 Rehab in Vegas?
Craig Zabransky
Vegas.
Is there another destination or
in fact even another word that brings such a rush of energy, creates a lascivious smile on
us all? The more I see of the world on my travels, Vegas (you are smiling again) seems
synonymous with freedom for the suppressed American.
This summer while back in the
states for a few weeks, I had the opportunity to enjoy this very freedom with my college
fraternity brothers. We were off to Vegas for a bachelor party.
Even now with the bride and
groom safely ensconced in martial bliss, many stories will never be told: What happens in
Vegas stays in Vegas. Besides, I would not want to bore you with the numerous acts of
sainthood performed over the four days. Instead I want to share with you my experience at
the Vegas version of "rehab" something we all needed by Sunday.
Rehab is the Hard Rock
Hotel’s Sunday poolside party. Yes, everyday is a party at the Hard Rock and I cannot
recommend staying there for a Vegas weekend enough, but when you make your plans, please
take off Monday as well;
You will never regret it.
Sunday is indeed a Holy Day:
The tight-bodied poolside servers exchanged their leopard print bikinis for even skimpier
white ones to mark the purity of the day. The poolside became surrounded with fully
stocked bars and Hard Rock food stands. For music, the normal rock and roll sound track
was traded in for a live DJ and finally, the pool is opened to the public. Well, open to
the select few beautiful people who can gain the coveted access and join the already
attractive guests, anyway…all the ingredients for a true Vegas adventure.
After parting ways with my last
remaining friend from the bachelor party I hit the poolside black jack table for a few
hands with ten hours remaining before my red-eye (literally) flight home. As I sat down,
the tabled emptied with a new dealer arriving but for me that is exactly when my day
really took off.
Holding my own, in fact up a
bit, my solo status was changed when I was joined by a retired triple A ball player
(celebrating his friend’s divorce) and another gentleman who was returning from a
one-week, men only rafting trip on the Colorado River. To the delight of all three of us
the dealer’s "eagle eyes" spotted three stunning ladies searching for a
table and quickly signaled them over raising the$10 minimum table sign.
The clothing-challenged ladies
from LA immediately added tremendous vigor to our table. Shortly afterwards, the
appearance of blackjack was nearly as frequent as the waitress. Our table became a party
in itself and we developed a fan base with numerous "players" pining for the
next open seat.
Vegas at its best.
However, nothing could have
prepared me for what was next. After one of our new LA ladies hit 21 for the second
straight time she wanted to tip the dealer. So excited and fresh out of singles from
tipping the omnipresent waitress, she decided on offering another type of tip. Off came
her bikini top, a treat for our entire table.
America’s playground
indeed…
As she adjusted back into her
seat, my new friend pointed to a few small bruises on her knees.
¨Always check the knees¨ he
said.
But of course, who
wouldn’t get bruises from crawling across hard floors?
Strippers.
Before they left our table, our
new friends invited us to join them later at Body English-Hard Rock’s main club at
midnight. They would get us all in, except for me; I was booked on the damn red-eye.
Then our dealer changed and so
did my luck. After my 5th margarita arrived, I decided to head to the pool and
admire the "Vegas Art" on full display. I found a spot with a panoramic view and
nestled in to enjoy my drink.
Before I could finish it, I was
chatted up and handed another cocktail. My new friend had an extra diet red bull (no one
eats or drinks sugar in Vegas) and vodka. He was celebrating his graduation from UNLV
along with the fact he hit a $25 chip on a single number in roulette. He was there with
his friend who was ¨occupied. ¨ But he refused to play wingman. His theory was solely
"8’s and up." If the friend was not at least an 8 (of 10), he wasn’t
interested. Trust me, there was no dearth of 8s, 9s, 10s poolside; the scene was something
out of HBO’s Entourage.
I told him I was the last of my
party and suddenly I was his wingman for the afternoon. He asked me what I do and I
explained I was a travel writer for an online magazine. When I asked him his plans, he
said only "what he needed to do to get by."
Then on our way to reload our
cocktails his current profession became apparent…
As we waded passed a
bachelorette party that was poolside, out came their penis pistols (water guns) and chants
for him to dance…
Splat! The water pistols were
loaded with sun tan lotion and white washed he started to dance to entertain the ladies.
As for me I was just caught in the crossfire receiving my share of SPF 15 (I asked)
lotion. Fortunately my new friend asked for their assistance to rub in the sunscreen.
Ah, Vegas.
As the daytime poolside rehab
activities were winding down, I thought my adventure might start to wane as well, but no
chance. With the sun setting, I decided to head inside for some warmth and some food
before my flight. I parted ways with my new friend who said the real party was just
beginning. I was invited to join but my looming flight dictated that would not be the
case. Once inside, I sat down at a video poker machine to pass more time. Suddenly my
neighbor smiled and said hello.
She was one of the entertainers
from the weekend. As I suspected, the place was crawling with them; Rehab Sunday is their
time to party. After another drink arrived, we entertained each other with some small
talk. I mentioned my desire for a bite to eat as she complained that her girlfriend was
going to be several hours tardy. Somehow I steered the conversation to the joys of In
and Out Burger. She decided it was time for her to sin, so we played our last hand and
were off. My last stop was for my luggage as she offered a ride to the airport as well.
Once at her Dodge Omni, she
asked if I minded sitting in the back. Strange. As we located the car I quickly discovered
it was not because there was another passenger or that she wanted to chauffeur me, it was
because her car was missing the front passenger seat. The sedan also lacked a license
plate, so we were not to cruise the strip but needed to take back roads instead - yet
another Vegas adventure.
We made it safely to the burger
joint where I enjoyed my second serving of the weekend. Devouring my
"double-double" with a vanilla shake that she desired a sip of the conversation
turned to how she ended up in Vegas from Santa Barbara. We discussed: her family troubles,
her distaste for performing for certain men, her love of making ridiculous cash, and her
on and off lesbian lover from the last 6 years. But the fact that never escaped me was the
fact she was born during the second Reagan administration.
Losing track of time, her cell
phone rang and her friend was at the Hard Rock. She asked me to come along if I would like
to hang out but I realized yet again that my flight was looming. After more secondary
roads she dropped me off in the parking garage. Her unlicensed car could not risk going to
departures with all the security. With my flight less than an hour away so she gave me her
number in case I missed my flight. She even made the offer to even come pick me up so I
could join them at Body English.
The airport was a prison break,
but instead of people escaping their chains they were all hastily running to get back to
the very prisons they created for themselves. Navigating the zoo with not much time, I
knew my flight was a lost cause when I was stopped at security for a "random"
full check. Eventually, I approached the counter to ask if there were any other flights
that night and I had a slim chance for stand-by at 1am (I was not the only one missing my
flight) or I could change to a 7am flight for a $100 fee. Already spending more money in
four days than my entire six weeks in Buenos Aires, I thought it wise to try for the 1am
flight. Luckily, I received the last seat and was sandwiched between chatty weekenders in
the last row. Then as my hangover began my thoughts wandered to what might be happening
behind each of the three options the day provided.
At times I still take a gander
at my $25 chip from the Hard Rock I never redeemed. Maybe I was just too drunk and excited
for my In and Out Burger or perhaps subconsciously I desired a souvenir from the weekend.
But when I ponder what might
have been, one thing I know for certain is that my next trip to Vegas for a long weekend
my reservations are booked - Sunday at the Hard Rock.
Craig Zabransky is
realhoboken.com's travel writer. Email the author at mercerstwriter@yahoo.com |
