Mystery Girl and My Magic Vegas Adventure

I. The Proposition 

The summer before my senior year of high school, my parents took all us out to a fancy Italian restaurant called Torino’s in the nearby town of Springfield, Tennessee.  By “fancy”, I mean the only Italian restaurant within a 30 miles radius of Russellville.  This was our typical Sunday routine whenever a new episode of The Sopranos was coming on that night.  I don’t know if this was subconsciously, or maybe even consciously, racist on our part, but I looked forward to it nevertheless.  This time around, our parents had a little announcement to make.

“So, what would you say to going to Vegas again this summer,” my dad offered casually, while eating breadsticks.
 

We all looked at each other, before I spoke for all of us:  “Uh... I’d say ‘hell yes’!” 

“What’s ‘Vegas’?” my little sister Lindsey asked.  

“Vegas is a magical place where dad spends money like a Nigerian prince,” I informed her.  “Because he wins it at all at the craps table.”

“Ha, we’ll see about that,” my dad barked, between bites of his pasta primavera, with no small amount of pride.  Truth be told, my dad has always been an excellent gambler, which makes perfect sense considering he was born on July 11^th.  I shit you not, my dad’s birthday is 7/11.  It already sounds like some kind of American tall tale in the making, right?  It’s incredible how well my dad does in casinos or horse tracks.  Oh, sure, he loses sometimes, everybody has to eventually, but he has been known to battle back and either walk away with double what he came in with or break even.  Any luck I have in a casino I attribute to whatever luck I inherited from my dad. 

He’s also quite a lively character when he’s gambling.  When he’s winning at Craps, I feel like he should be wearing a Stetson and tasseled cowboy gloves, the way he carries on.  His favorite expression when he rolls the dice, or displays a winning hand, is to go, “BANG!” and damned if it didn’t usually work in his favor.  It’s a habit that I would later pick up when I gambled and would come to understand that it wasn’t simply luck that favored my dad, but his attitude towards it.  He accepted his wins and losses gracefully, and would just try to stay in the moment and have fun.  That kind of fast, loose attitude is a necessity when gambling, because if you go into a casino with the desperate mentality of losing all of your hard-earned money, than you most likely will do just that.  Money is something that comes and goes with the direction of the winds, which is a philosophy never made more crystal clear than when at a casino table.  Another philosophy my dad lived by that he learned at the table is that it’s no fun to be a spectator in life – one must face risks boldly, if one expects to reap life’s rewards; or, in the parlance of the Kentucky Lottery: you can’t win if you don’t play.

My parents had been to Vegas twice before – the first time without us, and then, a couple years prior, they took us along.  During their first trip, they had met Drew Carey and had him sign a copy of his then-new book Dirty Jokes and Beer for me.  I was a fan of The Drew Carey Show, so I was excited when they handed me this piece of memorabilia.  When I opened the book, I found this message scrawled in the front cover:

To Craig,

Happy 16^th!  One day you’ll get ALL the girls!

Drew Carey

It was disconcerting to think that one of my idols, without knowing a thing about me, could glean that I had trouble with getting girls from the mere fact that, at the age of sixteen, I had nothing better to do than read his book.  Either that or my dad kindly informed him of my sexual failures when getting the book signed.  My imaginary scenario went something like this:

Drew Carey:  “So, who do I sign this to?”

Dad:  “Craig.”

Drew Carey:  “What should I write to Craig?”

Dad:  “Uh… well, he sucks with girls.  Write something funny about that.”

About a year after that we took a family trip to Vegas.  It was fun, but uneventful, as I spent the majority of the time babysitting my siblings in our hotel room at Caesar’s Palace while my parents lived it up in Sin City.  The only time my brother and I ever ventured out of the room was to visit one the most exquisitely stocked arcade I’ve ever had the pleasure of being in.  My brother and I would spend whatever meager pittance my dad gave us playing video games or eating banana splits at the built in Hagan-Das ice cream shop, conveniently located right below the arcade.  We hardly got to venture outside of the hotel, unless it was with our parents, and they were perfectly satisfied to stay in Caesar’s Palace – and why wouldn’t they?  The place is incredible, and has anything you could possibly need.

This time around, we were going to have more mobility, since I was much older and, therefore, theoretically, more responsible.  I wouldn’t be stuck pulling babysitting duty as my mom was far more interested in spending quality time with my sister this time around than losing my dad’s money at the slot machines.  As it turned out, I would have a lot more freedom on this trip than I dared imagine.

***

We were set to leave during the week of my 18^th birthday.  The week prior to our departure, my parents called me into the living room for a private discussion.  The TV was off, and not merely muted, which was a big indicator that we were about to have a serious talk.  I could tell this was already making my dad fidgety, because today was when he usually watched golf.  I was worried for a moment that my parents had found my hidden cache of porn on the family computer, which was hidden away in a folder innocuously named “404 PROTOCOL” (a strategy for hiding porn I had learned from my best friend).  Later that year in school, I would use that strategy to successfully hide a cache of downloaded video games on the school server, while also having a decoy folder very obviously named “Craig’s Video Game Vault” to keep the school tech ed teacher from finding and deleting my actual treasure trove of games. 

However, as it turned out, my parents had not found my cyber vault of smut.  My mom took the lead: “So, Craig, as you know we’ll be leaving for Vegas next week and you’ll be 18-years-old the day we arrive.”

“Right.”

“You’re father and I have noticed… I don’t know how to put this…”

My dad interjected.  “Have you been talking to any girls?”

I flinched.  I wasn’t expecting that.  “Oh.  Well, I’ve got a few leads.”

This was not, in any sense, true.  Ever since “The Florida Incident”, I had been going through a sort of self-imposed abstinence when it came to girls.  It didn't help that I lost whatever edge I may have had physically when I began losing my hair and gaining weight.  There were plenty of girls at school I was infatuated with, a list that encompassed nearly every grade-level, but they all vaguely knew me as “that funny guy in [enter class here]”.  Interactions with them were so rare, and I was so starved for female attention, my journals were littered with passages like:

September 15th, 1997

Dear Journal,

Good news!  Lauren laughed at one of my jokes in class today!  I think I may have a real shot!  I'll keep you updated as events occur!

October 2nd, 1997

That cute girl that sits next to me in Spanish drew me a picture of a mushroom, after I jokingly requested while watching her idly sketching mushrooms in her  notebook.  I think I have established a connection!  

December 1997

Danielle, the hottest girl at school, asked me to help her figure out how to play Warcraft today!  I got off a couple of good zingers that made her laugh.  Oh my god, what if I got something going with her???  

Whatever fantasies I entertained remained just that - fantasies.  My pride was still much too wounded for me to summon any courage with which to even attempt anything with these girls.  So I shifted focus away from girls in my immediate reality, to talking to girls online using ICQ, which was an instant messenger program. 

I would spend hours having conversations with strangers who probably weren’t even girls at all, for all I knew.  I found it much easier to communicate to girls when I could take a moment to compose, and thoroughly proofread, what I wanted to say before saying it.  I also felt that I had a much more charming, witty personality online than I did in reality.  I was able to get girls to open up to me about themselves online, whether it is about their family life, or more especially  about their sex life, much easier than I could ever hope to in real life.  My parents were painfully aware of my late night internet chats, as I’d often keep the volume up on the computer so I could watch TV in the other room, while waiting for a response from people I was talking to (this was back in the day of dial-up internet, so it could be a long wait sometimes).  When someone sent me an instant message, ICQ would chime with a tiny, voice that exclaimed “Uh oh!” prompting me to dash madly to the computer room so I could reply.

This began to annoy my parents on movie nights.  Nothing breaks the ambience of a good movie quite as well as a pixie-like voice suddenly screeching "UH OH" from another room.  Eventually my parents banned having the internet on during movie night.

So, essentially, I lying about my girl situation, and they knew it.
 

“Be that as it may,” my mom continued. “Your father thought you might benefit from… some help?”  Mom was still struggling with how to best articulate the point of this discussion.

Usually at this point, normal parents would set me up on a blind date with a girl my age they knew through friends and colleagues.  I didn't like being set up with girls, as it felt too much like I was being pitied.  I puffed out my chest in preparation for this scenario, but I couldn't have been more wrong.

“Do you want to see a hooker while we’re in Vegas?” my dad asked.

“Whoa now,” my mom exclaimed, slapping my dad on the shoulder.  “Hang on a second!  Not hooker… an ‘escort’." She said this using air quotes. "Let’s keep this classy.”

“Wait a minute,” I responded.  “Is this because of American Pie?  Is that where you guys are coming from?”  Earlier that summer, my family went to see American Pie together.  The sexless plight of the lead character, Jim, was so familiar to my parents that I kept getting elbows in my ribs, followed by a whispered “that’s so you!” whenever he was involved in a comically awkward situation with the opposite sex.  The moral that my parents apparently took from the movie, which might have indirectly lead to this conversation, is that all of Jim’s inabilities to deal with girls was instantly, miraculously cured by getting laid.  

"No, no, no", my mom protested.  “Not at all!  We got the idea from watching that documentary on HBO about the Bunny Ranch.  You know, that brothel in Nevada?  There was a part on there where a father brought his son there to lose... uh... you know... to be with a woman for his first time, and it seemed to help him a lot.  We’re only offering because it seems like you’re having so much difficulty with girls, and maybe this will help you… relax?  Be more confident around them?  I don’t know.”  My mom glanced at my dad to mentally tag him back in.

“So, uh, if you want… when we get to Vegas, you and I can go out, uh, drive around, and if you see something you like, we’ll go from there.”  Dad made it sound like we were shopping for a car.

"No, Danny," my mom corrected him.  “We're not getting him some 'street walker'.  We'll find a place like the Bunny Ranch, where the girls are tested and it's more... I don't know, high class.  Your father will pay for it, of course!”

My dad seemed to stiffen at this, as if he hadn’t considered this aspect of the plan.  “Uh, well, we’ll see.  If you find anything over a hundred, you’ll probably have to put in half or something.”

"Danny, where is he going to find a place that will do anything for less than a hundred?"

As they continued to argue about the price points for sexual favors, I stood speechless.  I won’t say that I wasn’t tempted by the offer, as insane as it was.  I mean, I was a teenage boy, just as eager to have sex as any boy my age, and I had seen that Bunny Ranch documentary too.  I had come to the same, silly conclusion that most my emotional anxiety with girls would be solved by getting the “virginity monkey” off my back.  Teenage guys have a tendency to believe most, if not all, of life’s troubles can be solved with sex.  This somewhat Neanderthal mentality doesn’t necessarily fade with age either.  Even now, as a fully grown, though not necessarily fully mature, adult, I’ve found myself occasionally thinking, ugh, if I could only get laid, that would help my life out so much.  I still think this, even after having had sex, and cognitively knowing it is not, in anyway, a cure-all for life.  Sometimes, it can create even more complications. 

Having this offer laid out before me, though, I realized that I much preferred to accomplish getting sex through my own efforts and because of my own merits.  For better or worse, I have way too much pride to simply pay some woman I didn’t know to fuck me.  Deep down, I'd always know it was only happening because I paid for it – not because I earned it.  I'd wake up the next day, with the veil of mystery about sex lifted, but just as clueless about women as ever.  Part of what makes sex so gratifying is the thought that another person likes you so much for who you are they are willing to share with you the most intimate act humans can share. 
 

Of course, at the time, these high and mighty ideals didn’t really occur to my idiotic teenage brain.  My main, knee-jerk objection to this whole proposal was that it was coming from my parents!  I knew I was doing poorly with girls, but this poorly?  First I had to endure Drew Carey’s unsolicited, and accurately deduced, pity, and now my parents?  In defense of my parents, I don’t think they were so much concerned with my lack of a healthy sex life, than they were with my lack of a life at all.  When your oldest son is obviously suffering from a major depression (which I was), and is seemingly wasting away his prime years staying indoors playing video games, chatting with strangers on the internet, and alienating himself from most human contact, including his closest friends (which I was), it’s pretty alarming.  I wouldn’t be surprised if my parents’ unorthodox decision to make this offering to me wasn’t rooted in a sincere, even desperate, concern over my mental welfare. 

From their perspective, all the time I spent alone could only mean I was planning to kill myself (which I wasn’t).  My parents were never the most mature adults in the world, which is to be expected considering that they started a family as teenagers, and never accrued the ordinary life experiences to pass along to their offspring.  To their credit, they were well-aware of the hole in my heart that “The Florida Incident” had left, and so logically figured that hole could be temporarily sealed with meaningless sex.  Basically, the foundation for this proposition was their faith in the power of a "the rebound".  
 

I’m trying very hard to explain my parents’ motivations so they don’t come off as creepy, abusive weirdos.  My brother or sister were not given similar offers - just me... because I’m special.  I responded to their proposal with the only answer I could possibly think of, which was a tentative “we'll see".  Glad to be finished with this uncomfortable subject, my dad turned on the TV, and my mom went about her business around the house, and we never discussed it again.  I never brought it up during the trip, and neither did they, the mutual understanding being that the offer was on the table, but if I opted not to take them up on it, they certainly weren’t going to be pushy about it.

That would just be weird.

II. Beautiful Stranger

We drove to the Nashville airport so early in the morning that it was still dark.  The first time I had flown on a plane, I had been so nervous I puked.  Vomiting seemed to be an unfortunate defense mechanism I developed for whenever I’m stricken with anxiety.  I may be the only animal on Earth, besides the turkey vulture, that vomits as a defense mechanism.  This time I was much better prepared, and merely dry-heaved for several minutes before, during, and a little bit after takeoff.  Naturally, this meant the person who happened to be sitting next to me was an attractive girl my age, with bronze, tan skin, sandy blond hair, chestnut brown eyes, and a very athletic, trim build. She reminded me of my 4^th grade crush, Samantha (Samantha and The Boy Scout Disaster).

I had been checking her out at the terminal before we boarded the plane, stealing glimpses over my Gamepro magazine from time to time.  Something about her inexplicably tugged at me.  It didn’t feel like the kind of shallow, physical attraction I was familiar with.  Once we made eye contact, and a shock went through my system, nearly making me drop my magazine.  I didn’t have the guts to talk to her until I was practically forced to by virtue of her sitting next to me on the plane.

“Are… are you going to be alright?” she asked, with an odd mixture of concern and amusement.  

“Oh, uh, yeah, sorry,” I replied.  “I get nervous with flying.”

“It’ll be alright.  My grandma and I have flown all over, and we’ve never had problems.”  It was at this point she gestured toward a kindly, older woman I hadn’t even noticed was there until now.

“So, are you guys, like, going to Vegas too?” I asked.

“Yeah, we’ve never been,” she said. “We’ve been traveling all over the country together this summer, and it was on our list!”

“Oh… cool!” was all I could summon in response, which is my default word whenever conversation has reached a proverbial dead end.  Don’t get me wrong, I was enthralled by this mysterious girl and her adventures with grandma, but I was much too distracted by my flight anxiety to entirely focus on talking to her.

Once in the air, though, I began to enjoy the experience more, and would spend all of my time looking out the window at all the tiny houses, with its tiny people, all them consumed with their tiny little problems, not knowing how insignificant they really were in the grand scheme of things.  I used to be one of those tiny people, I would catch myself thinking, despite knowing I was still very much one of those people, and would rejoin the ranks of mediocrity in due time for years to come.  When you’re hundreds of feet in the air, though, it’s very easy to develop a smug, arrogant attitude.  That’s why the heads of major companies get the top floor office.

“So where are you guys staying?” I heard the mystery girl ask me suddenly.

“Eh?” I snapped out of my reverie.  “Staying?” I asked in bewilderment, before my brain switched back on.   
“Oh, staying!  Caesar’s Palace.  You?”

She seemed genuinely impressed with this.  “Oh, wow – fancy!  We’re staying at a Ramada Inn by the airport.”

Aw, she’s poor, was the jerky thought that immediately sprang to mind.  If my wallet had chosen that moment to come to life, it would have jumped up into my face, and yelled out, “WHO ARE YOU TO TALK, ASSHOLE?” before opening its wide to let everyone in the plane see how utterly empty it was, and then plopping back down on my lap. 

“Have you ever been to Caesar’s Palace?” I asked.

“No, I’ve never even been to Vegas,” she said, shrugging, before adding teasingly.  “Remember?  When I said that earlier?”

“Oh, that’s right, I think you mentioned that,” I said softly to myself more than anyone.  “Anyway, you should come check it out!  It’s a really cool casino.  It’s nothing fancy, like the Ramada Inn, but…”

“Oh, shut up,” she said, laughing.  “I’ll show you fancy.”

I chuckled.  “What does that even mean?”

“I have no idea.”  We both laughed.  I was beginning to really like this girl and, what’s more, was growing more comfortable around her by the minute.  Meanwhile, I glanced aside to catch my parents giving each other a significant look of relief that maybe their son won’t need a prostitute after all.

We both went back to reading our respective material for the rest of the flight.  I was practically buzzing with excitement.  I was also desperately trying to figure out what I should do next.  What’s the protocol, especially under these circumstances?  Should I ask her out on a date in Vegas?  Should we hang out in her hotel room?  What if things got… interesting… and I needed a condom?  Where would I get one in Vegas? (Answer: everywhere) 

The plane landed, and as Mystery Girl stood up, I suddenly blurted out a series of urgent sounds:  “Ugh!  Um!  Uh!”

She turned to me.  “Huh?  Did you say something?”

“Would you want to come hang out?  You know, with me.  At Caesar’s Palace.”

“Maybe,” she said. “I’m going to be hanging out with my grandma for most of the trip, but yeah, give me a call.”  She walked away and I felt dazed, like I had just finished a marathon.  It was only when she was out of sight that I realized, with horror, throughout that entire plane flight, I had neglected a critical component to meeting someone you might want to date.

I didn’t know her name.

***

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XWHiiaL1buU&list=LLLzfaY7bs1dEcl2gv3dC53A

We took a cab to Caesar’s Palace and checked into our room.  When we got to our room, dad handed my brother and I each one hundred dollar bills, with firm instructions to make it last until Sunday.  I was thankful for the money, but was depressed that I was going to be in Vegas for four days with a mere hundred bucks, and no money of my own to supplement it because it was all going to my car payments.

We went to dinner in one of the casino restaurants.  I was sulking and getting settled into the feeling of utter failure as the tone of my trip to Las Vegas.  The table of the restaurant had Keno cards placed at each seat, along with the menu.  Keno is a game that is like a cross between bingo and the lottery, in which the player highlights 20 out of 80 numbers on a card.  Before the drawing, you turn in a copy of the play card, along with a wager, and wait for the numbers to be drawn.  It was the only game I was legally allowed to play, so I gave it a shot.  I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and visualized the numbers in my head, highlighting them as I went along. 

The numbers were drawn over the course of our meal, flashing on a large screen on every wall of the restaurant.  “So if you win, what will you do with the money?” my mom asked playfully.

I chuckled, rolling my eyes at the absurd thought of winning anything.  “Pay off my frigging car, for one,” I replied, taking a halfhearted bite of the salad I was eating.  “That thing has been an anchor around my neck.”  I kept track with the numbers on my play card as they were announced and mournfully noted that I hadn’t hit a single one.

“Well, isn’t that just the way,” I announced at the end of the drawing.  “Out of twenty numbers, I didn’t hit a single frigging one!”  I tossed my card disdainfully into the center of the table.

Dad stopped eating and looked up.  “Are you serious?”

I shrugged.  “Yeah..." I said, expecting dad to make a joke about what an amazingly unlucky schlep I was.

“Let me see your card,” he said.  I handed it to him and he scrutinized it.  Then he looked up at me in disbelief.  “Craig… you just won a thousand dollars.  Unbelievable.”

“Ha, yeah right,” I said.  “You got me!"  Dad was unusually quite at this point, prompting me to ask:  "Wait. Are you serious?”

“Craig, look at the back of the card,” he said, handing it back over.  I looked at the rules, which showed a breakdown of how much one stood to win after hitting a certain amount of numbers or, in my case, none of them at all.  My dad flagged down the waitress, and pointed at me. “Excuse me!  He just won a thousand dollars.”

“Really?” she said excitedly.  I absentmindedly handed her my card, she looked it over, then smiled at me before saying, “Well, congratulations!  You just won a thousand dollars!  I’ll be right back with the money!”

I was dizzy with excitement.  I looked around the table.  “Is… is this really happening?”  My family was just as flustered at this unexpected turn of events as I was.  We quietly waited for the waitress to return, and when she did, she had hundred dollar bills fanned in her hand.

“Here you go, sir,” she said, handing me the money.  “Congratulations!”  I just sat there, looking at the most money I had every held in my hand at once, completely dumbfounded. 

“Well…” my dad said, breaking the silence.  “…are you going to pay me back my hundred or what?”

III. Oh Oh Oh, it’s Magic!

  

For the duration of the trip I went on the most insane, impulsive spending spree I’ve ever been on in my life.  It was like that scene in Dumb and Dumber when they find the suitcase full of money and then it cuts to a montage of them spending it on ridiculous things.  For the rest of our vacation, my life became that montage.  My brother and I walked around Caesar’s Palace shopping mall, where I bought anything that spotted my fancy.  The following is a list of the stuff I bought with a rough estimate of how much it cost:

Craig’s List of Vegas Swag

·         1 Neon Green Game Boy Color ($99)

·         1 Copy of The Legend of Zelda: Link’s Awakening ($49)

·         1 Copy of Super Mario Brothers Deluxe ($49)

·         1 Copy of the Run Lola Run soundtrack ($20)

·         1 Copy of Hooray for Boobies CD by The Bloodhound Gang ($15)

·         1 Star Trek keychain which, remarkably, I still have ($10)

·         1 Pair of Nike sandals ($30)

·         1 Copy of The Jerk on DVD ($15)

·         1 Copy of Blade Runner: The Director’s Cut DVD ($20)

·         1 Copy of Ghost in the Shell on DVD ($25)

·         8 Servings of Banana Splits from Haagen-Dazs:  ($40)

·         Meal for two at Star Trek restaurant at the MGM Grand:  ($35)

Total amount spent:  $407

It bears mentioning that the majority of that money was spent in ONE DAY!  At one point, my little brother Jon, who has ever been more levelheaded about money than me, had to pull me down by my collars and scream: “Craig, for the love of God, save some of that money and put it towards paying off your car!”

To which I pulled him by his collars and screamed back:  “I CAN’T STOP!”  In my spending frenzy, beads of sweat saturated my face, and my eyes were as wide as quail eggs.  “HEY, YOU WANT A BANANA SPLIT?  LET’S GET A BANANA SPLIT!”  My brother, whose love of free banana splits outweighed his concern over my financial responsibility, would give up his argument and just enjoy the ride.  Speaking of which, you may have noticed the Star Trek stuff in that above list.  My parents allowed my brother and I to travel by taxi cab (that cost me about $20 roundtrip – add that to the list of shit I spent money on) to MGM Grand so my brother and I could go to the Star Trek Experience, which was basically an attraction that featured a small Star Trek prop museum, an interactive ride, and a restaurant designed to look like Quark’s bar on Star Trek:  Deep Space Nine. 

Please make sure to note how at the beginning of this chapter, my parents offered to buy me a prostitute, and now here I was, an 18-year-old teenager in Las Vegas, with hundreds of dollars to spend, and my choice is not to visit the nearest brothel, or strip club, but go to a Star Trek ride.  Am I beginning to paint a picture as to why I was a virgin at the time, and would continue to be a virgin for long afterwards?  No?  Well, let me change the palette then.

***

Throughout our stay at Caesar’s Palace, I would frequently walk by a magic shop in the built-in mall with the fresh, original name of Houdini’s Magic Shop.  Every day they would have someone out front of the shop, demonstrating one of the many magic tricks they had for sale.  Most sensible people would pass this person, enjoy their demonstration, and go about their business, almost as if they were a street performer.  I, on the other hand, would ask how much the trick cost and buy it on the spot.

These magic tricks usually ranged between $45-$100 each.  So twice a day, I’d walk by this shop and buy a magic trick.  It got to the point where the performer would see me coming, and quickly pull out a new trick to dazzle me.  The hell of it was, I’d always take the magic trick back up to the room, figure out the trick behind it, AND THROW IT AWAY IN DISAPPOINTMENT!  I was like some sort of decadent Roman Emperor.  "Bring me another magic trick for my perusal!"  I'd command, finger pointed in the air, prompting the salesman of the store to perform a card trick I had yet to see.  "This intrigues me... I'll take it!"  Minutes later I'd return.  "I figured out the previous trick and found it wanting!  Give me another!"  I must have spent nearly $300 in magic tricks, if not more.  My corner of the hotel room began to look like Hunter S. Thompson's room in Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, except instead of drugs and beer bottles, the room was strewn with DVDs and discarded magic tricks.  

IV. Elevator Action

Despite the distracting haze of spending money, in the back of my mind, I kept thinking of Mystery Girl.  While I ran around Las Vegas like a maniac, with trails of money flying out of my pockets, I was constantly keeping vigil for even a glimpse of Mystery Girl.  It occurred to me on more than one occasion how shitty it was that I had so much money I could be using to dazzle Mystery Girl, if only I had more presence of mind to get her name.

During one such moment of reflection, I happened to be in an elevator on the way back up to my room, when it suddenly jostled to an unexpected stop.  I tried pushing the button to open the door, but it the elevator was unresponsive.  I pushed all the other buttons too, but got nothing.  The only other person on the elevator with me was an old man, who seemed even more clueless about what to do than I was.  

“Have you tried pushing the button to open the door?” he asked, as if I hadn’t been doing that very thing in front of him just then.

“Yeah, it didn’t work.”

“Here, let me try,” he said, rapidly pushing the button like he was playing Mike Tyson’s Punch-Out and he was attempting to revive Little Mac.  I rolled my eyes and politely asked him to just stop.  I pushed the button labeled “Emergency Assistance” and the voice a young woman immediately answered.

“Caesar’s Palace Technical Assistance, my name’s Cindy, how may I help you?”

“Uh…” I looked at the old man, who only shrugged.  “Hi, Cindy, my name’s Craig.  How are you?”

“I’m doing well, Craig,” Cindy replied without missing a beat.  “How may I help you today?”

“Well, Cindy, I seem to me trapped in one of your elevators.”

“Okay, Craig, don’t panic, these things happen, but there’s no need to be alarm,” she said.  “Can I get your full name and room number please?”  I gave her the information.  “Is there anybody else in the elevator with you?”

“Yes, hold on,” I turned to the old man, and gestured to the speaker.

He seemed lost for a moment before answering.  “My name is Joe Peabody and my room is 433.  Should… should we push the button for the door to open?”  He began pushing the button again.

“No, Mr. Peabody, we’ll take it from here,” Cindy responded.  Peabody continued pushing the button, causing Cindy to patiently add:  “Please stop pushing the button, Mr. Peabody.”

“Oh. Sorry,” he apologized, and put his hands behind his bad to keep them from further trouble.

“We’ll get you guys out momentarily,” Cindy said before cutting communication.

I took a deep breath and leaned against the wall opposite of Mr. Peabody.  I pulled out the trick cards I had just bought from Houdini’s.  “Well… you want to see a magic trick?”

***

I was stuck in the elevator for only 15 minutes or so, before the doors abruptly opened with a technician standing by to assist us.  I elected to take the stairs the rest of the way to our room.  When I got there, my parents were holding a bottle of expensive champagne, with my name on it, and were looking at me in total confusion.

“Craig,” my mom began. “Why did we just receive a complimentary bottle of five hundred dollar champagne in your name?  What did you win this time?”

I grabbed the champagne; poured myself a cup, turned on the TV, and sat in the bed.  “I got stuck in the elevator for almost thirty minutes with Mr. Peabody,” I said with a shrug, as if this were the normal way of things.  “I guess they sent me the champagne for my troubles.  Cheers!” I toasted, and took a big drink of the champagne.  “Blegh!” I reacted in disgust and sat the rest of the champagne down.  I hadn’t quite developed the taste for alcohol yet. My parents just stood there, dumbfounded.

My brother spoke up, “So, let’s just summarize what has happened to you on this trip so far… you played Keno, hit absolutely NONE of the numbers, and won a thousand bucks.”

“Yep,” I said, trying to shuffle the deck of trick cards, and making them scatter everywhere in the process.   

“Then you got stuck in an elevator, and got a five hundred dollar bottle of champagne compliments of the house,” he finished.

“What’s your point?”

“Don’t you see what’s happening?  You’re crappy luck has no effect here!  It’s like the bad luck demon that normally messes with you keeps trying to mess with you, but here it keeps backfiring!”

I gave this some thought.  “Huh.  That makes an insane kind of sense. I like it.”  I shuffled the cards again, more successfully this time.  I absentmindedly took another drink of champagne. “Blegh!” I exclaimed again, this time throwing it away.  “I wish they had sent complimentary Cherry Coke.”  I tossed the $500 bottle of champagne onto the pile of discarded magic tricks.

V. What  Never Happened in Vegas...

During this trip to Vegas, we actually ventured outside of the casino more often.  We went to Circus, Circus, a casino that felt like it was opened by Krusty the Clown in the 60s after a particularly epic cocaine bender.  Circus, Circus is going of the cheaper hotels to stay at, so it also felt like the "economy" section of a plane compared to a First-Class hotel like Caesar's Palace.  I felt like the decor of the place would have benefited with hay being laid out on the floor.  We went to Circus, Circus to watch Mystere, a Cirque du Soleil show.  This would mark the first time I had ever been to a Cirque du Soleil show, and despite my teenage angst, I found myself totally enthralled by the enchanting atmosphere of the show, especially the beautiful music that accompanied it.  

At some point during the trip, we also saw Howie Mandell perform stand-up, which was a treat for me because I had been a fan since childhood.  The show was fantastic despite the fact that a drunken woman heckled him through the entire show.  To his credit, Howie handled it extremely well, his responses to her being funnier than his actual act.  I remember one particular exchange where the woman, for whatever reason that suited her alcohol saturated brain, kept yelling out, "Jimmy crack corn!" to which he replied with total exasperation:  "I DON'T CARE!"  I wanted to try and meet him after the show, but was far too nervous.  Nevertheless, seeing that show certainly fostered the seed of my desire to some day do stand-up.

***

I sat at the terminal of the Las Vegas airport, waiting for our flight, and counted the money I had left.  It amounted to something like $200, give or take.  It was a sobering moment, the realization of just how greatly I blew all that money, and I made a vow right then and there to be more careful of financial windfalls like that in the future.  Wasted money aside, it had been one of the best trips of my life, and definitely the experience I needed to boost my morale in preparation for senior year of high school.  

Nevertheless, I was heartsick about Mystery Girl.  If I could have been with her, that would have been the icing on an already delicious, icing saturated cake.  If I had won a thousand dollars, free champagne, and managed to lose my virginity all in one trip, my return home would have felt like Caesar’s triumphant return to Rome after a victorious campaign.  As it stood, I felt a hollow place in my heart.  

It was at this moment I happen to see Mystery Girl walking by the terminal.  I stood up, my breath catching in my throat, and screeched out a panic stricken: “HEY!”  She turned to face me, alarmed for moment before recognizing who I was.

“Oh!” She said, her hand on her chest to steady her breathing.  “Oh god, you startled me!”

“Sorry…”

“It’s okay,” she said reassuringly.  “How was your trip?”

“Good… I won a thousand dollars,” I said as casually as I could, while shrugging like it was all in a day’s work.

“Wow,” she said eyes wide.  “Sounds like a good trip!  What did you do with all that money?”

“Bought magic tricks.”

“Okay…” she said, not sure if I was kidding or not.  “Well… sounds like fun!”

We stood there for a beat before I asked:

“So, how was your…?”

“Oh, sorry, we have to get to our gate,” she said with sincere urgency.

“Aren’t you flying back to Nashville?”

“No, we’re from Arizona,” she said, picking up here luggage and preparing to leave.

“Oh…” This was disappointing.  It was feasible to develop something with this girl if she merely lived in Nashville, but Arizona?  She might as well have lived in the Antarctic. 

“It was nice meeting you!” she said as she rushed to catch her flight. 

“Yeah… you too,” I said. 

She was out of sight, and my life, before I realized I still had never gotten her name.