7:18 a.m. - Friday, Feb. 03, 2006
MsLeslie and a sweet suite
I arrived at the Rio late that night. The casino was packed but I�ve been there recently, so I was not very confused about which way to turn to find the Diamond VIP services section where I was to meet my mother. As I started in that direction, she appeared from the crowd. She had been seated behind one of the slot machines, playing as she watched for me to walk in the front door. Her eyes shone with the sparkle of someone who was in her element and happy. It was the only change since I had last seen her at my sister�s funeral last July.
We have our issues, it�s true but they are, I admit, mostly one-sided. My mother adores me in her own way and had been looking forward to seeing me on this visit. I was coming to see her now to make up for my Thanksgiving visit which had been postponed due to my having to stay home for Katrina repairs. It was a case, for me, of obligation trumping preference. But my own issues with mom are mostly under control. I have learned a lot about self-protection.
I might, for example have been hurt by the fact that she could only spare the time to give me a hug, a key to her suite, and the directions to the elevators before scurrying back to her smoldering penny slot machine. Instead, I just smiled, wished her luck and then dragged my bags through the casino to the Ipanema Tower.
She plays penny slots almost to exclusion. That should, you would think, brand her as a minor gambler; Just another overweight old lady squandering the twilight of her days mashing the spin button like a laboratory rat hypnotized by the spinning lights. Maybe so, but even as a humble penny gambler, she has managed to accumulate points on her player�s club card that number in the hundreds of thousands. So much does she gamble at Harrah�s, the owner of the Rio, that they deliver to her door in Cedar City full size television sets, flowers on her birthday, Christmas baskets, leather jackets, and all manner of offers and invitations to shows, complete with complimentary lodging and food. I think she loves the attention more than she loves the machines.
Her complimentary suite was on the nineteenth floor, it was as high as the elevator would go without the special key required to get up to the really big suites, reserved for Japanese millionaires and porno kings. Hers was still a great place. There were two bathrooms, one of which contained a flat-screen television mounted on the wall where it could be seen from the chest-deep jacuzzi. There were other TVs in the living room and bedroom. The full-length windows overlooked the city lights, and the two king-sized beds were piled high with oversized pillows and feathered covers. I was impressed all the way from the front door to my bed. Then I was asleep.
I had traveled with a chest cold. I get few colds. I suppose that�s because I expose myself to so few people. This was one of the worst I have ever had. So hard was I coughing that I had secreted a bottle of Robitussin in my carry-on bag so I could periodically guzzle it in an attempt to maintain my composure on the plane. By the time I arrived in Vegas, my voice was gone. It remained absent for most of my visit. It only made it more difficult to enjoy myself. In the absence of my mother, I suppose I could have called room service to send up an order of chicken soup and love, but I was too exhausted to be sick.
Mom gambles all night, so sharing a room with her is like having a room to yourself. She arrived early the next morning, haggard and bleary-eyed, bearing for me a Grande cup of white chocolate mocha from the Starbuck�s below. I felt a little better, so I sat and croaked with her a few minutes before requiring her to take off her clothes and lay down for the twenty seconds it took her to fall asleep. Then I took a shower in the marble room with multiple heads, got dressed and went down to scout the craps tables.
I suppose I have to just realize from time to time that I am old. I can remember when Las Vegas was an adolescent child. I can remember playing blackjack for a dollar. I can remember when craps could be played for a quarter in the casinos off-strip. Now I found myself looking at a fifteen-dollar minimum on only one table, while the rest required twenty-five dollars to make a single bet. Las Vegas is out of my league. I was tempted to label the casinos greedy, but I realized that greed isn�t so one-sided. Everyone here is greedy, but most especially the players, who come in hopes of beating the odds, no matter how great, and taking home enough cash, invisible to the tax man, to pay for their trip. Vegas is, in fact, the cradle of greed. I could not blame the casinos for feeding on it.
I lost about four hundred dollars there. It didn�t take long, and it was, frankly, no fun at all. I decided to save my gambling for Mesquite, where we would spend another night on our way to Cedar City. In mesquite, craps can still be played for two dollars. That gives the advantage of being able to play much longer while waiting for that magic roll to yield up some profit. There was nothing else for me in Vegas except gluttony and the buffets. I went back upstairs to wait for mom and her diamond club card to awaken.
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