It was CJ asking.
He was wild eyed, and partly slumped on his bar stool,
“Is the door open?” he asked.
It was open all right.
It was morning, and it was evening, in Vegas.
We arrived in Vegas on a Wednesday afternoon.
The morning started off rough, The night before we worked on a bottle of of Laphroig and a 12 pack at Aaron's place before heading to the Big Foot Lodge, a rustic Cabin themed bar a few blocks away. A national Forest where the trees are swizzle sticks, and the streams run deep with beer and high proof cider. Later we went back to Aaron's place and watched “Fear and Loathing”. I say watched, but it was mostly trying to focus well enough to grab the bottle of Jameson we were swigging from. Last thing I remember was cutting into a grapefruit and then, waking up in my clothes. So I dozed in my seat until Barstow where we stopped for lunch.
If you have never been to Barstow, here is the deal:
Barstow is a shit hole.
If you live in Barstow, my apologies.
I am sorry you live in a shit hole.
It was hot. Not like, “hey, it sure is warm” hot, but more like a thick wet fucking wool blanket of crappy. Thompson called it bat country, and although I wasn’t seeing any at the moment, my head was certainly swooping around like a blind rodent, perhaps just exercising, getting used to what was to come.
As we continued our trek across the desert, Aaron amused us with a dramatic reading. Today's selection, Thompson's "The Kentucky Derby Is Decadent and Depraved". It predates Fear and Loathing, and is a little less extreme, but it helps set the mood. Vegas appears on the horizon, and now, just as every time we cross this desert, I look out into the sand and scrub, and can’t help but wonder how many bodies are out there? How much of the grit is bone dust? Gambling debts unpaid, mob deals gone bad. Drug dealers, drug addicts, hookers, all in the eternal sleep. I always think that If you could scream “Last Call!” loud enough, and the ghosts all stood up, my guess is it would look like an army.
We roll into Vegas and set about getting our hotel sorted. I decide to sign in as “Raoul Duke”, it seems to mke sense. We dump our suitcases and head off for the Thomas and Mack center, where the international Drum and Bagpipe tattoo will be held. This was one of the reasons we were here, To participate in a grand spectacle, touted by an ex-congressman to be a “uniquely inspiring event” The place is a cavern, seating for 18,000 people. Hundreds of pipers and drummers roam to an fro, talking, farting, practicing, all of them appear uniquely inspired to get this shit done with and start drinking.
I turn to Aaron, “By Saturday night, this place could well be a Belaggio of vomit”
Aaron looks around, considering the sheer potential, and chuckles “I think you may be right”
We finish our duties, grab a bite to eat and then set off for Frankie's.
Frankie's Baby!
A couple times a year, Frankie's is our home away from home in the neon hell of Vegas.
Frankie's is a Tiki bar tucked away off the strip and far from the clutter. A fantastic oasis of strong tropical drinks and sixties strippers on the wide screen. A place where it would take a hell of a lot to get tossed out . A place filled with bamboo, thatch, tikis, and a sense of ease. We were OK there. We were us. The Bartender is a friend of ours, and many of the rounds were on the house. We took advantage of that fact. I have a vague memory of explaining to Jim the intensity that sometimes accompanies the perfect buzz, the sharpness, the sense of possibility, the undeniable truth that yes, we can fucking do that! But he just stared with a goofy and slightly confused looking grin. I remember snapping my fingers at him and saying “stay with me, goddamnit, this is important” But the next day he insisted that I was just laughing and muttering gibberish as I zoomed in and out of his focal plain like a weird foreign film through a fish eye lens. But I think it was more the effect that the Mai-Tai’s had on him, because frankly, I knew what I was talking about, and although now i have no idea what it was, goddamn it, it was important.
Eventually we knew it was time to go back to the hotel, as morning would come early, and it would be a long day. Show in the morning, set up in the afternoon, tear down, set up again, and show at night.
But our friend Jay had a plan. He said he knew of a place where you could get the perfect nightcap.
A Bacon martini.
I recoiled with delight, “Yes!” I shouted, “YES!”
So with a promise that we would just grab one, and then go back to the hotel, CJ, and I poured ourselves into Jays truck and headed across town to “The Double Down”, a punk rock dive bar famous for the previously mentioned meat cocktail.
It was indeed a dive, but an odd Vegas dive. A place that had been calculatedly thrashed. Signs advertising drink specials adorned the walls, most done in sharpie or el marko on cardboard.
One advertised that if you puke, you clean. Another offered puke insurance for $20. And yet another was for the “graveyard trifecta” , a Schlitz, “ass juice” and a twinkie for $5. A wall mural advised patrons to “shut up and drink”. it was good advice, and we took it. We sidled up to the bar and Jay ordered a couple bacon martinis and three plastic cups of the “ass juice”. an aptly named beverage, as it was nasty looking, and tasting stuff. My guess was mix of Jaggermister and redbull. Comparatively, the bacon Martini was pleasant. Jay decided we needed one more stop, so we drained the drinks and went around the corner to “Buffalos” a place with a noticeable, and quite intentional, lack of females. We took seats at the bar and ordered. I sized up the bartender. "Rum and Coke," I shouted, "and keep them coming until I say stop..." a word I had no intention of uttering. The big screen TV assaulted us with bubble gum pop, lip-synced by an army of girls who all seemed to resemble Brittany spears.
At this point, I didn’t much care where we were.
I was in a mood.
We knocked back a few of the rum and cokes. The scene was sharpening. Canted slightly sideways perhaps, but everything was becoming very clear. Probably the red bull kicking in. We found ourselves politely deflecting advances by men intrigued by our Kilts. A smooth young man put his arm lightly on my shoulder.
“whatca drinkin?” he asked.
He seemed overly friendly. Something shifted.
I swiveled abruptly on my bar stool, with eyes wide and gritted teeth “Adrenochrome!” I shouted, hoisting my glass, “Fresh squeezed pineal gland”
His smile faltered. The corner of his mouth twitched.
I laughed, but it came out a stuttering hiss through my clenched teeth
“What?” he asked.
He looked confused, scared, and began backing away slowly.
My lips curled inward.
“GODDAMNED RAW FUCKING ADRENAL!”, I yelled at him.
I turned to CJ. “I’m going up!”
“Is it open” he asked, “Is the door open?”
The door he was referring to was the crazy door, and It was indeed open.
“I’m going up!” I repeated, and then climbed my stool to the bar, arms in the air, gyrating to to some blond in a mini kilt singing “Param Pam Pam”
The crazy door is a funny thing.
Most people can’t see it when they’re sober. Even if they do, It’s there with a sign that says “Do not open”. And you obey the sign, because it must be there for a reason. But after enough drinks the sign is gone, and the knocking starts. Some times you open it up, see who's out there, and invite a few in. Usually a beautiful hostess, who knows where there is a party, just up around the next drink. “Come play” she says, and she does look like she knows a good time. Sometimes it is far less eloquent. sometimes you kick that fucker open and barge on through without looking, and party with whoever, or whatever, is on the other side.
But it is a tricky thing. The more you open it, the easier it opens.
The longer it is open, the harder it is to close.
Thompson was well acquainted with the crazy door. Eventually his was kicked in too many times, and would never close again. A shattered frame on bent hinges. That may have been what finally did him in.
Like I said, It’s tricky.
Some people think theycan do it, think they can somehow stay in control of the door, but they are wrong. Going crazy for entertainment is an animal all to itself. It cannot be tamed, it can not be made to do tricks in the hope that someone will toss a coin.
No, most times the way it works is you grab hold and ride it until it throws you to the ground, or eats you.
sometimes both.
Then there is the rare occasion that it just just swerves toward the curb and tells you to get the fuck off it’s buss. Tonight was such a night. A good thing too. We had work in the morning, and now that was only a few hours off. I had to catch some sleep before it all started up again. Back at the hotel, CJ was in a sorry state.
“What are you going to do?” he asked. he looked like he could barely focus, slowly weaving back and forth as if on the deck of some unseen ship.
“Im going to try and get some fucking sleep. You should do the same”
“I ...I was thinking about going to the casino, you wanna...”
“No” I said, opening my room door and stepping inside.
“I’m kinda hungry. You want to get something to eat?” He asked.
He looked sad, pleading.
I grabbed a bag of pretzels from the dresser and threw them, pegging him in the Face.
“Get the fuck out of here!” I said, and shut the door. He was still out there muttering, but I didn’t care.
I fumbled my way into bed and closed my eyes, trying to shut out the crazy.
In the beginning the door will close by itself, usually when you pass out.
But if it's not closed long enough, after a while, it just stops closing. Why bother? they just put up a velvet rope, and the crazy lines up. And that's ok, because they look like a fine bunch, at least through the thick bottom of a rocks glass. So at the end of the night you wave them off and tune out as much as possible, and hope that some sleep comes before the daylight
But, when that daylight comes, they look different.
Your hostess is still there, but now she's bloated, rotten, roughly sewn leather teddy bear with a mummified eels head. “Come play” she hisses, sending out a fine mist that reeks of whisky, sweat and bad breath. A smell you know well because you spent the night with it. tossing and turning in it, marinating, unable to go completely to sleep because of the constant gibbering of the denizens behind the rope. Paranoia begins top creep in as well. sending out wispy tentacles like a fog machine filled with cheap bacon flavored vodka.
I concentrate on the hum of the air conditioner, and a few fitful hours of sleep later was at the breakfast buffet, and then back in the van.
CJ was MIA.
We called his cellphone several times, but he didn’t answer. Finally I went up to his room and pounded on the door. Nothing. I pounded again, and gave it a few kicks, but again, nothing. I was going to start screaming under the door, but maid service was a couple rooms away, and starting to take notice, and the last thing we needed was the cops. I called the front desk and had them ring his room. I could hear the phone ringing through the door. The clerk came back on, “sir, no one is picking up, would...”
I hung up.
“I think he’s dead” I said as I climbed into the van. lucky for him, and us, that mornings gig was more of a dress rehearsal, a warm up performance for local school kids, so CJ going missing was more of an annoyance than tragedy. But if he was dead, that was certainly going to put a twist on the weekend. We speculated on what could have become of him. One thought was that he went back to the casino and got in over his head. Maybe bet too big, couldn’t pay, and was now part of the ghost army of the desert. Another thought was that he found some early morning companionship, got rolled and was now naked and probably dead in a dumpster somewhere. Or a dozen other scenarios, all of which ended up with him dead, because we could think of no other reason to miss the gig.
There was another option which we had not considered, and it turned out to be the case.
He had just slept in.
Doozing peacefully, dead only to the world, his alarm, the phone calls, pounding on his door . As I learned later, about six minutes before they were slated to go on, he woke up, saw the time, and called Aaron. From what I understand it went something like this:
Aaron: “Yeah?”
CJ: “dude, I’m sorry, I...”
Aaron: “FIVE MINUTES.” (click)
So CJ hauled ass, and made it literally with only seconds to spare.
We played the gig, and then got the hell out of there.
After set-up at the next gig, CJ and I commandeered Keith's rental car and went on a supply run, just a few essentials we were running low on.
The cashier checked out our bounty. Four twelve packs of beer, a dozen grapefruit, and a bag of pretzels, and then gave us an expressionless stare over her glasses, but made no remarks.
Vegas baby!
Back at the hotel, CJ gave the keys back to Keith.
“You didn’t wreck it did you?”
“No,” CJ replied, “but Tiki puked in the trunk”
“Sorry, “ I said, ”but CJ was driving all crazy, and I couldn’t get the lid open fast enough”
“Why the hell were you in the trunk?”
“I wanted a beer, and there’s the whole open container thing”
“Bullshit!” Keith said, but his eyes narrowed, “but you didn’t, really, right?”
I smiled sheepishly and shrugged, and as we headed off with our spoils, Keith headed out to check his car.
Our room had developed a rich patina. Weapons, beer and whisky bottles covered most surfaces, clothing and grapefruit peels littered the floor. The sink was filled with ice and beer, with cases in reserve underneath. I grabbed a Grapefruit from a bag on the night stand and made quick work with a switchblade, hacking it into sixths and handing it out
“No quarter given” I say, tearing into the dripping fruit .
We knew where were are going, but discussed other possible destinations anyway. Maybe more as an excuse to hang out, pound a few beers and a shot or two before heading to Frankies. Jim poured himself an ambitious amount of Jameson in a hotel plastic cup, and set himself up on the dresser. Pretty soon he was on the floor, with an empty cup and a big grin. We decide it was well time to head for Frankies, but Jim begs off and whacks himself into a spin on the door frame then Ping-Pongs down the hall, apparently feeling the full effect of a half a cup of good Irish Whisky.
“Amateur” Aaron mutters, putting on his fez and leather jacket “Let’s go”
At Frankies we grab a table, and then migrate to one of the Hut / booths and settle in. We make a spectacle of ourselves and soon the next table over joins us. Our feeble promise to not stay out too late is crushed beneath the growing pile of swizzle sticks, and again, morning comes too early.
I grabbed a bag of pretzels from the dresser and threw them, pegging him in the Face.
“Get the fuck out of here!” I said, and shut the door. He was still out there muttering, but I didn’t care.
I fumbled my way into bed and closed my eyes, trying to shut out the crazy.
In the beginning the door will close by itself, usually when you pass out.
But if it's not closed long enough, after a while, it just stops closing. Why bother? they just put up a velvet rope, and the crazy lines up. And that's ok, because they look like a fine bunch, at least through the thick bottom of a rocks glass. So at the end of the night you wave them off and tune out as much as possible, and hope that some sleep comes before the daylight
But, when that daylight comes, they look different.
Your hostess is still there, but now she's bloated, rotten, roughly sewn leather teddy bear with a mummified eels head. “Come play” she hisses, sending out a fine mist that reeks of whisky, sweat and bad breath. A smell you know well because you spent the night with it. tossing and turning in it, marinating, unable to go completely to sleep because of the constant gibbering of the denizens behind the rope. Paranoia begins top creep in as well. sending out wispy tentacles like a fog machine filled with cheap bacon flavored vodka.
I concentrate on the hum of the air conditioner, and a few fitful hours of sleep later was at the breakfast buffet, and then back in the van.
CJ was MIA.
We called his cellphone several times, but he didn’t answer. Finally I went up to his room and pounded on the door. Nothing. I pounded again, and gave it a few kicks, but again, nothing. I was going to start screaming under the door, but maid service was a couple rooms away, and starting to take notice, and the last thing we needed was the cops. I called the front desk and had them ring his room. I could hear the phone ringing through the door. The clerk came back on, “sir, no one is picking up, would...”
I hung up.
“I think he’s dead” I said as I climbed into the van. lucky for him, and us, that mornings gig was more of a dress rehearsal, a warm up performance for local school kids, so CJ going missing was more of an annoyance than tragedy. But if he was dead, that was certainly going to put a twist on the weekend. We speculated on what could have become of him. One thought was that he went back to the casino and got in over his head. Maybe bet too big, couldn’t pay, and was now part of the ghost army of the desert. Another thought was that he found some early morning companionship, got rolled and was now naked and probably dead in a dumpster somewhere. Or a dozen other scenarios, all of which ended up with him dead, because we could think of no other reason to miss the gig.
There was another option which we had not considered, and it turned out to be the case.
He had just slept in.
Doozing peacefully, dead only to the world, his alarm, the phone calls, pounding on his door . As I learned later, about six minutes before they were slated to go on, he woke up, saw the time, and called Aaron. From what I understand it went something like this:
Aaron: “Yeah?”
CJ: “dude, I’m sorry, I...”
Aaron: “FIVE MINUTES.” (click)
So CJ hauled ass, and made it literally with only seconds to spare.
We played the gig, and then got the hell out of there.
After set-up at the next gig, CJ and I commandeered Keith's rental car and went on a supply run, just a few essentials we were running low on.
The cashier checked out our bounty. Four twelve packs of beer, a dozen grapefruit, and a bag of pretzels, and then gave us an expressionless stare over her glasses, but made no remarks.
Vegas baby!
Back at the hotel, CJ gave the keys back to Keith.
“You didn’t wreck it did you?”
“No,” CJ replied, “but Tiki puked in the trunk”
“Sorry, “ I said, ”but CJ was driving all crazy, and I couldn’t get the lid open fast enough”
“Why the hell were you in the trunk?”
“I wanted a beer, and there’s the whole open container thing”
“Bullshit!” Keith said, but his eyes narrowed, “but you didn’t, really, right?”
I smiled sheepishly and shrugged, and as we headed off with our spoils, Keith headed out to check his car.
Our room had developed a rich patina. Weapons, beer and whisky bottles covered most surfaces, clothing and grapefruit peels littered the floor. The sink was filled with ice and beer, with cases in reserve underneath. I grabbed a Grapefruit from a bag on the night stand and made quick work with a switchblade, hacking it into sixths and handing it out
“No quarter given” I say, tearing into the dripping fruit .
We knew where were are going, but discussed other possible destinations anyway. Maybe more as an excuse to hang out, pound a few beers and a shot or two before heading to Frankies. Jim poured himself an ambitious amount of Jameson in a hotel plastic cup, and set himself up on the dresser. Pretty soon he was on the floor, with an empty cup and a big grin. We decide it was well time to head for Frankies, but Jim begs off and whacks himself into a spin on the door frame then Ping-Pongs down the hall, apparently feeling the full effect of a half a cup of good Irish Whisky.
“Amateur” Aaron mutters, putting on his fez and leather jacket “Let’s go”
At Frankies we grab a table, and then migrate to one of the Hut / booths and settle in. We make a spectacle of ourselves and soon the next table over joins us. Our feeble promise to not stay out too late is crushed beneath the growing pile of swizzle sticks, and again, morning comes too early.
The hangover is manageable, but something else is going on. There are dark shapes in the corners, and enemies are everywhere...
Weird clouds of paranoia induced shadows that flutter just outside my vision. People walk by oblivious to the growing under current, but I know it’s there.
Holy shit, did that guy have a tail? What the hell...
I try and look nonchalant, but I can feel the eyes.
The eyes, boring into me like whisky seeking ticks...
CJ notices my twitchy behavior and asks, “What's going on?”
“They’re gonna fuck us” I tell him, he shakes his head... "shhh..."
The eyes, boring into me like whisky seeking ticks...
CJ notices my twitchy behavior and asks, “What's going on?”
“They’re gonna fuck us” I tell him, he shakes his head... "shhh..."
I lower my voice.
“They’re gonna fuck us and leave us in the desert”
He looks around, and then asks, “Who is?”
“I don’t know” I tell him, it’s almost a whisper.
He looks around, and then asks, “Who is?”
“I don’t know” I tell him, it’s almost a whisper.
You never know who might be listening.
“I gotta get my head on straight, or this thing is gonna go to hell real quick”
“You're right, “ he says, “We need some booze”
Aaron shows up and I brief him on the situation. He agrees we need to get something going, get our minds in order. We have a couple bottles of high-end single malt, but that seems a bit chewy at the moment. We decide to see if we can scam a couple of drink tickets from the organizer of the event, but she does us one better in the form of all access passes to the VIP tent. Breakfast buffet, full bar... I grab a tall cup of coffee, and fix it up long pour of Jameson. I chug it down and repeat the process.The shadows retreat and soon enough the world begins to look almost right again.
The rest of day went by pretty easy, what with the free booze and food.
After the show we head back to the hotel. Again we dig into the booze and grapefruit as the troops amass. This time there is no talk of possible destinations. This will be our last night in Vegas and there was no where better to spend it than Frankies. Jim hems and haws, but decides he can’t do it. The night before he had called an ex in his drunken stoupor, said some things without his filter on. He said it was like he was watching himself on the phone but was unable to intervene. I guess it scared him.
Amateur.
“You're right, “ he says, “We need some booze”
Aaron shows up and I brief him on the situation. He agrees we need to get something going, get our minds in order. We have a couple bottles of high-end single malt, but that seems a bit chewy at the moment. We decide to see if we can scam a couple of drink tickets from the organizer of the event, but she does us one better in the form of all access passes to the VIP tent. Breakfast buffet, full bar... I grab a tall cup of coffee, and fix it up long pour of Jameson. I chug it down and repeat the process.The shadows retreat and soon enough the world begins to look almost right again.
The rest of day went by pretty easy, what with the free booze and food.
After the show we head back to the hotel. Again we dig into the booze and grapefruit as the troops amass. This time there is no talk of possible destinations. This will be our last night in Vegas and there was no where better to spend it than Frankies. Jim hems and haws, but decides he can’t do it. The night before he had called an ex in his drunken stoupor, said some things without his filter on. He said it was like he was watching himself on the phone but was unable to intervene. I guess it scared him.
Amateur.
The next day is a repeat of the day before, sans the paranoia. probably due to the well used VIP passes. After the show, we load up and head back home through the desert. As the sun is setting I give a salute to the ghost army of the desert, and thank them for not actually taking CJ.
I can't say for sure, but I am pretty sure at least one of them gave me a skeletal middle finger.
