Vegas memories — Part 2

Published by Rick on Tagged Uncategorized

After returning to San Francisco from Las Vegas, and seeing my dad, who now suffers from dementia and doesn’t have long to go, I was reminded again of how much he loved going to Nevada, but Las Vegas in particular, since it was closest to where he lived. In seeing him these last two days and telling him I’d worked in Vegas, I might as well have been telling him I’m a squirrel from the planet Zahora, such is his comprehension now.

The first time we went there, I was only 12, and I was fascinated by the slot machines, though if I so much as touched one, or possibly even got too close, my parents would have been fined $50.00. I was a bit disappointed that the over-21 rules were so strict, and when you’re 12, the nine years still left to go seemed like an eternity. Fortunately, we were only passing through Vegas on the way to Death Valley, otherwise I might have gotten bored.

My dad knew little about the table games, though he would learn a lot about Blackjack over the years. As we were preparing to leave Vegas, my parents decided to go inside the Golden Nugget, this being at a time when Downtown was still the place to be rather than Las Vegas Blvd., aka The Strip. My brother and I would have to wait outside. They had just a couple of spare quarters, and this one lady was playing a slot machine, then left it for a second. Who knows what impulse went through my parents’ minds, but they decided to drop a quarter in the machine the lady had just vacated. As the reels spun, they noticed the first one stopped on a golden nugget. “Hmm, that looks good,” thought my mom, as the 2nd and 3rd reels stopped on the same image. It wasn’t until the bells started chiming that my folks realized something good was happening. Three golden nuggets in a row on a 25¢ slot made for a $50 jackpot, which back then could buy a family of four an extra day or two of travel, food, and lodging. As the quarters spilled out into the tray, the lady who’d been playing came running back, shouting “That’s my machine!” My dad, ever the wise guy said, “Fine, you can have it back now.” My parents came back outside giggling with pockets full of quarters. After exchanging the quarters at a bank, we left Vegas, but would return many times.

By the next time we returned, I was 14 and my East Coast cousins were visiting. My dad had gotten the gambling bug and had figured out a system of counting cards in Blackjack that he thought was impeccable. I don’t even remember whether he did that well this time around, because the only image that remains with me from that trip was his rage at me and my cousin. He and I had decided to walk from the Stardust Hotel, where we were staying, to the Sahara (I think) where we thought my mom and my aunt were. It was a lot further a walk than we expected, and they weren’t there, so we turned around and walked back. We were gone over an hour, and I guess the only person we’d told we were going was my brother. My dad was frantic with worry, and when he finally spotted us, his rage was almost animated. I remember him leaping from the back seat of my uncle’s car, both fists doubled up, and ready to blow us into the next state. My uncle shielded us from him, but what was odd from our standpoint was until that moment, we hadn’t even thought we were doing anything terribly wrong.

And I guess my dad had felt cheated on that trip, so a few weeks later, he’d decided to drive up to Vegas by himself and try out his system. In retrospect, I don’t know how he was able to convince my mom that this was a good idea, especially with cousins still staying with us. Vegas was about 300 miles away from Tucson, where we lived at the time. He was gone about two days, then came back early one evening, and as soon as he came through the door, he exclaimed, “I got held up!” The story went that he’d won $162.00 (and in further re-tellings of the story, he’d make sure to always say that exact dollar amount), and had decided on the way back to pick up a hitch-hiker, something none of us could imagine him doing. The guy was in a sailor suit, and my dad drove him about fifty miles or so, then when he stopped to let the man out, he allegedly pointed a gun at my dad’s ribs and demanded whatever money he had. To emphasize his point, he kept rubbing his side as if to say, “and it still hurts where he jabbed the gun at me.” Just the fact that my dad was still driving his car was merely exhibit A in a full alphabet of evidence to show that this whole story was rubbish. There were so many holes in his story, it didn’t seem that far fetched to believe he didn’t even go to Vegas at all.

My dad would go there numerous times over the next decade or so, never winning big, but his system worked well enough that he didn’t ever go completely broke. As for me, I wouldn’t see Las Vegas again until the mid-1980’s, for in the interim, I’d moved to San Francisco, where Lake Tahoe and Reno were more accessible. (From Vegas to San Fran is 578 miles, and I know that for absolute certain as I drove that entire distance this past Monday.) My partner and I worked in Tahoe on and off for nearly two years in the mid-70’s, and though my dad would occasionally visit and gamble with us there, he was probably the only person I knew who preferred Vegas to Tahoe. This was probably due to being a geologist and preferring desert climate to mountains.

When I worked Las Vegas for The Comedy Store in the mid to late 80’s, my folks would drive up and visit nearly every time I was there. I had to cool it when they came around, because more often than not, the cocaine was flowing rather freely amongst the band of comics I was working with. Not every time, though. I remember one bill I was on where all of the other comics were on health kicks, getting up at 6 or 7 in the morning and either running a few miles or shooting a few rounds of golf. Not exactly my cup of tea. I don’t know what vibe I gave off, but even though my hair was as short as the rest of theirs, one audience member scoped me out as being someone he could come up to and ask if I wanted to get high, and he wouldn’t get some lecture on the evils of drug addiction. However, on the weeks my folks didn’t make it, there was a seemingly endless party that only seemed to be interrupted by the two shows I had to do each night!

Tomorrow I head back to England, and seeing both my dad and Vegas have jarred the memory bank considerably. I’m sure there are tons of stories of over-indulgence that will, according to the adage, “stay in Vegas,” but the ones I’ve detailed in my last two blogs will have to suffice for now. I hope to be back in Vegas during the early part of next year.

June 19th, 2014



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