my muscles finally recovered from two straight nights of dancing and I actually felt human again. I bounded into work early (early for me being 10am), worked for two hours and then met Vams and Kentucky for lunch.

We wolfed down food, grabbed some mixers in the supermarket nearby, grabbed our bags and started cruising down 101 South. Destination: Los Angeles for a night.

Then Vegas.

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Vegas is one of those unattainable dreams I’ve always had. The ultimate party capital. Thailand and Amsterdam and Montreal can only sniff Vegas’ heels because of the legalization of weed and dirt-cheap prices.

Vegas is like that one wild slut everyone fucked in high school…but for whatever reason, you hadn’t messed with yet. The stories everyone tells seem like stories that happen just about anywhere, with anyone, but that one phrase makes it different.

I then got drunk and puked into a planter and hotel security kicked me out. Vegas, baby.

I then got drunk and puked onto her and she kicked me out. Sandra, baby.

It doesn’t help when one of my favorite writers, the Sports Guy, keeps writing columns about his Vegas adventures. Or when the unquestioned comedic movie of the past three years revolves around a group destroying Vegas in a drunken rampage. Or when more and more of my just-graduated-and-found-a-job friends are starting to hurdle over the largest obstacle (money) and flooding my News Feed with the vague “What Happens In Vegas, Stays In Vegas” to mask betting loses and bland drunken stories.

It’s made even worse when Vegas, or gambling, or The Hangover, all popular topics for white people, are brought up in social situations and the multitudes who’ve been immediately gravitate towards one another. Full of banter, they trade war stories from Vegas and barring KKK rallies, I’m left out of a conversation. How about you, Gen? You have tons of wild stories, your Vegas story must be crazy!

I’ve never been. Sheepish grin.

You should definitely go! The last time, I was going to the Bellagio to play blackjack and—

Hey, didn’t you tell me ‘What Happens in Vegas, Stays in Vegas?’ Then shut up and finish your fucking drink.

But now, finally I was going. I had finally enough money to incur a gambling loss and to split a room with some buddies. And I was close enough so transportation costs weren’t really an issue.

But that’s the problem with writing a blog entry about a Vegas adventure. Everyone has a Vegas story. And there are tons more with better stories and better writing skills to tell them. So I won’t bore you with an entry sounding like a gambling play-by-play, or my drooling over topless models in pools, or the omnipresent binge drinking, or hardly sleeping for 3 days.

Instead I take you to three exciting scenes that defined my Vegas trip for me.

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The first scene started in a sleepy gas station, in a little nowhere town called Valencia off Route 5.

Just outside the outer limits of Los Angeles, its sole purpose is to refill gas tanks at relatively sane prices before price gouging starts in the City of Angels.

If Vams hadn’t gone to UCLA and didn’t know all the insider tips, we would’ve blown right past the small exit before hitting LA traffic and started crawling through city limits.

But he knew, so there we were, stretching our legs, standing by the car. Me and Vams leaning against the hood, Kentucky manning the pump.

It was here someone let out a suggestion, a small whimsical idea that wasn’t to be taken seriously. None of us really recalls who made it, though when we retell the story, it’s always the storyteller who made the suggestion.

So as I leaned against the hood, staring at nothing in particular, a little thought escaped my mouth. “Hey…why not just fuck LA and drive straight to Vegas tonight?”

It was 9:30pm. We had just driven for 7 straight hours, with only a 15 minute break at Subways to wolf down $5 Footlongs. We needed to rest. The idea was not meant to be taken seriously.

The idea hung there for a long minute. Someone else spoke up next.

“Not a bad idea…I mean, we’re—I’m—not that tired…”

An even longer pause settled. One person throwing out an idea is just a flirtation, another person jumping on makes it legitimate.

After mulling for a bit, the first person, the originator, started strengthening it. “I mean, extra night in Vegas, so we can start real early in the morning…we won’t waste money partying in LA…”

The two turned to the third.

“Fuck it, let’s go.”

Suddenly, everyone sprang into action.

Vams started hitting up his phone. Plans to meet people in Los Angeles that night were cancelled. “Sorry, really tired from the drive, I gotta crash. Yeah, I’m so sorry. I promise to meet you next time.” People who were going to drive with us to Vegas the next day were informed. “Yo, plans changed. Let’s go tonight. Fuck your plans. We’re going tonight, get packing.”

Kentucky willed the gas to fill his tank faster and then me and him raced into the store and started buying random snacks and energy drinks. We shoved them in his car and started racing down the interstate.

Now every foot on the freeway was a foot closer to Vegas and the tension in the car was ramping up. Before it was an idle cruise down the freeway, staring at cows chewing grass on farms. Now we were rigidly craning our necks forward, willing the car to go faster.

We skirted around downtown Los Angeles, skidding to a stop in a suburb called Chino Hills. Here we met up with H-Roc, one of Vamsee’s friends. Filipino, built solid like a garbage can, it seemed odd to see him swagger out of a van. But there he was. Introductions were short and we quickly piled into his van and raced to the desert.

H-Roc pulled out a bag (literally a fucking bag) full of weed and a piece. The car was quickly filling up with smoke. This is the first time I’ve touched it since stints in Canada a lifetime ago. I was high as fuck.

I got into a concentrated high, staring at the neat shape our headlights cut through the desert air. The road was oddly deserted…no one drives to Vegas at 11…

Talk was thrown out the window as we all stared at the road. Vegas, a second closer. Another second closer. Another.

The temperature gauge read 110. The air conditioner was turned off to keep the car from overheating. Someone cracked open a window and scalding dry desert air swirled in and replaced the dense smoke.

And here, someone broke the silence. “Damn, it’s fucking hot.”

And it was as if a fucking trigger was turned on.

“VEGAS! VEGAS! VEGAS!”

We were going apeshit, no doubt aided by the reefer swirling through our minds. Four men in their twenties absolutely going wild in a sputtering van in the middle of a fucking desert. And then one of us realized we were still an hour and a half from hitting Vegas.

Whatever.

Vegas, baby.

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This entry occurred because friend C-Benz informed I hadn't written in awhile. I had actually forgotten to write...remind me from time to time...I am quite the forgetful person.

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Photos

Our Vegas Hotel
Wynn

Driving to LA
Kentucky and Vams