Make Mine Mike

I don't know if what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas... but my money sure did.

Tonight I was invited to go play poker again up in Burbank, but I'm done traveling long distances just to piss away my payola. Plus I'm tired. Gambling's hard work.

After a long night of playing dice at the Venetian, the Bellagio, and after so many free drinks who remembers where else, at least I'd get to sleep late at the hotel. We high rollers had expected to get comped for breakfast; now we'd have to wait in the long lines at the buffets later. C'est la vie, as they say at the Paris casino. Or at New York, New York, fuggedaboutit. Or at the Wynn, "We don't have a theme and it's a fifteen dollar minimum to bet. You in or what?"

So later, back in my much-cheaper hotel, I pulled the heavy curtain over the window, blocking out all the light. The room was in complete darkness. Even the next day, I was happy and spacing out within my black hole.

And unlike my apartment, there wouldn't be noise from the neighbors and their yippie dogs and faulty car alarms. My cave would be in complete silence.

Well, okay, being a few stories up over the Strip, I could faintly hear the sound of the street. But it didn't bother me. Wh-wh-wh-whooooo! I was too hungover to pay much attention. Yep, I was enjoying my forty-winks, not even noticing the cacaphony coming from the corner. Wh-wh-wh-whooooo! I could sleep right through that staccato whistling... Wh-wh-wh-whooooo! No matter how often I heard it. Didn't bother me one wh-wh-wh-what the hell was that?!

I pulled the curtain back but couldn't see anything. If I could've leaned out I might have be able to figure it out, but the big window was sealed shut. However, the bathroom window wasn't. That little pane of glass opened up and from that view, I could see the whistler -- it was the guy working down at the taxi stand. He wasn't so much whistling for the cabbies; he seemed to be trying to get the attention of his friend and fellow valet at the casino across the street. Every thirty seconds. Wh-wh-wh-whooooo!

As loud as it was, his friend didn't hear him. And the guy didn't hear me as I shouted to stop whistling, that there were big shot craps players (in a little slump at the moment) trying to sleep. But he didn't stop.

So I threw a bar of soap at him.

It descended, bounced off the awning, drifted from the cool Nevada desert winds and... ooh. Missed him by that much.

The guy didn't even notice at first. Kept pacing up and down the parking area, doing his thing. And then finally at one point, stopped in the middle of the driveway to scrutinize a tiny hotel-issued vanilla-scented disc laying there.

It wouldn't have hurt him too bad, just given him a nice bonk on the head. Maybe cause enough damage to make him forget how to put his lips together and blow. But alas, the dude just shrugged, stood back up and went at it again: Wh-wh-wh-whooooo!

"Fine! I give up," I said. "I'll get dressed and go gamble some more."