Condo Conversion, Chapter 9

            We awoke fully dressed in the same bed, my brother and I, feeling bad but not annihilated.  In the first hour several waves of nausea washed over my body, but I never vomited.  I jogged in place, did push ups and crunches, all in an attempt to exorcise the minor demon.  It worked.  While showering I reminded myself that this was precisely why I had quit getting high.  Cocaine had the capacity to add a sinister glacial layer to my hangovers, filled with grains and pebbles of depression and boulders of self loathing.  This was absent when my hangover was merely alcohol fueled.  Now I just felt like shit.  And that, believe it or not, was progress. 

            Nicholas and Rick were absent, as they had been when we returned to the room the night before.  This was no surprise.  During dinner, I had overheard them talking about a trip to one of the out of town whorehouses outside Reno in the desert.  To tell the truth, I was pondering a similar move myself, just not on this trip and not in the company of other men.  That had always confused me, the testosterone-fueled camaraderie that surrounded the event.  I had always thought of it as a private, though hardly shameful, affair. 

            We went down to the coffee shop and ordered breakfast.  I was having the Denver omelet, my brother a short stack of pancakes.  We heard our dynamic companions stampeding through the lobby before they saw us.  Moments later, they were sitting in our booth.

            Rick was a vision, an exemplar, the paradigm of the robust partyer.  The night had taken its toll, there was no evading that.  His eyes were bloodshot red, his face droopy.  His hair was out of place and his clothing wrinkled.  But he had a glow, indeed a healthy one, which only emanates at the end of a long and satisfying bender.  He sat down opposite me.  Nicholas appeared far more wounded by the events of the night, but amazingly was still hanging in there.

            “The things I did last night,” Rick exclaimed, shaking his head.  “They would make your head spin.”

            “We’re all ears,” I said enthusiastically.  My brother rolled his eyes.  He worked day in day out with Nicholas and Rick, and tired of their ways more quickly than I.

            “Well, where do I begin?”

            “At the beginning,” I encouraged.

            “After you guys went to gamble we retired to the suite.  After a fat joint and some more powder I just had a hankering for some pussy.  You know what I mean?  So Nick and I, we took a cab out to the Squirrel Ranch.  You wouldn’t believe what they do there.  When you walk through the door they ring a bell and all the available girls line up for your inspection.  I let Nick go first.  Would you believe he picked the ugliest broad in the bunch?”

            “I liked her,” Nicholas interrupted, “she was a real person.”  A truly excellent statement, I thought, especially coming from a guy so good looking.

            “Whatever,” Rick continued.  “I chose not one, but two hot blondes.  They took me up to what they call the Jacuzzi room.  There was a menu on the wall listing every possible sexual perversion along with the price.  We fucked for what must have been two hours.  I had one of ‘em licking my balls while the other one tounged my asshole.  I felt like a Roman emperor.  It was the best thousand bucks I’ve ever spent.”

            “How many mortgages does that come to?” I asked sarcastically.

            “Let me tell you something, you can’t put a price on an experience like that.”

            I took his word for it. 

 

            By four o’clock, we were driving home, my brother at the wheel, me in the front passenger seat.  Rick and Nicholas were passed out in the back, mouths agape, faces pale, limbs limp, a couple of inanimate marionettes.  We passed high above Donner Lake and I looked down at its azure quietude.  On the mountain in the distance a train made what appeared to be a precarious journey through tunnels and over passes.  It was summer, but there was still some snow on the peaks.  A hundred and fifty years ago crossing the Sierras was a mortal risk; now we did it in absolute comfort, completely detached from the elements.  I wondered if this was better or worse. 

            We had gambled for a couple of hours before our departure, but it wasn’t the same.  The casino had regained its primacy; the laws of statistics could not be resisted.  Luckily, we were playing very small, in the hopes of escaping with a profit.  In the end, I left up eight hundred dollars and very happy.  It is not a bad thing to give back a few bucks when you have won big – the God’s of gambling demand and indeed deserve their sacrificial tribute.     

            “Are you gonna say it or do I have to?” David asked.

            “Say what?”

            “You know.”

            “I already told you that you were right.”

            “Let me hear it again.”

            I laughed.  “Fine: you were right.  I would have been a fool not to come on this trip with you.

            “Remember that next time.”

            “Okay.” 

            “So, what are you going to do with your new found fortune?”

            “I don’t know.  Stave off starvation and homelessness, I guess.”