Fat Old Woman in Las Vegas: Gambling, Dieting and Wicked Fun (11 page)

As always, inside the entrance at the Golden Nugget, Big Bertha, a seven-foot tall and five foot wide giant slot, beckoned me. Like other tourists, I was mesmerized by its sheer size and sparkling colors of gold and glossy black. Just pulling down Big Bertha’s giant lever would give my upper arm a workout.

Thirty seconds after entering the Golden Nugget, and leaving Bertha in my dust, I was down another ten bucks.
Crap
! There was only seventy-five bucks left to not only wager, but eat on for the rest of the day. Considering I was losing over a hundred bucks an hour, it was time to take a step back and focus on another addictive behavior. One that always gives me pleasure.

Eating.

The Garden Court buffet at the Main Street Casino and Hotel was two short blocks away. The brick structure, built in the ’70s, features a Victorian theme accented with a piece of the Berlin Wall mounted in the men’s room. Urinals are attached to the Berlin artifact. I have a feeling ‘Take that, Russia’ has been said more than once in the men’s john.

The line for the buffet snaked forty feet, the wait to be seated ten minutes or so. I needed food and I needed it fast. Not that I was hungry, I wasn’t. But nourishment is rarely a reason for me to eat. Anxiety was settling in. If I continued losing at the same speed, I’d be cash broke within an hour. The only thing that could stop the onslaught of incoming melancholia was a carb and sugar high.

The host asked, “How many?”

I answered, “One.”

The same answer I’d cheerfully given since arriving in Vegas, now sounded sad. Feelings of loneliness were hanging around the edges of my consciousness, directly related to my financial status.

I’ve wondered often why I’m so attracted to something as stupid as playing slots, over and over, for days on end. After all, all I am doing is sitting there, poking with my finger until the tip actually hurts from overuse. At one time I made fun of folks who spent their nights in front of the boob tube, or did silly crafts all weekend long, such as decoupage.

Trust me on this one fact. There is
never
a reason for a coffee table to have thirty-four
Time
magazine covers varnished into its surface.

And there I was, not only spending my day poking away, but gleefully wasting away money that had taken an entire year to save.

The feelings of being a loser started to overwhelm me as I nibbled at salad greens and fruit slices. My snowball of depression started increasing in size. I knew if it didn’t stop growing, I’d suffocate under an avalanche of bad feelings.

I rushed to the desert counter. Within seconds a bowl of sugar-free vanilla ice cream, ten strawberries dipped in sugar-free chocolate, and a dollop of sugar-free butterscotch pudding were sitting in front of me. I would still meet my calorie goal for the day, but it would all consist of chemical impersonators of sugar. By the end of the meal, I’d shoved my feeling of moroseness into the background, using ten pounds of granulated white powder as a wedge.

Outside the buffet doors, I decided to try my luck at Main Street. The meal had been good for me. Why not the gambling? I slipped a five into a Kitty Glitter machine. Back home in Minnesota I once won eight hundred and seven dollars on a dollar bet. I’d settle for a tenth of that at the moment.

Ten spins later, I headed toward the skywalk that connected Main Street with the California Hotel and Casino. Tallying my five-buck loss and lunch expense, I was down to sixty bucks. I might as well spend the rest of the afternoon watching the Hawaiians.

∞

The economic bubble and bust of the ’90s had hit Hawaii the same as it did the Mainland. The islands’ economy collapsed and inflation rose, big time. Tens of thousands of Hawaiians moved to Las Vegas seeking good jobs and cheaper housing. Currently over ninety thousand former Hawaiians call Vegas their home. Along with their migration, came their cuisine.

Spam Musubi is a popular snack, reminiscent of sushi featuring grilled Spam sitting on top of a block of white rice, the entire thing wrapped in dried seaweed called nori. The tasty and mile-high sodium laded treat is sold at convenience stores in Hawaii, and at The California in Las Vegas.

Another popular item is Loco Moco, white rice topped with a hamburger patty, fried egg and brown gravy. For a fast food junkie like me, nothing felt more like home than discovering Hawaiian cuisine that tasted like a special at a redneck diner.

Sam Boyd’s California Hotel and Casino sits a block off Fremont and caters exclusively to the Hawaiian tourists. Built in the ’70s, Boyd’s alleged love of the islands convinced him to create a resort that not only celebrated the 50
th
state, but lured its residents away from paradise for their vacation. Forty years later, gambling junkets still arrive daily from the islands.

The Cal’s clientele is largely Hawaiian and due to their food habits, they’re larger than your average Joe. For the most part, the patrons are an older bunch. I fit right in as I shuttled past shops and restaurants with island motifs and beach murals.

I slid into a seat and within a few spins I was up twenty, then thirty. Woo hoo! A thirty-five dollar profit. Lady Luck was not only on my side, she was doing a hula dance. As long as I was on a roll, I might as well take a chance on winning my ‘guaranteed’ forty thousand dollars at roulette.

I’ve played roulette once or twice before. All I remember is that I walked away fairly quickly. It made me nervous. Being dyslexic, I couldn’t trust reading the numbers in the grid board. But, according to the guy on the train, all I had to do was play the colors.

Stepping up to the table, my mind reran his instructions. Always play on the outside. Always choose to bet on red or black. Bet the same amount for two spins in a row, then cut in half on the next spin. After that, raise it to your original bet. “Rinse and repeat,” he said, “until your pockets are stuffed with cash.”

A bankroll of two hundred dollars was needed. Ninety-five bucks would have to do. It was all the money I had. Well, ninety if you counted the first bet I would place, which was nowhere near the guy’s carefully thought out plans.

Four people already were at the table. The mood was jovial. The buxom croupier said, “Make your bets,” right before giving the wheel a hard spin.

As the wheel clicked, five people placed bets on various numbers inside the grid, or on the outside bets like even, odd, red or black.

The croupier waved her hand across the table and announced, “No more bets.”

The crowd waited as the little white ball bounced around the track inside the wheel. Finally, it landed.

“Number twenty-eight, even and red.”

No one won, the happiness diminished slightly. But why would anyone win? Not a single player had chosen seventeen. That surprised me. That particular set of digits was the most played number in roulette. Experts believe it is the number one choice because it sits directly in the center of the grid. Others, like me, know the real reason. Seventeen was the number Bond, James Bond always played.

On instinct, I decided to toss the Amtracker’s strategy aside, and bet on Bond’s number. If I won straight up, the house would pay thirty-five times my five-dollar wager. A tidy one hundred seventy-five dollars. Three other players followed my lead.

The wheel spun round and then …

“Twenty-six, even and black.”

Dammit….

Fifteen spins later, my ninety-five dollars had dwindled to twenty bucks. I walked away from the table cursing the Devil’s Wheel.

∞

Four hours later, I was ready to flee Downtown. After my disastrous run at roulette, I’d cruised the casino floors looking for a ticket that might have been forgotten. I found one for thirty-three cents and another for a dollar and two cents. I slipped both into a machine. I won twenty cents, turned it into two dollars, and then lost the entire amount.

On the street, a busty mermaid-costumed cocktail waitress hung a cheap strand of green beads around my neck. Zipliners passed by overhead. I stood in a crowd and watched a Michael Jackson impersonator, two contortionists, and three close-up magicians. I released an “awww” when I saw an elderly couple dance slowly to a heavy metal rock n’ roll band.

More almost-naked entertainers filled the streets. There was one set of boobs or buns after another. From obese to skinny, plain to beautiful, young to old, the debauchery began to get to me. I wanted to retreat to my hotel room, take a shower, and watch reruns of
The Brady Bunch
, or a
Dick Van Dyke Show
. Any programming that would prove life didn’t have to be lived like it was lived on Fremont Street.

Twilight was setting in, and before the first laser show started, I was sitting on the Deuce bus heading back to The Paris. My loss for the day was $289.45. I could either beat myself up for losing, or pat myself on the back for having some cash left at the end of the day.

I opted for the
atta’girl.

True, I had lost a substantial amount of money, but it was the exact amount of money I’d budgeted to lose. And there was still the chance I’d come out even, tomorrow.

My food was going well. Even with eating at Main Street Buffet, I’d managed to consume around twelve hundred calories. I’d stayed within the no sugar, no grain perimeters. Veggies, fruit, meat, fish and the occasional sugar-free, chemical laden, ice cream or pudding.

For dinner, I picked up a two-hundred calorie green salad again at the deli and carried it to my room. Though it was a Saturday night in Vegas, my old bones longed to be snuggled into a bed as I read about an adventure rather than live it.

Everything was perfectly fine and normal, until two hours later when I heard the lock on my hotel door jiggle.

∞

When I entered my hotel room earlier, the door seemed slightly ajar, as if it wasn’t locked. The lock’s light was green even before I slipped in my room key. I was able to push the door open with too much ease. Something was a bit off … but then, so was I. Exhaustion was more than likely the reason for my heightened paranoia.

My eyes scanned the foyer and into the room. Clothes were strewn about on the floor, the beds, and the table. Brochures and newspapers were scattered on the floor. The table drawer was pulled open. Empty water bottles were scattered about on the counter, lying on their sides. The bedding was torn apart, the blanket, sheet and bedspread crumbled into a ball.

The room was exactly as I had left it.

If a burglar had been in my room, they hadn’t taken a thing. I pushed the thought of a compromised lock to the back of my mind. Nothing was wrong. I was just tired and overly sensitive, like a toddler who’d missed their nap.

I ate my greens and a few strips of mozzarella cheese in peace. Afterwards, I slid an armchair in front of the door, knowing that act would certainly stop a potential break-in and delved into
Tracks
when the door rattled.

I bolted upright.

“Yes?”

A few more hard jiggles.

I swallowed hard. Someone was trying to break into my room. That explained the lock being tampered with earlier. I said in a very loud voice, with as much macho as I could muster, “Who is it?”

“Security,” came back the muffled response.

“Security?” I asked, heading for the barricaded door.

Why I chose to head to the door, I could never understand. Not only was I naked, there was a weak barricade of an armchair standing between the door handle and me. Even if the chair wasn’t there, I couldn’t see out the peephole. Not only was I too short, but I’d done what every neurotic traveler does. I’d put duct tape over it.

I shouted back, “You’re not security. I didn’t call security.”

The next sound I heard was, “Sorry, sorry. Wrong room.”

I could hear someone shuffle away. My heart raced. I dashed to the phone and called the front desk.

“I think someone just tried to break into my room,” I sputtered.

“What do you mean?” the woman asked in a not-so interested voice.

“Someone jiggled the lock. They said they were security. Did you guys send someone to my room?”

“I don’t know,’ the woman answered honestly. I swear she was chewing gum. “I’ll transfer you to security.”

Ten minutes later, a guard stood in my room. He was polite as he gazed around the mess I’d made. “You said no one was in the room when you came back to it? And nothing had been trifled with or moved?”

I nodded and said weakly, “The lock seemed weird.”

“Weird?”

“Like it wasn’t locked.”

“But it was locked?” he suggested.

I nodded.

The guard shrugged his shoulders, obviously not buying into my story. Casinos are used to dealing with false reports from hotel guests, all eventually claiming money was stolen, or jewelry taken in order to file an insurance claim. It was an all too common ploy designed to avoid admitting to the spouse back home where their money was actually lost … on the gaming floor.