Guest Column: Nick the Ex-Cabbie – “Las Vegas VIP Poker Party: The Artisan Hotel Aftermath”
The story of the actual party is for anyone brave enough to tell it. This came later:
It’s probably about four in the morning and I’m sitting at the bar in The Artisan Hotel off the Strip in Las Vegas with a self-proclaimed stripper and some guy that I just met a few hours ago. The girl says, “Seriously, my tits are fake. Look – you can see the scars.” She pulls herself almost completely out of her top to show me. The guy is on a mission to acquire some girl for what’s left of the night and the girl that I’m talking to doesn’t seem to be his flavor.
She’s not my flavor either, but even if I did have plans to capture her, I wouldn’t feel comfortable taking her back to my lair tonight. The main reason is because the queen of last night’s party allowed me to crash in the Master Suite that was rented out for the party…with the guy that I don’t know.
He’s currently drifting from girl to girl in the bar and under different circumstances I might be interested in what he’s saying to them, but right now I want another drink. I lost count about four drinks ago, so, if I retroactively do the math, this one must be somewhere around twelve or fourteen. [Editor's note: Definitely not thirteen, though?] At some point, much later, I think I fall asleep.
It must be checkout time because I just woke up to the housecleaning woman trying to get in the door. I sit up and put my shoes on. Wow. I must have gotten a solid six or eight minutes of sleep! I’ve never felt so refreshed. No, wait… this is the exact opposite of refreshed. I need to find someplace to die. As I walk out the door I hear the phone ring, but I don’t feel like interacting with anyone in my current state, and head straight for the elevator.
Now that I’m in the lobby I decide that I’m not quite ready to leave so I wander around a bit. The pool area is so incredibly bright that I don’t even want to get a closer look at the potentially cute girl in the black bikini. All I want is the cool embrace of darkness and the seven steps it takes to get back inside are almost too many. What was I thinking? I need a bed. And lots of water. And probably at least week of recovery.
I pass the cute bartendress from last night on my way to request a taxi from the front desk and think to myself, “is she really still here?” The front deskoids assure me that a cab will be here in ten minutes and then I go to the bar to buy some water and get some change. It’s obvious that the girl behind the bar has not been here for more than twelve hours and I ask, “Have I really been drinking here long enough for you to get off work, go home, sleep and then come in for another shift?” Apparently I have.
Twenty or more minutes later my new favorite bartendress wanders back through the lobby and says, “You’re still here? Why don’t you come wait in the bar?” I don’t mention that I’m afraid I might not make it that far. (Or that I’ve been sitting there wishing that the Artisan didn’t look so nice because I want to die, but I don’t want my dead body to clutter the place up.) If I were in an alley in some metropolitan area then you wouldn’t be reading this – that would have been the end of my story.
The cab that eventually picks me up is the one that I called myself.
[Editors note: very nice of you to not die inside the Artisan Hotel. Of all the reasons to continue living, this is probably the most selfless I can think of! Good job, soldier.]
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