The night Vegas punched me in the face.
I can't believe we didn't see it coming.
"Vegas is a strange place. A 72-hour kind of place.
Enough time to get hammered beyond recollection, make some money, lose some money, and repeat until your adrenals are fried and you're falling asleep at the blackjack table.
The labyrinthian layouts, the fake sky on Fremont Street, and the mechanical repetition of pensioners caressing buttons until their hard-earned wages were syphoned from their bank accounts were all delightfully dystopian.
One night was enough of a taste for me." - Wax Walls #2
Las Vegas, Nevada.
The technique was simple.
You wait until a run appears on black or red, bet the opposite, and double your bet on the next round if you lose.
CJ was detailing our roulette strategy from the backseat as we were barreling down the highway towards Fremont Street. Midnight approaching fast in the rearview.
I asked him again, to make sure I had the strategy set in stone. Repeating the pattern in my head. I like having a plan of action, it appeals to discipline of the naval household I grew up in and tickles the systems designer side of my brain.
A method to tame the chaos.
There was no real safety net though, our strategy was a facade of cope.
No backup plan could truly work. No way I could use a little British charm to work my way out of a bad bet and a bad hand. You leave rich, you leave broke, or you are dumb enough to stop playing before the house gets their nails under your skin.
It was my first time in Vegas and our driver immediately picked up on my accent.
He was giant. Spilling out of his seat at the edges, elbows crossing the aisle into the passenger seat. The car tilted slightly to the driver's side. Something he was clearly used to correcting. None of it was fat however, purely steroids and cups of raw eggs.
I suspected this daytime Mr. Olympia was moonlighting as an Uber driver for cash to fund his "enhancements".
"Oh it's your first time here? I'll drop you off at the other end of Fremont then." The words tumbled out of his mouth like a rocky landslide.
We took the next exit, lights reappearing in the windshield, glistening reflections of neon flaring off every surface. He pulled into the corner on North 6th and Fremont Street, "This is you, walk that way." Pointing to the right. His finger the size of a post-nightclub corndog squished against the window on the passenger side.
Thank you discount Ronnie Coleman, you made the right call.
Fremont Street - the true Vegas.
The original, the classic. Where the real degenerates hang out, where it all started. The place to go and see souls stripped from 40 years of corporate office work reborn with three tequilas, a couple of dice, and a poorly sung cover of Rock You Like A Hurricane.
A pilgrimage unlike any other. It's easy to see why people are drawn here.
Stopping in traffic to stare at the Hacienda Cowboy the moth in me from a previous lifetime came alive. Pulling me in to the saturated bulbs one blink at a time. Yes, I was ready to sacrifice myself at the altar of light, yes please carry me onto the next life with neon in my eyes.
My film goggles were primed and I hadn't even had a drink yet. Only the screeching honks of cars whipping past pulled me from my trance as the lights turned green, and I was precariously surrounded by metal bulls.
Down the barrel of my camera though, everything was beautiful.
Drifting towards the light, under the digital sky of the Fremont Experience, we entered a new dimension.
Old men in Hawaiian shirts with hot blonde escorts, locals in sweatpants returning from work, and street performers bound to their mime-like boxes all blended together. A paddle-wielding Ghostface attempted to spank the public in hopes of a (monetary) tip without much success.
Not exactly a family-friendly place, but the children looked on in terror regardless.
Unlike my old village pub though, Vegas was the opposite of stagnation. Speed was the only game in town, spiritually, physically, and pharmacologically.
I was reminded of my brief time in Tokyo. Salary men stumbling through the dark streets drunk on sake, or singing with the Yakuza in a maid-themed bar. No matter how much your boss destroyed you for the last five years, or how much you despised your life, there was always an opportunity to let loose in the most depraved ways possible until the sun came up - if you had enough coin.
Vegas was the same.
One thing was running through my mind as people darted around me like ants seeking a new scent path, "Surely no one actually lives here though, right?". This must all just be a mirage. The heat of the desert had begun to dry out the crevices of my brain.
There wasn't a moment to explore my pseudo-intellectualism further though as CJ had confidently scampered through the doors of the Golden Nugget casino. I followed swiftly behind him.
To my left the nauseating barrage of slot machines, with pensioners pouring their grandkid's inheritance into the same iPad they claimed to hate. To my right purple velvet tables and dark carpets covered the floor. Casino chips smashing together in a disjointed rhythm as poker players attempted to call someone's bluff.
There was a distinct air to the place. Not just from the copious amounts of smoke but, a sense that the doors were closing in behind you - with no escape route out.
Editor's note: Do we really need Game of Thrones or The Walking Dead themed slot machines? Can we not just pull 7s and cherries anymore?
The rest of the world disappeared as I sat down at our first blackjack table. A game I used to play in high school to win 50p from my mates, or a soda from the cafeteria, escalating to bankruptcy levels in a matter of moments.
It was here where I had my first taste of the stereotypical gambler. A man in his 40s, dishevelled and sat backwards on his chair. On approach he seemed relaxed but, as each card was dealt his demeanour devolved into a man who had clearly given up. His eyes were empty. The weight of his being heavier than the seemingly unending supply of chips in his pockets.
Scratching below the surface you could see this exact character was everywhere. The majority even. Invisible behind the wall of laughter and joy from all the tables they were not sat at. Their sense of self crushed by some first-timer's win two seats away from them.
Oh, yeah, that was me. Not the empty husk of a human part but the first-timer winning two seats down part.
It was my third hand of the night. I'd decided to let go of all control and feel out each decision instinctively. I did not overthink, I just acted. Winning with a natural 21, Jack and Ace.
The winning chips slid across the table and without hesitating I stood up to leave, pulling CJ by the collar.
There was no mystical reason and no strategy to leave a table when we had hit it big. Our dealer had just given me back more on my winnings than they should have. Maybe the house is kind to a first-timer. Maybe their facial recognition and comms system selected me to get a little sweet appetiser before a stinking main meal of loss. Or potentially, the dealer was distracted by a shift change directly after our round closed - we will never know.
All-in on fast spins and short skirts.
My newfound courage directed me to the nearest roulette table like a hawk. Diving between waitresses and ashy cigarettes, chips chattering in my pocket, we cruised into the nearest open seats.
Looking up, my heart still pounding, the silent Chinese dealer nodded as we handed over chips for roulette tokens. The ticker tape sound of the ball on the roulette wheel coming to an excruciatingly slow crescendo with each passing moment. The ball settled, the world clicked back into place, and the table was wiped clean.
Small piles of chips started emerging from the far end of the table. A lightly wrinkled hand, with long fake nails and prominent veins, was placing chips on every red number. Some towers were taller than others but bets covered the entire board.
The woman placing them sat at the end of the table with her husband, a couple ripped straight from an 80s porno. Characters you could only find in the back pages of your older brother's magazines he hid under his bed - at least back in their prime anyway. Her chest filled the room, two over-inflated yoga balls bursting from the top of a short satin dress. Something she could have easily pulled from her wardrobe 20 years ago now barely hanging on.
A fresh new frame on already aged painting.
Lips rolling from the tip of her nose to her chin, she requested more chips from her hubby, tapping monstrous plastic shards on the edge of the table impatiently.
Each time she leant over, extending her reach for the red 3, the entire table moved. A subtle gravitational field pulling you into her cleavage, every chair tipping in her direction. And trust me this wasn't lust, it was closer to the freeze state of a deer in headlights. My eyes magnetised by force to the asteroids in orbit at the edge of the table.
As if the roster was not already complete, during the next round a neckbeard-ed man in a Hawaiian shirt and Pit Viper shades reaches over, drops $250 on black, waits, wins, and immediately leaves.
There was no decorum here, everyone sat on the same playing field. If you knew the rules of the game, and had chips, you were welcome to play. Behaviour that utterly destroyed any sense of English etiquette I was raised with. Just rock up, make money, cheer, and bounce.
And you know what? I loved it.
Settling in to this atmosphere was met with a swift harsh reality however as our Martingale strategy was not performing as we mistakenly expected.
The dealer was striking us with a glare for not betting on every round, quietly preparing to kick us off the table, and CJ was down to his last chips. We both entered the building with $200, and whilst I was up, he was going all-in on black. Without a second thought I joined him. Our patience being tested as we waited for Jessica Rabbit's cougar aunty to delicately place chips across the entire table.
I shook my head at CJ with a mild sense of pretension knowing full well I was mirroring her just with a slightly different - younger - flavour.
Yet, unlike her, until this moment I had never gone all-in on anything.
Even when I decided to go freelance in 2017, with a handful of coins in my bank account, I always had a backup plan. I knew I could go back to stacking shelves in a supermarket, or become a barista, or work as a waiter. I would hate myself, but I could fall back on those options. Now however, as the roulette ball bounced across each number, there was no backup plan. It was roughly 50/50 whether I won or lost.
Dark electricity was pulsing through my nervous system, every heartbeat squeezing my neck a little tighter. I felt more fear over losing $200 in Vegas than I ever felt running my own business. The thrill of will it go my way, or will I be destined to join a long lineage of losers was palpable. No nudging, no sneaky tricks, no shortcuts. I couldn't kick the table or blow the ball, it was just me against gravity.
Like watching the kettle boil though, this final spin dragged on forever. Smoke curled around the wheel, taunting and teasing me. Attempting to distract my eyes and break the winning spell. Because if you looked away for even a moment you would lose - it was guaranteed (I told myself).
CJ was out of his chair a split second before me.
His arms wrapped around my shoulders before I even had time to react. Ms. Rabbit's vocal fry, amplified by silicone, had cut through the final clicks of the rolling ball and I'd missed the touchdown. But, without even looking, I knew we'd won. My nerves flipped into joy squeezing the leatherette arm rest with a vice grip.
Sidestepping slot machine zombies we cashed out figuring our luck was about to run dry. Giddy like schoolchildren on pizza day we'd gone in with $200 and I was walking out with nearly $400. Cash, real cash money, in my hands and it was mine.
I was a rat in a lab and I'd just figured out the cocaine button. Going all-in had worked. There was no turning back now.
Our strategy could never fail.
High as a kite I spun on my chair at the hybrid tables in the MGM observing the crowds.
I began to see why people love Vegas. It has its charm, in an underbelly kind of way. There's no judgement here, we're all here to win or lose, play and pray. Southern cowboys in blue jeans, Indian tourists in greaser leather jackets trying to pull uninterested single Moms, and Chinese couples gawping at the degeneracy all with one thing in common:
"...get hammered beyond recollection, make some money, lose some money, and repeat until your adrenals are fried and you're falling asleep at the blackjack table."
Time moved differently at the hybrid tables. People would come and go, moving like ghosts around us. Sitting down, rolling, then fading backward onto the yellow brick road carved into the carpets. If you'd filmed the scene, a timelapse would have occurred naturally around us, as CJ and I clicked the iPad buttons in perfect sync.
We weren't waiting on a dealer, it was finally just us against the machine. Fooling ourselves into thinking our strategy could fight entropy one more time.
2am arrives and your body still thinks it's the afternoon.
The lights are the same, the background noise never stutters, the smoke was unrelenting and delicious. Time slips, but the simulation continues to spin out reds and blacks. Exhaustion in my body was starting to feel like a fresh hangover as adrenaline rose and fell like the tide.
Then one round collapsed on us.
Doubling into losses had wiped 50% of my money in a single streak and wiped CJ out completely. The doom loop had started and neither of us had the cognition remaining to notice. My conviction in Martingale-ing was chipped and all-in started to become the only remaining option. Mistaking our singular blessing on Fremont St for an everlasting pot of gold from the MGM overlords.
CJ refusing to accept defeat, pulled more money out of the ATM between rounds. The whir of the insert mechanism chomping down his bills like a ravenous beast. Slamming his finger onto the screen moments before the round closed.
Let it ride.
I became one with my chair.
Standing over the screen to catch a glimpse of the ball rolling around the enclosure. For thousands of years this stance was reserved for watching fish dance under the water, waiting for a moment to spear one for lunch. Now however, I was praying to get my lunch money back out and leave Vegas with at least the same amount I came in with.
Our death was not given gracefully however.
The ball landed out of sight, the screen flashed red, and our accounts rolled down to zero before we even looked down. We crashed into our seats, as our spirits plummeted. It was 2:45am and we left the MGM with nothing in our pockets.
I've never felt defeat like it.
If I had just been able to play one more round I know I would have won. Nothing you can say would change my mind, the odds were in my favour. I was cheated. I didn't need that money, but I deserved to win more than the house did - that much I knew in the moment was true beyond anything else.
Fading sounds of slot machines, turned into the sheer silence of the inter-hotel tunnels as we returned home from the hunt empty handed. It was gruelling to ride so high, and get wiped out just as quickly.
Closing my eyes in our hotel room, my heart was still pounding.
The reality refusing to set in, over $400 I had but never truly had, and would definitely never see again. Can't chargeback a roulette wheel I'm afraid you'll just have to live with that one.
Sleep did not come easily that night but, I was determined to walk away with (more) money when I inevitably returned to Vegas.
The house wouldn't win next time.
Connor x
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