“Red, are you shitting me? Vegas, four days, all expenses paid for the NCAA Championship. Out of sight. Yeah, I’m definitely in.”
Red, my bookmaking partner, makes me seem Spartan. With him, anything done to excess equals success.
If Red lifts the phone, he bets $10,000. He bets everything: football, hoops, hockey, baseball — anything.
Red bets with a big-time Brooklyn bookie, Dennis.
Because he’s a gambler, Dennis vacations in Vegas. He takes action all year, then relaxes by gambling.
I’ve watched Dennis throw craps. He covers every number with 5-large, then backs up his initial bets with $5,000 more by taking the “free odds.”
That’s $60,000 a roll.
During a four-day holiday, Dennis donates Dumpsters of money to casinos. Casinos treat Dennis well.
Because Red’s betting allows Dennis to finance his own compulsion, he tells Red, “Come with me to Vegas. Bring anyone you want. Just sign my name. Everything’s on the house.”
Red and I are partners and great friends, but no way can I compete with his appetite for drugs, women or gambling.
Red needs a babysitter. He thinks I’m right for the job.
Screw that. I’ll nip this in the bud.
I pack my bag, set the alarm for 6 a.m. and head for my local pub. The dilettante behind the bar over serves me.
Paralyzed, I pass out on my couch at 5 a.m.
When the alarm rings, I awake, dressed and drunk. I head for Vegas.
The cab driver drops me at Stewart International Airport where Red awaits.
“Where the hell you been, man? I was worried about you. I didn’t think you were going to make it. Jesus Christ, you’re shitfaced. It’s 6:30 a.m. How did you get whacked so fast?”
“I’m still drunk from last night. I need a screwdriver or a Bloody Mary or something. I’m f***ing dying.”
We board the plane and are assigned the last two seats on the left aisle in the back.
I gasp to the stewardess, “How soon before I can get a drink?”
She laughs, “Shortly after airborne, we’ll start cocktail service.”
True to her word, after we lift off, she starts hauling me and Red screwdrivers.
We start slamming screwdrivers as if the aircraft is delivering us to the gallows. The sugar from the vodka and O.J. resurrects me.
I shift to full party mode. I’m laughing, but obnoxious.
It’s not yet 8 a.m. Old ladies crowd these junkets to play slots. I can feel intense, nasty stares.
Being a belligerent drunk, I begin breaking balls. I lean forward and yell, “Come on, you old goats, loosen up. You’re on your way to Vegas for Christ’s sake.”
I’m so whacked even Red’s embarrassed.
I laugh loud and hard. When it happens, I can’t catch my breath. When I try, the air intake sounds like a hyena. The laugh is either infectious or annoying. It depends on the amount of whiskey poured.
At the moment, it’s unbearable.
To avoid me, Red rises and chats up the two stewardesses. He tells the girls that he and I are heading to Vegas to bet $200,000 on the championship game and paints a charming fairytale about the attaché case in the overhead being stuffed with the “mob’s” money.
Airlines were still civilized in 1992, so the stewardesses are gullible knockouts.
After a couple hours on the plane, most passengers have had enough. Red and I are laughing away, still pounding screwdrivers, when a foghorn voice stuns me.
“You the two guys making all the noise back here?”
I squint through the boozy fog. My one good eye rests on what appears to be a hairy, dungaree-clad cement truck.
We’re going to have a beef, and this guy seems to have us outnumbered. He’s the whole package: motorcycle boots, spiked leather wristbands, chains — a central casting Hell’s Angel.
Then, a surprise.
“You guys sound like fun. Here’s my contribution.”
He extends his hand and places in mine a lovely montage of pharmaceuticals, reds, blues, yellows.
I’m relieved and say, “Thanks, man. You’re a sport.”
I chase them down with a belt from the screwdriver.
I wake up and glance first at my watch, then at the three crumbled-up bills on the night stand. What happened? Where am I?
It’s 9:30 p.m. I’m in a hotel room.
“Oh, shit, the game.”
I need a drink.
I hit the shower and head for the nearest bar. I hear screaming coming from the packed lounge. The circular bar is wrapped around four TV sets, all tuned to the championship game.
I wade through clouds of tobacco smoke and spot Red roaring between the two stewardesses from our flight.
“What the hell happened?” I ask, saddling up next to the blonde.
“Oh my God. We thought you’d get us fired. No one could wake you up. We took you off the plane in a wheelchair.”
“A wheelchair? Jesus Christ. Then why are you two here?”
“Well, before you passed out, you were a lot of fun.”
Halftime rolls around, and Mike Krzyzewski’s Blue Devils are crushing Michigan, so I finally grab Red’s attention.
“Hey man, fill me in later on how you got me up to the hotel room. Meanwhile, how does that expense account thing work?”
He says, “Just eat and drink wherever you want in the hotel, then sign Dennis’ name and room number.”
“Cool. Hey girls, you want to have a bite to eat?”
Three hours later, the check for $1,400 includes steaks, wine, champagne and buckets of Courvoisier V.S.O.P.
After our feast, the girls and I enter the casino. Three security guards have a drunken, angry Red at the wrong end of their revolvers. I freeze at the entrance then pirouette 180 degrees. I don’t stutter.
“Come on, girls. This is no place for us. Let me show you my hotel room.”
Red never calls me to baby-sit anymore. Somehow, I feel cheap and used. Where did I go wrong?
Bill O’Connor is a Vietnam veteran, former Bronx firefighter and pub and restaurant owner. O’Connor is currently a journalism major at UF and a standup comic. The irreverent and acerbic O’Connor performs free standup around Gainesville.
