I haven’t been to Vegas since July for the bar. Quite the trip, this one - I had seven hearings all in one day! Both Attorney H and Attorney D told me my manhood depended on this. Who knows what would have happened to me had I made it through four hearings and then collapsed in a quivering mass of jelly. Perhaps they would have just used the giant pair of rusty scissors that Attorney H keeps in her desk. Perhaps D would have offered to drive me to an emergency hearing in Monroe, Utah and left me on the side of the road. But, I made it through.
Seven hearings aside, Vegas never seems to disappoint. The airport itself is an adventure, running the gauntlet of departers who have that thousand yard stare (see Vegas Fun Chapter, VIII) and the throng of arrivals. One of the girls on my flight literally shed her clothing on the walk from the plane to baggage claim and was already looking like a skank ready for the clubs by the time she reached the cab line.
I managed to wait twenty minutes for a cab, which put me in a superfantastichappy mood. I wanted to sit in the bar and watch the beisbol before I had to organize my hearings for the next day and this was cutting into valuable Seven and Seven time. My mood immediately improved when my cab driver opened his mouth.
Let me back up by saying I love to mess with cab drivers - especially the ones in Vegas. As long as I don’t piss them off, I love to pick their heads and see what they have to say. I’ve had fat racist cabbies, skinny racist cabbies, smelly racist cabbies, smelly talkative cabbies, bitter smelly cabbies, arrogant cabbies, cabbies that want to rip you off, cabbies that want free legal advice, cabbies that don’t know where they’re going and nice, happy cabbies in clean cabs (once) etc.... As far as smelly cabs go, this one took the top five at least. It was one of those smells where you just sort of surreptitiously smell your own armpits to make sure it isn’t you. I did this at least twice before I just accepted that this cab was used to transport live sheep shortly before I entered.
This guy started to disappoint me. He wasn’t too talkative. Just asked me where I was going and where I was from. Then silence. No, “is it cold up there?” No, “are you Mormon?” Nothing.
Then, casually, almost furtively, he turned down the squawking radio and said:
“So, uh...do you, uh...like to gamble?” He clearly didn’t grow up speaking English, which only contributes to how completely awesome this encounter was.
“Yeah, I like it ok, I guess.”
“Do you like the clubs?”
“Well, not so much anymore. They’re ok. Sure.”
“What about the strip clubs.” He said this as if the lady from the Deer Hunter and The River Wild had a line of clubs named after her.
“Um. Sure, yeah - I’m not planning on going though.” I said. “too expensive.”
“What about massage parlor?”
“No.” No use really explaining any further why I didn’t want to go to a “massage parlor” chosen by this gentleman.
“You know, this girls...this girls can come to your room...no?”
“Yeah - yeah I know” He seemed to accept this for a second.
“You know I could have a vedy vedy beaudiful voman to your room tonight?” He half turned around in his seat while asking me. Prior to this I could just feel his eyes staring at me from the rear view mirror. He was still supposed to be driving at this point.
Sometimes I just say crap that gets me in trouble. This was close. “Yeah, you say that, but the last time my buddies and I tried to get a young blond chick from those free magazines to come to our room we got a forty year old brunette with jaundice and a smokers hack.”
“No no NO.” He was vehement about it. “If you want young girl, I get you young girl.” I wasn’t too sure about this, thinking maybe I’m on some version of “To Catch a Taxicab Predator” or something.
“No, I don’t want any girl.”
He wouldn’t really quit. “No, you just tell them what you want, you get beaudiful voman....any shape or size.” I sort of wondered what kind of harem he had, but quickly put that out of my head, considering I wasn’t about to find out.
We got to the hotel and he said “vat is your room number, I have girl there tonight, just for you.” I thought this was rather odd seeing as he picked me up from the airport and I’m pretty sure most people don’t know their room number before they arrive. I told him no thanks and asked for a cab receipt. He gave me one (I hate those little fucking things) and also a nice little pamphlet with his ladies’ numbers on it. Even in the internet age when you can have anything and everything at your fingertips, I still find it odd to be handed a glossy pamphlet with nekid wimin on it.
Thus ended my cab driving affair. This is already two pages so I’ll not bore you with the three other cab rides I had, just to say that the second one completely drove by the Federal Building despite my frantic “Stop STOP STOP” from the back seat and dropped me three blocks away, the third was the fourth or fifth sweaty racist cabbies that I spoke about above and the last was a nice guy that didn’t overcharge me or go the wrong way on purpose or anything.