In Greek mythology, Las Vegas would be the island of the
Sirens.
Content in its desert isolation, it beckons weary travelers with
the sounds of clattering coins and neon hums. While most are
defenseless, one stands particularly vulnerable to the sexy calls
of Sin City: the college student.
Bright eyed and naive, the college student marches confidently
into Las Vegas, armed with fresh IDs and the dangerous dream of
breaking the bank.
The poor fool.
With a meager weekend allotment, I set out for Vegas with five
other UCLA students with some common conditions in my head: I will
not make an ass of myself, I will not fall victim to the all-night
gambling session, and most importantly, I will not lose next
month’s rent money. To follow my condition, I would have to
abide by a scrupulous budget, display painful strides toward
self-restraint, and, in some cases, remain sober.
While these thoughts raced through my mind, our car sat at a
relative stand still on the 10 Freeway with Ryan Falvey,
fourth-year political science and history student, driving. His
preliminary promise that we would be winning money by 5:45 p.m. had
long since faded to the melodic chaos of Friday afternoon traffic
in Southern California.
If Vegas was to become a staple of our superfluous college diet,
a list of rules needed to be established.
Rule 1: Never leave Westwood at 3 p.m. on a Friday
afternoon.
When Falvey, a Vegas native, said the trip should take three
hours and forty-five minutes, I really wanted to believe him.
When we crawled by San Bernardino in the closing minutes of the
third hour, I silently vowed to never leave my apartment before 7
p.m.
I couldn’t blame Falvey, though. With his Australian
girlfriend in town from Sydney and his friends following his lead
as the-local-in-the-know, a weekend in his hometown could only
render him the overworked altruist.
By 7 p.m., with the enticing lights of Whiskey Pete’s at
the Nevada Border weighing down on us, I forgot the soft mutterings
of early afternoon and felt the beating pulse of slot machines and
black jack tables.
Last time, armed with a fake ID and $40, I rode out of Vegas a
king, nearly $200 nestled safely in my pocket. Call it
superstition, but I denied the possibility of this ever happening
again.
Few college students ever go to Vegas with more than $100 in
their wallet, and this group was no exception. This leaves very
little room for error.
“Some people go to Vegas with the dumb monkey belief they
can make money,” said fourth-year aerospace engineer student
Pablo Kohan, a passenger in the other car.
After ruining his clutch in a hellacious trip last summer that
left him stranded at the dodgy Boardwalk hotel for six nights,
Kohan remained very skeptical of his return to Vegas.
Kohan had all but sworn off gambling and said he would opt for
his favorite Vegas pastime, drinking in public. His fondest memory,
he said, was putting back a mid-afternoon six-pack of
Foster’s in the middle of M&M world.
Every college student is nervous when they first roll into
Vegas; they taste the complimentary drinks tugging on their
consciences, they see the bright neon X’s pulsating toward
their libidos, they feel the overwhelming risk of endangering their
student loans.
“You want to create the sentiment of a forbidden
fruit,” said Falvey.
By the time we pulled into the Aladdin Hotel and Casino at 8:30
p.m., everyone was ready to take a bite.
“The most important thing of this two-night trip is to
live the life of a legend,” said Adam Gerston, a fourth-year
political science student, “and to make Daniel Ocean look
like my apprentice.”
While the girls began the grueling process of getting ready, the
guys sat with cocktails, discussing plans for the evening.
“I think what people need here is a broad perspective of
Vegas,” said Falvey. He said you can enjoy it all in this
city, from upscale clubs and $10 martinis to downtown dives and
$.25 slots.
Gerston knew what side of Vegas he wanted. His favorite drink is
the $12 “Cable Car” at the high class Belagio
Hotel.
We split. While Gerston and his girl dropped $10 a hand for
black jack at the MGM Grand and sipped Grey Goose, the rest of us
headed straight for the perennial poor man’s favorite,
O’Shea’s. We played $2 tables and drank White Russians
that tasted like iced milk. Ahh, the life.
As the cocktail lady delivered rounds three and four, these
sentiments grew.
Rule 2: When gambling, know your drinking limits. (Conversely,
when drinking, know your gambling limits.)
Even the shoddiest establishment will continue to feed you
drinks, knowing that the impulsive drunkard will eventually forfeit
any profit earned on their turf.
The student is especially susceptible to this corporate ploy;
free drinks make young people feel special.
Hours later, ignoring my own advice, I sat solemnly at the end
of the table foolishly clutching the pitiful remains of my $30
investment. In the surprise of the evening, Kohan, the skeptic, sat
at the opposite end fingering his imposing stack of chips, smiling
childishly.
“I felt the stupid, simplistic bliss in winning
$70,” he said. “I walked out a different man. I was a
lucky monkey.”
When we finally walked out, a new axiom hit me like so many
bright beams of sun.
Rule 3: Always wear a watch inside casinos.
They tint the windows, strip clocks from their walls, and pump
oxygen through the floors of the casino, all with the hope that
suckers like me will stay a few extra hours to forfeit any
potential profit back over to them.
There is a level of concern roused by seeing families head to
the pool for the day as you crawl silently into bed.