When I lived in Las Vegas, my title at United Parcel Service was “Bad Address Clerk.” Because Vegas is a town of drifters, grifters and shifters of identity, packages would continually go astray, paralleled by the wanderings of their addressees, who in a month’s time in Vegas might have changed their residence—and their jobs, spouses and perhaps even their sex—two or three times. And then disappeared. So my shelves were filled with boxes large and small, for which the drivers could find no recipients.
Thus, if I exhausted every means of trying to locate these souls-on-the-wing (this being the 70s, many phone calls and phone book scratchings later), I would get to OPEN the packages, and, CSI-like, try to ascertain the whereabouts of the recipient by something in their contents. Guess what? People send very interesting things in the mail. Tear gas, for example. Firearms. Naughty things (I kept those). Jewelry. It was a diverting job, for a while; too bad it didn’t keep me out of the casinos.
In the early days of my living there, when I made my regular forays into the larger casinos, I would so often not be able to figure out where the doors were to leave. The glittering passageways were labyrinthine, so it seems like you’d always be led back to another part of the casino. Add to that that there were no clocks inside and that most of the windows didn’t let you clearly see out (and add to that a free drink or five), you’d have little sense of how much time you’d spent in there. After I’d lived in Vegas awhile, I understood how to leave, but that still didn’t seem to have saved me any money.
They have these wonderfully convenient check-cashing services at all the casinos, where if you cashed your check, you might get $10 credit at the tables. I once lost my entire week’s paycheck at the blackjack table, thirteen straight losses, in less than fifteen minutes. I moved to Vegas to save money for school and left with as much as I had when I arrived: none. I proudly exercised my right as an American to be an idiot.
But the gambling, the sheer extravagance: the mind-boggling wonderland of the casinos, with the mingled sounds of shouts from the craps tables, coins gushing into metal trays from the slots, big-timers in silk suits with their painted ladies on their arms, lowlifes grubbing along the carpet looking for a fallen nickel. Billions of dollars thrown at Chance, never a goddess known for a break.
It’s been said before, but it struck me too, that the whole of Las Vegas, a totem of extraordinary excess, a place built in the recesses of the high desert, appears to be—and probably should be—a mirage. Extravagant recreations of New York and Parisian streets, a large simulacrum of an Egyptian pyramid, fake (but erupting) volcanos, gaudy battles between big pirate ships and their nautical nemeses on artificial seas. Speaking of artificial seas, shockingly wasteful drawing of water from the parched desert, so much so that the land has dramatically sunk in some areas. (Not to mention the sinking of so many homeowner’s loans in the last few years.)
But even though I left Vegas broke, I did leave with something: a car. And it didn’t cost me a dime—until later. It was given to me and my Vegas housemate right on the freeway spot where we picked up its frustrated driver. He’d left it for dead: a serviceable ’65 VW bug that simply had some problem with its coil wire. I was later able to legally register it—under something like an “abandoned vehicle” statute—as mine. Later, I drove it to Northern California, where I began college. I used it there for several months, so that I no longer even considered how oddly it had been acquired; it was my car.
Even when a uniformed police officer came to my English class and asked if there was a Tom Bentley there, I figured that it was my hair that had probably broken some law (my 1976 hairdo was very expressive). No, it seems I was in possession of a stolen car, of all things, and that I’d have to come to the station and straighten it out. It was easily straightened out: the car was owned by a woman in Vegas that had just loaned the car to our freeway doofus, and she’d discovered his poor stewardship upon her return from Japan, where she’d been touring with an entertainment group. Her particular talent was removing clothing from the profound grounds of her architecture (I saw some black and white glossies of her in/out of costume; she might put you in mind of Elly May Clampett after five vodka tonics, wearing a mail-order Lady Godiva wig).
Her name was (and might still be) Angel Blue. Under her name, the tag line on the glossies read: The Heavenly Body. As Dave Barry says, I am not making this up. And neither were the cops, who despite my protestations (and my registrations), took the car and gave it to Ms. Blue’s lawyer, who had tracked me to my academic lair. The real question I wanted answered was this: what was a stripper of Lady Blue’s talents doing with a ’65 Volkswagen? Ah, America, where Flannery O’Connor could have one of her unforgettable characters, Hazel Motes, say, “Nobody with a good car needs to be justified.”
But that bit of weirdness never soured me on Vegas. I’ve continued to visit, fascinated, amused, horrified, over the years. Despite its wrongness, I love Vegas. It’s SO wrong, so lurid, so fantastical, so wasteful, so filled with hope equally mixed with crushed dreams. That reminds me—I haven’t been there in a couple of years. The way Vegas works, they tear down half the city every couple of years and build new ersatz extravagances.
Gotta go soon, while Nero fiddles….
Editor’s Note: This piece took 2nd place in our 2013 annual travel writing contest.
Funny stuff, Tom. I’ve only been to Vegas for six hours (after a six-hour drive down from Park City, Utah, where I was staying), and I’m not even sure that actually happened. Your story sounds like it would be a great beginning for a novel, just as is.
Ah, Tom my brother. I remember those days in Vegas. Such storied times…I need to write a few episodes myself. Such fun to read; thanks for posting!
I never really believed Vegas existed until I drove through once. Then I was POSITIVE it didn’t exist. Nothing like that, or the stories that come out of it, could be real. Not the real I know, anyway.
Does your hair have a record, or were its various arrests expunged from the record after that incident with the judge’s second cousin?
Hey Darrell, Vegas is one of those “state of mind” (or state of warped mind) places where even a six-hour dose can affect you. It would make a good setting for a novel, wouldn’t it? Hunter Thompson is a good model for that. Hope the Writer’s Bridge is going well!
I have a good friend Jim Bentley – I thought you might be related to him. Thanks for posting this – we have also enjoyed your charming video in which you claim to know the definitions of all words in a number of dictionaries.
Joel, “real” is an arguable term when it comes to Vegas. It is where your hallucinations have hallucinations. As for my hair, there is a current warrant out for its arrest, so it’s gone into the witness protection program.
Sister C, you DO need to post some stories. You were there much longer than me, so I based all my criminal activity on your model.
Dave, I don’t think I’m related to Jim, unless he owes me money, in which case, please tell him to get in touch. Thanks for giving me the opportunity to post here, and for enjoying the video.
I recently completed watching the Hangover series trilogy and movies #1 and #3 reminded me of the unique emotional impact that this town can trigger in some folks. I find the “hyper reality” of the inside of some of these casinos intriguing – from the painted sky, to the canals. I think I am referring to the Bellagio Casino in particular. I was in Bellagio Italy last month, and let me tell you this – Bellagio Casino in Vegas no way resembles the “real thing”. But maybe it is not supposed to. After all, its in Vegas baby.
Dave, absolutely! It’s like the New York, New York casino and the Paris casino, with the miniaturized street scenes and buildings and the stage-set character touches—you know you’re not in Paris, unless it’s the Paris on Mars.
It’s all such a strange charade—but very American in its surface glitz and often desperate shadow below. But comic too.
Well, there’s always a story when in vegas. This one’s pretty awesome. It might even be hangover status. You ought to keep them coming =)
Nicole, there IS always a story there! You can’t say that about a lot of places, even if the Vegas stories can get out of hand. But I suppose that’s one of the elements that makes them worthy of the telling. I will try to keep ’em coming, thanks.
Tom, as usual I am thoroughly and completely entertained. I agree with “good beginning for a novel,” comment. I am certain there is more to learn!
Hey Penny, thanks! And yes, there is always more to learn, but I had to edit some of the “Not safe for work” material so that I won’t be excommunicated by the Catholic church.
The insides of casinos remind me of Hades—-not that I’ve ever actually been to Hades—-that I consciously know of. I have visited Las Vegas twice. Once it was the airport we flew into on our way to showing our then 12 and 8 year old sons the Grand Canyon. When certain other members of our extended family (on my husband’s side ;-)) heard we were going to Las Vegas, they decided to meet us there.They stayed at New York, New York. We stayed at the Showboat, well off the strip. It had a small casino, but we picked it because of its reasonable price (I just read that it went bankrupt and was demolished) and, more remarkably, because it had a 106 lane bowling alley. We spent our one full day there, walking up and down the Strip gawking. The boys ended up with several flyers (featuring naked ladies) for strip shows, escort services and massage parlors. I think the fact that these were actually handed to them impressed them more than any of the casinos.
I returned most recently when my husband had a conference at Caesars. While he conferred about mesothelioma (now, there’s a juxtaposition), I wandered around the casino, looking for a way out. (I completely understand that trapped feeling you described). We attended a Cirque de Soleil performance and got the hell out of Dodge the next morning, heading for the antithesis of Las Vegas — Zion National Park (wholesome outdoor natural beauty).
I have a high school friend in Las Vegas, so I know that “normal” people actually live there, but it is one of those places that feels anything but normal — as you so engagingly described.
Great story. That is why I live in tennessee. I long for Vegas like a vampire for blood! Even though one knows it is a decadent, wallet busting, sleep depriving, calorie laden and in the end mind numbing place to be, I love being there and don’t plan to give it up any time soon! Needless to say, I don’t step foot in the Indian casinos here or Atlantic City in the east. I know they can’t hold a candle to my beloved!
Suzanne, because I lived there, and shopped in stores, and paid my bills and walked through neighborhoods, there was a semblance of normalcy, though the glittery Vegasness of it all still colored most interactions, even in a subtle way. And you can feel the flames of Hades on many a corner—the blatant sexual panderings you mention are a component of the place that is crassly sad. But for all that, it remains for me a place of perplexed fascination.
Susan, I understand your comfort in knowing it’s not easy to get to Vegas, because I succumb to many of its allures when I do go, which isn’t that often. I still love to gamble, despite the cruelty of your chances. And still enjoy the free drinks at the gaming tables, though I know that makes my already spotty math skills even spottier. It is one of those jarring places where you loosen the restrictions on good sense that you might normally have.
I knew it! What happens in Vegas does NOT stay in Vegas. And a wonderful story it is, Tom. High-stakes gambling has never been my thing, except in love, so what intrigues me about Sin City is a different type of lure for many visitors there: of elopement (over 100,000 each year) and, not coincidentally, easy divorce.
Annie, my parents were married in Vegas (and probably were at the craps tables an hour afterwards). And we stopped by Vegas on our annual trips to our relatives in Colorado and Iowa every time, so I was fascinated by the spilling slots (and the spilled drinks) from an early age. My parents were too busy gambling to get divorced.
Funny post! I enjoyed reading this entry! I think Vegas would be a fun place to live!