Day 10 - Wednesday
Another great night of Luxor slumber saw me fit as a fiddle for Wednesday's gambling activities. I was up again at 5:30 in the morning.
A two week solo jaunt to Vegas is quite a long time. I don't mind eating in restaurants alone, and I don't mind sitting at a table alone. But for two weeks, three times a day, it can get a bit dull. You can only check your phone for messages so many hundred times, right. That's why I quite like room camping meals. They are a bit easier on your system and healthier (assuming you shopped right) and its nice and quiet in your room. Plus, you can eat in your underwear, which you can't always do at the property steakhouse.
I did some Admin things in the room and since I'd forgotten to charge my piPhone, I had to take care of that. So it was the perfect time for breakfast.
When all my morning ablutions were sorted, of course, it was time for coffee down in the casino, where my Starbucks name was "Kristafuh - K r i s t a f u h...". Fortunately, the barista, Beezlenuts Battaglia, was from Jersey, and a wizard speller.
I'd had pretty good success on the triple play at Mandalay bay the previous day (!) so I gave it another shot. Short pay Bonus Poker. Being conservative.
My very first - my very, very FIRST hand of the day I was dealt three Aces. And I nailed two out of three:
So I'm reveling in the moment, texting the Quad Queen, taking pictures of the thing, sipping my Kristafuh, just enjoying the thrill of a great start to the day. That's when one of the cleaners, with his little cart wanders by.
Of course he's got to take a look.
"You should hev beeen playink Double Double - pay way more - look you have two keeckers," he said in a thick Russian accent.
"Oh yeah??? Fuck you and the broom you rode in on, that's so easy to say now. Where the fuck were you when I was pouring hundred dollar bills into the machines right left and center last week at the Nugget? You think Double Double is so great? Sit down and put your money where your mouth is, Fucktonsils, and let's see how far you get. You make me sick. So shut your dirty egg-salad encrusted gob, turn the fuck around, and leave me the fuck alone to enjoy my $200 win!"
That is what I muttered, quietly, all to myself, when I was dead alone, a good five minutes after he left.
Sure, I said something at the time, something pretty lame, but jeez - why do people, when you've just hit something, have to shit on your parade? You shoulda this. Why didn't you that.
Golly. People, eh?
Okay, I (obviously) put this squarely behind me and headed into the High Limit room to grab a coffee at the bar and try my luck on the dollar full pay machines. Well, I got the coffee but it was pretty much the same old story. Drill and move. Drill and move. Drill and move. Sort of like Ron Jeremy.
Twenty after twenty. Crap. I pretty much blew through my Aces winnings.
Meanwhile, back out on the floor, I gave Double Double a shot (in case the Russian Janitor came by and criticized me again).
Yay, hit deuces, no kicker. You know what this means right? Back to full pay Dollars.
There was some weird construction going on in Luxor, or maybe they are going with a swish new 'plastic sheeting' motif since the stone and hieroglyph thing didn't attract enough hipsters.
We all love pictures of casinos, right?
In the picture above, you might notice a very attractive young woman wearing a gaudy NAPA auto parts hat, and holding a huge foamcore NAPA sign. I had occasion to speak to her and her job was just like it looks.
"So, what are you doing, like tour guide?"
"No, I stand here with this sign."
"For the NAPA people to... ?"
"For them to see. As they move from place to place. We have convention space all over. See her down there?"
And sure enough, there was another similarly engaged young woman near the exit to Mandalay Place.
"So, your a place marker... wow, sounds like a long day. Well, best of luck with the sign."
"I have to do it for three days."
"They don't pay you enough."
So meanwhile, on the dollar Bonus Poker, I hold 9, Q, 10 suited, knowing that a Royal flush is exactly a 1:1 million fucking trillion longshot - not because of the math, but because it's me and my accursedness on this trip. So I held the 9, Q, 10 for a chance at... all kinds of things.
And sweet, sweet, sweet, I hit the straight flush for $250!
I was thrilled. Another pretty decent win to keep me in the running! I sat and let it count up, enjoying the mini-orgasm song of credit erection.
And then one of the floor people stopped by, a woman, festooned with the walkie talkie and the floor person utility belt and so on. And she said this to me.
"Where's the Ace, should have been a Royal Flush. That would be $4000."
The entire casino went silent. Every light dimmed simultaneously and a red glow flickered. The view from my chair slowly stretched out like silly putty on, on, on to Hitchcock infinity, until the machine was 50 feet from my outstretched, shaking, hands.
My face went 600 shades of dirty and steam began to build up in my cranium, threatening it to explode it like a 5 story watermelon.
I pasted a rictus-like smile on my face and turned slowly in my chair.
I.... had this.
"Well now," I said in a calm monotone. I paused. "Should I have not kept the 9?"
"Well, I'm just saying, it's..."
"Should I. Have not.... kept the 9, then?..."
"Of course its your money sir, you choose..."
"Because the odds of getting a Royal Flush from 2 cards is approximately one in 16,000."
She began to back away, her thumb getting very near to one of the buttons on the walkie talkie.
I smiled at her harder, opening the grimace even further until she could see every one of my choppers and miles of gum besides.
"Is that... is that... smoked beef short rib meat in your teeth?" she asked timidly.
"Thank you for your help," I said, cashing out.
I didn't blame her. I didn't blame the Russian Janitor. For two staff to take the piss out of two of my happiest moments of the day meant only one thing - its me. Somehow I was drawing this shit to myself and I had to take responsibility for it.
And with that, I promptly put both incidents out of my mind, never to be remembered or thought of while staring sleepless at the ceiling, night after night, beads of cold sweat trickling down my forehead.