Honest Addict, Chapter Twelve

12

On Christmas day he left the Hotel Nevada. A discontented feeling enveloped him, like the universe was somehow not in order. The holidays had never really symbolized happy times in his life: after Dad split in the middle of the night, he left as his legacy the lone kid in school that knew how to play poker proficiently and count cards at blackjack. Mom did her best to make things work, but was overwhelmed by debt, repeated workplace failures, an impressive drinking problem and a litany of bad men. Congenital heart failure took her suddenly in the middle of the night shortly after he turned eighteen. He was lucky she had made it that long: if she had died earlier the authorities might have placed him somewhere unpleasant.

Lesser adolescents might have succumbed to all this tragedy, but Peter had two things going for him – his relative intelligence and his association with the Rutherford family. The former got him good grades and a partial scholarship to the University of California, Berkeley and the latter gave him a second family who cared for him maybe more than his first ever did. It was at the Rutherford household that he had spent the majority of his Christmas’ after his mother’s death. And it wasn’t that they were totally unhappy events; Jeanette and Carol had done their best to make him feel comfortable during what were for him depressing times, buying him presents and giving him the honor of slicing the honey-baked ham at dinner, an honor that had in the past always been reserved for Eugene. Carol had also let the kids drink and smoke cigarettes as much as they liked, which was an obvious privilege and enjoyment. But deep down the month of December had always reminded Peter of his family’s interpersonal and financial inadequacy, highlighted with particular sharpness by the fact he was living in over-privileged Marin County.

But despite his past discomfort with the season, somehow, as the dramatic desert scenery moved through his field of vision, Peter felt a tangible sense of loss and displacement. The thought of Jeanette sitting alone in that huge house tugged at his emotions. For the first time since he had left Violet’s, he wished he had his cell phone.

He headed south on highway 6 until it linked with 318 through the settlements of Preston and Lund. Although his speed had slackened to a pace of only about 85 miles an hour, the land and time still flew by. Soon southbound highway 318 morphed into 93 and in a flash interstate 15 was within reach. Peter pulled over to consult his map.

The choice was fairly simple: east or west. To the east lay Arizona, or, if he followed the 15 in its north-easterly direction, the hitherto unexplored southern wilds of Utah. From here, he could head north toward Salt Lake, a virtual back track over the same longitudes he had just driven, or continue east toward Colorado, a state he hardly knew and had always wanted to explore. These options were very tempting, as they took him even further from the place from which he was running away. But something in his heart told him that west was the direction in which he needed to travel now. Ultimately the decision was that simple.

Having determined upon the direction, the next important choice could be summed up in two Spanish words: Las Vegas. He had lost count how many times he had been to “sin city,” but it was definitely more than twenty. Comps were available to him at most of the old downtown casinos as well as a few on the strip. It was conceivable that he could lose himself for several weeks gambling, drinking, drugging and, yes, even whoring his way through the wretchedness of that abominable town without ever once paying for a hotel night, meal or beverage. And for a moment it seemed as if his mind was made up to go.

But then another voice interceded. Vegas had always been to him the beast of consumption, the love of his vapid investment-banker colleagues. And although it was certainly the Mecca of gambling in the western hemisphere, and he did pursue his chemical vices with overwhelming vigor whenever he was there, Vegas had deteriorated in his mind from a Capitol of good times to a symbol of everything he was now turning against. The thousand dollar an hour prostitutes, mediocre, over-priced restaurants backed by absentee “celebrity” chefs, the Greek fraternity assholes and bachelorette parties, morbidly obese Midwesterners stuffing their faces at endless buffets, middle aged businessmen trying to resurrect their bygone youth and most importantly the ill-conceived, fatuous slogan that had become the mantra of every Joe and Mary beer can from coast to coast, “What Happens in Vegas Stays in Vegas”: for these and many other reasons Peter decided he would forgo a visitation.

But the unstated truth of the matter was this: the place was a mirror he simply couldn’t look into.

And so he proceeded westbound down the 15 determined not to stop. And when he finally entered the city limits he felt nothing. As he passed downtown – classic Vegas, the district that still embodied some small part of what the city once represented to America – he saw the emblem of the Golden Nugget emblazoned on the horizon. His heart was not stirred. As the strip casinos paraded across his vision he saw the newly expanded Caesars glimmering. It too was a location that had once been close to his heart. Almost by instinct, he thought of a young James Caen in the 1974 movie The Gambler doubling down on eighteen and exhorting the dealer, “give me the three.” In the past, these thoughts and visions were too much for him to bear; he never could have simply driven through without stopping for at the very least a few hours. This day was different.

But it was not that different. For less than twenty miles outside of the city limits lay the border town of Primm, a cheesy amalgamation of slapdash casinos placed only yards from the state line in order to service two kinds of compulsives: those that couldn’t wait the extra fifteen minutes while heading into Vegas and those who couldn’t resist one last opportunity to piss the last of their money down the drain on the way out. Although Peter could not be grouped in either of these generalities – on this occasion, anyway – he felt at home upon pulling into the parking lot of Buffalo Bill’s Resort and Casino and getting out for a much needed stretch.

Inside, the casino was all but empty. Other than the few lonely and downcast patrons, the space was populated only by the sound of idle machines chattering to one another in a vain attempt to procure profitable occupation and the glazed eyes of the dealers, bartenders and management, their vacant looks seeming to ask collectively, “what the hell are we doing here?”

Fortunately for Peter, he knew exactly why he was there and was happy to see that he would have no trouble obtaining space at the tables. Even the bizarre scene of an empty casino on Christmas didn’t bother him.

For a few hours he bounced around the tables; he played blackjack, craps and roulette intermittently, dropping about fifteen hundred dollars. After a while he went to the diner and had a greasy hamburger, undercooked French fries and a coke. Subsequently he entered the dilapidated sports book and attempted to watch the lone college bowl game on television, but found himself unable to pay attention because he had not placed a bet. He looked at his watch: 4:30. There was no point in leaving now, he figured. At the registration desk they told him that the holiday special room rate was $24.99 a night. The fare was paid without protest, although he realized that he could have easily gotten the pit boss to get him an upgraded room for free. Indifference was the emotional theme of the moment and it felt fine.

After about an hour in the cheaply appointed room Peter felt stifled and returned to the quiet tables. He had been playing craps, drinking heavily and chain smoking for about two hours when the Changs arrived. The Changs were a Chinese family from Barstow comprised of five individuals: May, the octogenarian grandmother, Wesley, her fifty eight year old son, Sheila, Wesley’s wife, and Pat and Leon, their sons. They all had Chinese first names but used their North American counterparts with Americans. Between themselves, they often spoke in Mandarin, but always addressed Peter in English. Each cashed in for one hundred dollars in chips. When the waitress arrived Wesley ordered five margaritas for the clan.

“Do you gamble here often?” Peter inquired of Wesley.
“No,” he replied. “Three or four times a year only. But always on Christmas. It is a family tradition.”
“How long has that been going on?”
“Many years now, perhaps ten or fifteen. My father started it. This holiday means very little to us other than free time and there is nothing else to do.”

When the second round of margaritas was ordered grandmother May became much more animated, shaking the dice in her tiny clenched fist almost angrily before hurling them down the felt. Her face bore an expression of bold determination. The other members of the family shouted encouragements at her in Mandarin and English. Pat and Leon were especially vocal. As everybody at the table had a lit cigarette, the cavernous room quickly filled with smoke. Soon Peter found himself having a truly grand time.

As the third round of drinks was ordered, Peter switched from his customary vodka-tonic as a show of solidarity, even though he knew the tequila was going to hurt him the next day. The Changs cheered collectively to indicate their approval. With this, the luck at the table – which had already been fair – turned incredibly good. Sheila passed the dice for twenty minutes without a crap or a seven, hitting hard eight five times. Leon, the long green table reflected in his mirrored, wrap-around sunglasses, rolled for another fifteen consecutive minutes. Everybody at the table was making a killing. Peter had all the money he had lost earlier in the day back and each member of the family had turned their initial one hundred dollars into a bankroll of several hundred. There is no casino experience more joyous than a hot craps table, and this one was absolutely on fire.

Although the game demanded the majority of everyone’s attention, there was a limited amount of time between rolls for conversation. Peter discovered that the family owned a small grocery store in Barstow and every member, including May, worked their fair share. As neither Pat nor Leon had yet married, the whole family also still lived together under one roof.

Another round of drinks was ordered and consumed and then yet another. Fueled by booze, everybody at the table was barking at the dice as if their exhortations could somehow control the results. And since luck was still on their side, the correlation appeared to be proven.

Some time passed, but it all became a bit of a blur to the lone Caucasian. At some point Pat slapped Peter on the back as everyone at the table began raking in their substantial stack of chips.

“Let’s go brotha,” Pat said, proudly displaying a gold tooth in the front of his mouth, “it’s time to eat.”

Peter followed as May haltingly led the way into the otherwise empty restaurant, where a round table of six was already set. It was apparent that somebody had given instructions to add a seat for Peter. As they sat down, Wesley whispered something into the ear of the waiter. There were no menus.

Momentarily several bottles of wine appeared and glasses were filled. Numerous toasts were exchanged, the most significant of which Peter deduced was for the family patriarch, May’s husband, who had died some years ago after a long and painful illness.

And then the smorgasbord arrived: an array of incongruous foods that reminded one of a bargain-basement all you can eat buffet. Two whole baked chickens were the first items to arrive, followed by a large plate of pot stickers and spring rolls. A bowl of noodles came next, augmented by two oblong plates of onion rings. Following these items were a medium sized combination pizza, a Caesar salad, a plate of Mongolian beef and a bowl of macaroni and cheese. All of the food was placed in the center of the table to be enjoyed family style. There was a fleeting instant of calm before the company fell upon these selections with abandon, Sheila immediately tearing a drumstick off the chicken with her hands. It was a bloodbath of consumption. Leon, still wearing his sunglasses, which reflected the events of the meal like a carnival house of mirrors, stacked two pieces of pizza atop one another, so at both the roof and the bottom of his mouth he was biting into the bottom of the slice. Grandmother May was eating beef directly out of the bowl. Wesley was dipping onion rings in a thin sauce intended for the pot stickers.

For a moment Peter paused, struck dumb by the ferocity of the scene. But then, realizing his hunger and the fact that soon all the food would disappear, he threw himself into the fray. The meal took less than twenty minutes to complete.

Quiet fell upon the table as the tired combatants digested peacefully. Wesley rose from his seat and filled his wine glass to the absolute brim. Only surface tension and his remarkable balance kept the liquid in place. Everyone at the table was attentive.

“I raise my glass to our guest, who honored us with his presence and his appetite.”
All the Changs hurrahed and swallowed large gulps of wine. Presently the waiter arrived and presented the bill.
“If I may,” Peter said impetuously, reaching for his wallet, “I would like to buy dinner.”
A cold silence. Wesley stared at Peter with a look that appeared to be malice.

“We will forgive you this insult, Mr. Castellano, because you are an outsider and perhaps you do not understand. This is our family and our tradition. You are a guest here. Please do us the honor of accepting our hospitality.”
Peter felt humiliated by his gaffe. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “I should have known better.”
“Don’t worry about it brotha,” Pat said with his golden smile, breaking the negative spell. “You are the lucky charm tonight.”

For a few minutes longer they talked and drank. And then, without warning, the Changs rose collectively and each said their goodbyes to Peter. May’s hand trembled as she mumbled something he couldn’t understand. Wesley gave Peter the name and address of the family store in Barstow, but the information was forgotten as soon as they were gone. He never saw them again.