|Did you ever notice that they have the world's biggest olives at Wynn? They are like Kermit bowling balls.|
The people that at the main check-in at Wynn are better looking than you, better dressed than you, smile bigger than you, talk better than you, and are better actors than you.
They act as though they like you. They act as if they think you are important. They treat you as if you are a high roller who happens to be slumming it but has a suitcase full of banded stacks of hundred dollar bills.
It's quite unnerving to someone like me who is more comfortable slipping in conveyor grease on the size 7 grommet line back home at Royal Canadian Veeblefetzer.
Of course, nobody in line in the main check-in lobby at Wynn is important or wealthy. Those people are checking in elsewhere, somewhere you will never see, in a separate VIP salon.
The lobby jockey who checked us in talked a mile a minute, probably hitting 3000 words a minute. He took my ID. He called me by name. He said a bunch of stuff. He made typey-typey on his lobby jockey computer thing.
I glanced at his polished nametag.
"I'll need a credit card for incidentals Mr. Flusher. We'll authorize $3000 on your card for incidentals, should you choose to have a $75 room service cheeseburger, or for the minibar should you choose to indulge yourself in a cardboard sleeve containing 7 of Steve Wynn's personal nuts - only $24. If not... we'll cancel the hold."
"Mr. Flusher, what is your net worth?"
"Excuse me, err... Granville?"
"Your net worth."
"Why do you need to know that, whatever it is?"
"We assign room positions based on your Wynn score which comprises... a number of, shall we say, desirability factors... so that you might be... comfortable... with your room assignment, and in keeping with those around you. The most important part of your score is your net worth. There's a simple formula, starting with the tenth floor, and a ten million dollar net worth. We adjust the floor up or down by the million."
"I'll take something in the parking garage."
Clackety clackety typey typey.
"Mr. Flusher let me see what I can do." He smiled big. Really big. I felt kind of important. "Mr. Flusher, I really like important people like you. I can see that you are... Wynn material. If you can provide a cell phone number, we'll text you when your room is ready. I'm sure I can find you something... not too terrible."
I gave him my number. He picked a tiny piece of lint off of his suit jacket, which looked like it had been tailored by God.
"Do you have any suitcases full of currency to check?"
"Well now, I certainly do."
"Ha Ha. Around the corner by the valet entrance. Have a Wynnderful day, Mr. Flusher."
And with that, we were shunted outside. Had this all been a dream? One moment I was in lobby love with the mesmerizing Granville, and the next moment I was tossed to the curb, surrounded by luggage, car exhaust, angry people, and sweaty bellman.
|Full of currency. Really. And emergency cheese.|
|"Who the fuck is next??? You. What's your Wynn score???"|
Since we can't live up to Wynn's comp requirements, we thought we'd just play nickels at Wynn, for the most part - and that's what we did.
We've recently been playing more Ultimate X, which showers each hand with hefty multipliers, based on what you got the hand before. Get a full house, the next hand is worth 12x. It's possible to make a huge score on this game because of this. It also costs double to play and it can eat your nickels alive.
|Mrs. Flusher just missed a 12x quad.|
|Mrs. Flusher nailed an 8x quad!|
I finally had some fun of my own, as you can see.
The Quad Queen managed to cash out some real dollars on these nickel machines.
And with that, we returned to the peons lobby, fetched our keys, and headed up to check out the room
Just as we got in the door and beheld (?) the gorgeous room - Granville had outdone himself - oh how I missed his perfect suitcoat and big, big, phoney smile - I got a text.
"Piffles," I said to the Quad Queen.
"Weather was bad heading home, so they changed plans again - he's just landed his plane in Las Vegas and wants to know what hotel we're in."
I fired off a text, and then phoned down for the luggage.
Good old Piffles!