Outside, the sun was shining a new dawn over the high eastern Sierra mountains. Somehow, the light of day, beaming down upon our drunken stupor gave me an unreal feeling. It was like we were caught, red handed, by the forces of light. Naturally, we had to return to the timeless caverns of the casinos, where the light is always artificial, florescently flickering faster than than the eye can see. A few yards through the open, and we ducked into the yawning gates of some nameless casino.
We found that the Circus Circus policy was almost universal, and got two more screwdrivers, the breakfast of champions. We fled again, avoiding the spy cams and beefy mafia hit men who we had become convinced lurked in every corner of the place. Next we went back to the Eldorado, where the shit hit the fan. Plan Booze was put into action, and my associate and I started to push the envelope of acceptable inebriation. Our trusty chauffeur had stopped drinking hours earlier, and was starting to see through the facade of the place, but we had sunk deeper. I don't know how it happened, but somehow we veered off the plan. The overlords that scheme up new and more malevolent methods to vacuum people's money are no fools. My drink besodden compatriot sat down by a video poker machine and lost all forty of his newly acquired roll of quarters. He blew his good hands, drew on long shots and would not give up the game. In the space of a few minutes he became obsessed, driven by the falsely-implemented passion of the casino overlords.
When the pile of silver treasure ran dry, the spell was broken. We had been on the scene for eight or nine hours — the endless cigarettes, the constant drinking and the caffeine pills had finally caught up with us. I had become disgusted, my associate couldn't stand up and our chauffeur wanted to go home. Shortly thereafter, we were kicked out on to the mean streets by the Eldorado security, busted in the act of resting quitely on the floor. We thought it was a perfect location for a few moments respite, away from the heady oppression of the seats in the bars and the chrome and glitzy machines. While we were waiting by the bathrooms, it had become too difficult to stand. Little did we know of the unwritten motto of the Eldorado: "You can gamble when you can't think, but you can never rest." At first we thought it was simply a common understanding of the town, but the massive man from upstairs efficiently informed us that it was club policy. In slow, measured steps we sauntered through the door.
Our chauffeur remained sober, so we drove to the Reno Hilton, the only place we hadn't been kicked out of. I don't know why we went. The drive alone almost made me sick, and my weak-stomached associate spent the next hour puking in the parking lot. But it worked out for our chauffeur, who won back all she had lost in a few tantalizing minutes. The Hilton was a vast wasteland, larger than any of the other casinos. The mid-morning hour had summoned hundreds of gamblers out from under their own private rocks, each making the same motions with the same fervent hope. The shining chrome and the flashing lights had lost their luster, overpowered by the stench of stagnating people caught in a futile search for something better. I halfheartedly plunked in a few more coins, spending the seemingly valueless change that jingled in my pocket. Finally, my associate had hardened his nerve and his stomach and we were able to hit the road. In was a long, arduous journey back, complicated by hangovers, the caffeine shakes and our bodies' basic need for rest. But we had done it. We had come for an experience like nothing else in the world and had found it lurking in the hearts and minds of the gamblers wandering aimlessly down the boulevard of broken dreams.
