Las Vegas

The noise coming from the cheesy cab radio was odd. Not music. Not conversation. More like a garbled roaring sound, punctuated by the announcer’s voice speaking what could have been a foreign language.

The cab driver was disinterested in his passengers and only spoke when asked a question. Most of the time it was, “How long before we get there?”

His repeated stock response was, “Nine minutes.” I stopped asking the question when I realized he had no idea how long it would be, since he had not activated his GPS.

His official ID that hung from the visor assured me that he was an authorized driver. His name was Max.

Max looked like he was wearing last week’s unwashed clothes. A short-sleeved shirt, multicolored shorts, and plantar fasciitis provoking flip-flops. He was bald on top and sported long, uncombed curls on the sides. He was fixated on the radio and occasionally banged his fist on the steering wheel in response to the broadcaster’s periodic announcements. He muttered disappointedly when something disturbed him, which was often.

I listened more closely. The radio announcer was indeed speaking English. He seemed to be talking about cars. My curiosity got the better of me and I asked Max, “What are you listening to.”

Showing mild annoyance he said, “It’s the NASCAR race at the Las Vegas Motor Speedway. I’ve got some money on it.”

My initial thought was, gee I didn’t know they had NASCAR races in Las Vegas. I was even more surprised that you could bet on them. And then I banished those naïve thoughts when I remembered we were in Vegas, where you can bet on anything until they take all your money, and probably even after that.

Unlike other cities, Vegas has more taxis than Ubers. It’s as though all the old, abandoned taxis from L.A., New York and Chicago have been sent here to die, just like the elephant graveyard. 

Our first taxi encounter is at the airport where we are greeted by a line of cabs that must have circled the earth twice. Despite the possibility of a riot fomented by people anxious to lose their life savings, the line was carefully organized and reined in by workers who, like other gaming mecca employees, are either current or former gambling addicts. Nice enough people, they seem to be just biding their time waiting for their shift to end and return to the tables and slots.

The airport cabs charge a flat fee of $28 for a ride to any of the hotels on the strip. I thought it was pretty cheap, until I discovered that it only took about five minutes to get to our hotel, the Palazzo.

The Palazzo is a newish tower adjacent to its older and somewhat faded sister hotel, the Venetian. True to their names, they have an architectural design that mimics the palatial mansion that Al Pacino lived in immediately prior to his assassination by the mob in the 1983 movie, Scarface.

Descendants of some of the characters in the movie can be found wandering the casinos, disguised as pit bosses. You can easily identify them since they are the only people wearing business suits, ties, and rings on their pinkies. Most everyone else is wearing shorts, tie-dyed shirts and, like Max the taxi driver, flip flops.

Our cab dropped us in front of the Palazzo where we were swept into what seemed like a moving sidewalk of moneyless guests departing, while arrivals like us still had what proved to be only temporary ownership of our finances.

Registration was easy as we were professionally handled by Ramon, a glib young man who might have come from a Wall Street investment banking firm before falling under the influence of the devil. He upgraded our room, itemized a bunch of perks, and took multiple images of my American Express card which might, in short order, be maxed out.

Although Max brazenly forsook his cab’s GPS for directions, we could have used one to get from the registration desk to our room. Instead, Ramon simply told us to hook a left and watch for the overhead signs. “You’ll be fine.”

Any Vegas hotel planner worth his salt will design it so that you can only reach your room (and a welcoming pee break) by marching through the casino. After an absence of 25 years, I had forgotten what the inside of a casino looked like. I was soon reminded.

Bright lights and noise are the principal components of the massive money eating enclosure. Devoid of any daylight, thereby assuring the victim that the time of day was irrelevant, the casino is a Walt Disney animated movie in garish technicolor. Noise comes at you from multiple sources including ten feet tall slots that advertise jackpots that probably paid off during the last ice age.

Periodic shrieks at the craps tables announce a lucky winner who, despite multiple selfie promises of, “Just one more time”, will assuredly re-deposit his winnings with the faceless croupier.

While I was intent on finding the yellow brick road to our room, Jackie fixated on the slots and slowed my march. Her eyes glazed over, and her breathing slowed. As though in a trance she said, “I see the machine I want.” It was the Wheel of Fortune. Her eyes brightened. Her pace quickened. Her hand was on her wallet. The machine pulled her in like it was a life-size electromagnet. It was love at first sight. I felt abandoned.

But that’s another story.

Chumash Revenge

I wondered about the size of their electric bill.

Lorraine’s sister Liz celebrated her sixtieth birthday this past weekend. One of four Sandoval sisters, Liz is the first to reach that scary plateau. A sweet woman, Liz was kind enough to include Jackie and me in the A-list of invitees.

We bivouacked in Solvang, a town about ninety minutes from Ojai. With a Danish flavor, Solvang is cutesy and funky, having somehow survived the move into the twenty-first techno century. Looking a bit jaded, the town offers lots of places to eat Danish pastries, shop for useless merchandise, and eventually produce a nagging feeling of so, what do I do next?

To fill the insatiable need for something to do, the Chumash Indians have conveniently provided a place to quickly address that empty feeling.

Today, the Chumash are estimated to have a population of less than 5,000 members. Many current members can trace their ancestors to the five islands of Channel Island National Park. Suffering the same fortunes as other Native Americans, their members died off rapidly with the coming of Spanish sailing ships with their cargo of influenza and smallpox, eagerly distributed by the unwelcome visitors.

As though in retribution for the damage done to them, the Chumash now inflict economic hardship on a monumental scale never envisaged by their ancestors. With neither bows and arrows nor war clubs, today’s Chumash conquer their historical oppressors in unprecedented numbers.

Highway 246, taken due east from Solvang for seven minutes, brings one to the Chumash Casino and Resort. A first-time visitor with Jackie in tow, I was concerned about missing the turn-off. My fear was unfounded as the stark white monolith dramatically appeared on the horizon. It was probably visible from the moon and beyond.

It was Saturday and the parking lot seemed filled to capacity. A drab, multi-level, solid concrete lot that defies your sense of direction, you could easily lose your car and prolong your stay. Thereby affording you another chance to win it back from the gaming tables where you had just lost it.

As with any new adventure, we clicked our heels together and blithely skipped through  the third level lot where a sign proudly proclaimed “Casino.” Not unexpectedly, we were confronted with patrons going in the opposite direction, who seemed less animated than those of us headed into the casino. Their dour, lifeless expressions did not bode us well.

Cash is a relatively unknown commodity in Jackie’s world. Plastic proliferates, while U.S treasury bills are as rare as unicorns. As we approached the bowels of the casino, Jackie proudly announced that she had twenty dollars with which to make her fortune. “I feel lucky” became the watchword of her faith. Why should I spoil her fun by reminding her that they only build these big buildings because everyone eventually contributes handsomely to that common cause? Besides, I thought, how much damage can one do with only twenty dollars?

We were confronted by a vast armada of slot machines, some 2.300 of them as proudly announced on the casino’s website. But these were not your mother’s machines. These were something designed by alien beings who intended to rob you of your senses while emptying your wallet. Some were eight feet tall. Others were eight feet wide. All were adorned with multi-colored lights and accompanied by sounds that defied description. A cacophony that allowed me to stow my hearing aids for fear of further hearing loss. Intending to further dull one’s senses, there were no clocks or windows, and no way of telling night from day.

Jackie began a quest for the one special machine that would make her financially independent.  Obstacles were thrown at her. Seeking a simple machine that had only three symbols of cherries, lemons and plums across its face seemed impossible. Most of the bandits had far more symbols, whole fruit baskets of symbols strewn over multiple rows.

Jackie’s pace quickened as she scanned the horizon. I was pressed to keep up as she raced through the rows and semi-circles filled with the electronic behemoths. A machine for nearly everyone’s economic status, they were all too willing to take your pennies, depriving you of even the barest necessities.

Hailing a passing attendant, Jackie described her needs. Three classic symbols and the ability to bet a dollar a pull. A dollar a pull? How far, I thought, would that take her twenty dollars? She repeated her requirements and was escorted to a dank, dark place where the ancients had once played.

She scanned the row of machines and then, as if it was meant to be, selected one. She plunked her cute fanny onto the comfy chair in front of it. Without any further investigation of the machine’s rules and regulations, she deftly inserted her $20 bill into the slot from which it would never again emerge. Gotta give her credit for her moxie, I thought. “Twenty Credits” popped up on the screen. So far so good.

With nary a hesitation, she punched the button that spun her future. A loser. I glanced at the place where “Twenty Credits” had once occupied a place of honor. It now read “Eleven Credits.” Wait a minute, I thought. What’s going on here. I tried to get Jackie’s attention. Too late, she punched the button again. Now only “Two Credits” appeared in the murky depths of the bandit’s screen. Horrified that she had bet $9 with each punch, Jackie emerged from her ten second reverie and entered a period of despair.

I could not stand seeing the anguish on her face. A once proud woman now bent at the knee. A life of anticipated riches disappearing in moments. I reached into my pocket and produced a twenty-dollar bill. A smile appeared on her face. Her eyes twinkled. All was right with the world.

Eventually tiring of enriching the Chumash, we began our trip back to reality by making several wrong turns that took us further into the casino, instead of the sanctuary of the parking lot. Just enough of a delay for me to marvel again at the magical sea of machines with their strident sounds and bright lights.

I wondered about the size of their electric bill. As if it made a difference.