1
Sometimes the heat in Vegas has nothing to do with the temperature.
There are seven of us in all and Stoner
is already baked when we meet at the Bellagio. "Dude,
it's my party." Chip doesn't have an excuse, already
wobbling as he reaches the bar. It's three in the afternoon.
We drink boilermakers and play poker
at Bellagio, then play craps at Caesar's until the complimentary
shots of Jim Beam are out, smoke crack behind TI, walk through
MGM in two minutes, walk back over to TI and drink frozen
mixers while smoking Kool cigarettes and commenting on the
length of the waitresses' cocktail dresses, rent two Ferraris
and drive to Crazy Horse Too, where we drop two grand on strippers
(would have dropped four, but we get thrown out when Stoner's
friend Jekyll bites Jasmine's nipple), total one of the Ferraris
on the way to Olympic Gardens, leave the Ferrari, go into
OG's and drop two more grand, eat sliders with mustard at
a restaurant called Lucky Burger, and then smoke crack next
to the lone Ferrari hidden behind the Lucky Burger dumpster.
After sliders, we hop on a helicopter,
take a loop around the city, finally landing near the Stratosphere,
where we go to the top and drink Bacardi straight up with
a slice of chocolate cake. Leave the chopper and walk to Stardust,
drink red wine and smoke cigars and sing karaoke songs. Half
an hour before midnight, we go to Circus Circus and take the
elevator to the roof, where Chip has arranged for a Cambodian
stripper to perform for Stoner. I walk over to the open bar,
order a shot of dry gin, and then lean over the side of the
roof and watch the city lights as midnight, the New Year,
approaches. At midnight, the fireworks begin and I look over
at Stoner and see that the Cambodian girl is now performing
oral sex on him. Chip walks over and explains that she's only
a stripper and that this is normal in her country. I turn
back to the lights of the Vegas Strip as they shoot to the
sky.
"I know a place just off the Strip
that has the best Thai." Chip puts his pipe back into
his pocket.
"Cool," someone says and
we pile into the Ferrari and within minutes pull up to a two-star
hotel and walk up to the second floor, where the Thai prostitutes
are waiting for us and then after twenty minutes meet out
in the hallway, where we all smoke Kool cigarettes and drink
from a warm case of Miller that was left in the hallway by
someone. Two guys decide to stay at the hotel with the girls
and finish the case of Miller. "Ahaahaa, dude, that was
fucking awesome," laughs Stoner as we pile back into
the Ferrari and speed back over to the Strip and stop at the
Paradise Club, where the strippers are doing a shower scene
on stage and Chip works out a deal to get Stoner up on the
stage, but he looks too stoned to remember and spends the
whole time laughing hysterically. After the shower, the girls
take Stoner backstage, where more laughter is heard, and a
bill for one thousand dollars is handed to Chip. When Stoner
comes out, he goes over to Chip and whispers something into
his ear. Chip gets up and goes backstage, Stoner walks over
to me and I'm high and I ask him if his soon-to-be bride knows
what's going on tonight and he tells me that it doesn't matter
because he's only marrying her for her trust fund and that
when she finds out the wedding may be worse than Kill Bill.
Chip returns with a smile on his face and says, "You're
right, it was worth a thousand." At Perfect 10, I get
lap dances from girls named Saw and Ginger, but my second
dance is cut short when Chip interrupts and says we have to
go because they are playing Kanye West music, which is just
the same to me because Ginger isn't really into the dance,
snorting cocaine while she's grinding on me.
In Bikinis, three rounds of Manhattans
are consumed and conversations about both grass skirts and
whether or not Mariah Carey is still considered crazy are
had. A girl named Anne begins talking with Stoner, but he
can't stop laughing so she leaves. The grass skirt conversation
carries over when we arrive at Coyote Ugly and begin drinking
Old Fashions, even though we ordered gin, and Stoner dances
on the bar until we are asked to leave. A joint is smoked
inside the House of Blues while waiting for our Sidecars,
which we slam in under a minute, and then at Rain, another
joint is smoked instead of attempting to get drinks at the
overcrowded bar.
Ten minutes later in a club with "Aces"
in the name we throw down double shots of dry gin and eat
pretzels and then out of our minds all do the funky chicken
on the dance floor. In the club we lose two of Stoner's friends
and now we're down to three. Chip and I head to the blackjack
tables and lose three hundred each and then drink more dry
gin and Chip talks two porn stars into doing a show for Stoner,
so we all go up to a room and watch the girls perform oral
on each other for twenty minutes or so and then go to the
Imperial Palace, where the owner knows Chip and lets us openly
smoke hash in his lounge. We meet Nicolas Cage and Chip pitches
his new reality show idea to him and Nic sounds interested
as he sips a Heineken. They embrace and exchange contact information.
Outside of the casino, Chip falls on
his face and while Stoner and I are laughing two squatters
help him up and then Chip starts talking to them and it turns
out they were actors at one point so Chip gives them his card
and asks them where's a good place for breakfast and the squatters
both point across the street where we see the sign for Denny's.
At some point after plates of sausage
and bacon we hook up with a guy named Earl who is driving
the Ferrari with Stoner riding shotgun, a girl named Rose
on his lap, and Chip passed out with sunglasses on in the
back seat. I ask Earl what time it is and he tells me 4:30
a.m. then pulls out his crack pipe and that's the last thing
I remember until I wake up the next morning in Los Angeles
with a gun barrel stuck in my mouth.
2
At what point in my life am I going to stop fantasizing over
removing a police officer's gun from his holster? It's something
that has concerned me for quite some time. Right now it doesn't
matter as I stare into the barrel of the gun that is connected
to the officer standing over me.
Lying flat on my back on a living room
floor that reeks of Corona beer and Kool cigarettes, I'm looking
out the corners of my eyes trying to figure out where I am.
To my right is Chip. The officer already has turned him over
and is applying handcuffs. At my left, I see a chair littered
with leather whips and beads, and that's how I figure out
that I'm at Sharon Winkler's new house in Los Angeles. Also
from the Midwest, Sharon started her own escort service, which
grew rapidly, forcing the move to a larger market base. Plus,
she was really beginning to get into cosmetic surgery, so
the move to L.A. was justified in her eyes.
Finance in New York is a bore and not
really what anyone sets out to do with their lives. Firefighters,
baseball players, and astronauts, these are childhood dreams.
For the most conservative upbringing, financial analyst doesn't
crack the top ten. A little over a year ago I decided to pursue
my dream of writing. I got a job part-time as a writer for
a satirical newspaper similar to The Onion, writing
articles on popular culture. Unfortunately, I only got to
write two articles before I was moved to the obituary section.
Not normal obituaries, but rather strange deaths often caused
by random circumstances.
Sammy O'Henry was golfing when struck
by lightning, moving approximately 10,000 volts of electricity
through his body. He lived. A week later, he was sleepwalking.
He went into his garage and mistook a container of antifreeze
for apple juice. He never woke up.
You're probably wondering who would
do this in their spare time and thinking how depressing it
must be. First, this was (and still is) supposed to be a stepping
stone. I'm hoping to get back into the pop culture section
of the newspaper. As for the depression, it actually had quite
the opposite effect on me. It taught me that at any minute
we can be gone. The bus around the corner we don't see, the
crazy person who didn't take their medication, or waking to
a police officer with a gun in your face.
A man only known as Koria travels
to Thailand to teach English to underprivileged children.
One of his students brings him a fruit called durian. He appreciates
the gesture. He eats the fruit, which overheats the body from
within. Koria doesn't live to see the end of the day.
This is a story about living.
The officer slowly lifts me from the
floor and then applies handcuffs to me. At some point I attempt
to ask what this is about, but my mouth is too dry to talk.
In the background, an Aerosmith video
plays, Steven Tyler belting out lyrics of drugs, debauchery,
and sex. I can't see the TV at the moment, but I'm guessing
he's wearing one of his usual gown-like robe outfits that
only he can wear. In my present position, what would Steven
Tyler do?
I look over at Chip. It takes two officers
to lift him, and he has a grin on his face. Chip has a cigarette
in his mouth and is still wearing sunglasses. His glasses
are knocked off by the elbow of one of the officers. "My
shades!" grunts Chip, cigarette still in mouth.
"Too bad, lost your glasses. You're
no longer cool," the officer jokes.
Is Chip cool? Is the situation cool?
The LAPD? Definitely not cool.
Sharon walks out. She's wearing a bright
pink robe that has a pin with a clover that reads: IRISH GUYS
MAKE GOOD LOVERS AND BEER. "What's going on?"
The officer that is holding me by the
cuffs, the one with the bushy mustache, tells Sharon that
Chip and I are going in for questioning over some fifteen-year-old
girl.
"But I know these guys. They couldn't
have"
"We have witnesses," says
the cop with the well-trimmed mustache.
Once again I try to say something,
but my mouth is not cooperating with me at the moment. Chip
looks disoriented as we walk through the door and into the
back of the police car. I sit and try to remember the night
before. Bits and pieces slowly fill my head: dropping off
Stoner at his place, arriving at Sharon's, where her annual
New Year's Eve party was winding down, looking for Mary, and
finally settling for a conversation with a girl named Patricia
that went something like this:
Patricia: Hey, I remember you. You're
Jeremy, right?
Me: That's me.
Patricia: What have you been up to?
Me: Nothing, and you?
Patricia: Oh, you know.
Me: {putting a gun to my head}
Other than that, I don't remember much.
I know that the sun was up and that Chip wasn't around for
most of the morning. I had probably assumed he had crashed
in a corner somewhere. He has always preferred hallway corners
over beds after a long night.
Outside, cuffed and resting against
the squad car, the cops standing in front of us smoking, Chip
asks, "So what did we do?"
Silence.
"We have rights. You have to tell
us what we did," I barely get out.
"You see this?" One of the
cops points to a patch on his sleeve, then blows smoke into
my face. "LAPD. We don't have to tell you shit."
He laughs. The others laugh as well, staring at our bleached
hair. "What are you guys, a couple of surf bums?"
"No, I'm in finance," I say.
"I'm in construction," Chip
says.
"Whatever. You guys look like
a couple of bums to me."
Inside the car, Chip makes the motion
of putting his arms under his legs to move his cuffed hands
to the front, but is unable. "Damn, now it's ten inches
even. There's no way I can get the cuffs over."
Chip was referencing his penis, which
he had recently had lengthened another half-inch to ten inches.
(A previous operation put him at nine and a half.)
"Yeah, that's too bad," I
say as I move my legs up and swing my arms under, moving my
cuffed hands to the front.
Two officers are in the front of the
car. The dispatch radio is turned off. A classic rock station
is playing. When a song by The Who comes on, the officer with
the more trimmed mustache asks bushy mustache what he thinks
about when he listens to music. "Do you pretend to be
the guitarist, the lead singer, or do you just listen to the
music?"
"Mostly just listen," Bushy
mustache replies, "but sometimes, like with Van Halenold
Van HalenI pretend to be Eddie
in my head." We approach a red light and he puts on the
siren. "Yeah, but that's pretty much it. Only Eddie Van
Halen, that's really the only guy. How about you?"
Eddie Van Halen is (or was, depending
on whether it was only the music) cool. In an era where there
seemed to be nothing left to do with a guitar, Eddie took
it to new levels, and did it with a drink in his hand. Cool.
"The same. I feel exactly the
same way," the trim-mustached cop says.
An awkward silence is had by all until
Chip coughs. "Damn cigars. I don't think what Cage gave
me was a Cuban. It was pretty harsh."
"Maybe it was only the wrapper,"
I say.
"Rapper?" Chip adjusts his
arms. "Oh, you mean the wrapper was Cuban."
"Yeah, Cuban seed. That's not
illegal."
"Cool. That explains it. I don't
want to be pissed off at Nic."
Almost to the station, the mood is
pretty light since we are pretty sure we will answer a couple
questions, explain that we were too hammered to remember,
and then find someplace to sleep. I overhear them discussing
a fifteen-year-old girl, and it sounds as if she was at the
party and then left, so I speak up and ask what happened and
the officers tell me to sit back and wait until we get to
the precinct for question time. One says, "One of you
is going down like the Titanic," which is the last thing
I need to hear. Go ahead and reference a movie that took me
eight years to finally see and realize that I never really
needed to see it.
"Dude, we didn't molest any fifteen-year-old,"
says Chip. He coughs again.
The trim-mustached cop turns around
and looks Chip in the eyes. "The sex is only part of
your problem, you asshead. Her death is another."