Fearing and Loathing the American Dream - Volume 4: Las Vegas

“Look at the lights! I’ve died and gone to neon heaven,” Sarge simpered as we coasted down the Strip.

       I turned into Caesar’s Palace and a valet nipped off with the car. On the way to check in I caught the eye of a dreadlocked bohemian lounging on the extravagant fountain outside, accompanied by a black-clad crony. Something about Dreads was vaguely familiar. After we’d checked in and were on our way out, they were still there, and Dreads sauntered over.

       “Whoa, you’re Indian!” he said to Sarge.

       “No.”

       “Indonesian?”

       “No.”

       “Africanian?”

       “No.”

       “Pakistanian? Malaysianian? Sri Lankanian?”

       “No.”

       “Oh.” He frowned. “What’re you girls up to tonight? Wanna sing karaoke with us?” Dreads waggled his eyebrows and I suddenly felt nauseous. Not wanting to sound like a hypocrite but Dreads definitely seemed under the influence of something illicit. Which, normally, would spell out fun, but in this instance it was just creepy. Plus he was a moron, and it goes without saying that they should be avoided at all costs.

       “Er, no thanks,” I said. “We’re going to listen to some jazz tonight.”

       Sarge raised an eyebrow at me but stayed silent.

       “Oh, jaaaaazz, awesome! Up high!” Dreads held up his hand expectantly.

       I eyed the lingering hand warily.

       “Sorry, don’t do that. It’s against my religion.”

       Dreads pondered that thoughtfully, till he noticed his companion getting antsy to move on. He took his leave of us and called out, “Y’know what’s against my religion? Sayin’ goodbye to babes. See ya, babes!”

       I gave a sigh of relief as the duo disappeared from view.

       “Hey,” Sarge said suddenly. “Wasn’t he on American Idol a coupla years back? Jason Something-or-rather…”

* * *

We were taking a languid stroll down the Strip when Sarge got sidetracked and insisted on trying our luck at The Venetian, pointing eagerly at the casino that almost spilled out onto the street.

“We gotta go in there! I’m dying to try the slots.”

“What about Treasure Island?” I said, reluctantly following her inside. “The pirate show is doing its last run of the night in ten minutes.”

“Why don’t I meet you there?” She sat down at an island of slot machines that were emitting stupid beeping noises. “You go on,” she said, starting to pull out saved-up quarters from her pocket. “I won’t be long. In and out, I swear.”

* * *

About forty-five minutes later, after seeing the show, and on the walk back being charmed by an engaging salesman into buying an absurd LED t-shirt with Kanye’s sunnies on them, I found Sarge at the slot machine where I’d left her.

       “Oi! Where the hell have you been? Tell me you haven’t been feeding this robotic charlatan the entire time!”

       Sarge kept her eyes fixed on the screen, mumbled an apology, and inserted another quarter. I looked around, dumbfounded, and was shocked to see the room was scattered with people just like Sarge. It was like Land of the Walking Imbecile. Talk about your negative consequences of the American Dream ideology.

       “Sarge? You still in there? Don’t tell me they did the lobotomy without even waiting for me.”

       Still no response.

       “Okay, I think you’ve had enough for one night.” When I started to pull her out of her seat she came alive.

       “No! Not yet! I’m on the verge of winning, Anne! This thing’s gonna pay out any minute now.”

       Uh-oh. “How much did you put into it?”

       She scratched her head. “Only, like, a coupla hundred?”

       “Couple of hundred? You… Fool of a Took! Right, we’re out of here!” I pushed her out the door, ignoring the feeble death threats she threw my way.

       “I will not abide this, man. The dude will not abide!” Sarge cried angrily.

       “You’ll get over it, Lebroski. Come on, let’s get some food into that trash-talking gob of yours.”

* * *

Sarge was wrestled into a booth at BLT Burger with help of its patient employees, and she grudgingly began to munch down her onion rings as I sipped at my spiked milkshake.

       I was so exhausted from the drive from LA to here, and was just starting to drift off, when a scruffy-haired fellow walked in. As he ordered at the counter I felt a surge of recognition…

       “Sarge, Gafril Gafraily* just walked in!”

       “Who’s Gafril Gafraily?”

       “You’ve been living under a rock!” I wailed. “The Brit on that TV show? With the books and the perpetually drunken Irishman? Look!”

       Sarge looked and we watched as Gafril sat down with his food.

       “Wow. We should totally introduce ourselves.”

       Sarge smirked. “After you.”

       After a hesitant wait I was finally roused into action when Gafril rose from his seat and headed for the exit. In the panic of the moment I bellowed, “Gafril! Gafril Gafraily, hi, hello!”

       Gafril turned slowly as we approached, eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

       “Hi, we’re big fans, Mr. Gafraily. You’re great on that comedy panel quiz show, QI.”

       Immediately Gafril’s face cracked into a smile. “Oh wundeerfool. Olweeys neece tah meet ah fan. Soooh, ded yah goh tah meh show?”

       “The one here in Vegas? Afraid we missed it. We haven’t been in town long…”

       “Aah, not teh worrie. Doo yah leeke sweeetees, gerls? I aave sum sweeetees in meh van!” Grinning, he motioned towards the old van with blackened windows parked outside.

       Sarge and I shared a startled look.

       “Er, actually we should be moseying on…” I sidestepped towards the door, pulling Sarge along with me. “It was… nice to meet you, Mr. Gafril. Goodbye!”

       “Olreety than, misseeys! Cheerio! Ta-ta! Bob’s your uncle!” Gafril called cheerily after us.

       We walked briskly down the Strip, and after a few minutes of silence Sarge shook her head. “What kind of creeps do they let into this city?”

       “I just don’t know what to expect anymore. But I’m never going to be able to watch QI the same way again.”

*Name altered for legal reasons.

© 2011 Anne Oddity. All rights reserved.

Still to come -- Anne and Sarge wreak havoc in NYC and Washington D.C.