When in Vegas

by Holly Grover Brandon

When the yellow taxi pulls up, I half expect to find a backseat slot machine or an Elvis impersonator behind the wheel, but both the cab and its driver are underwhelmingly mundane. Cracked leather seats stick noisily to my legs as I slide inside, and my nose itches from the lingering smell of cigarettes and something sour. Dad takes the passenger seat and reads an address to the driver. He booked our room on a travel website at a substantial discount, but couldn’t see the location until he paid—which seems super shady if you ask me, but no one did. The casino is ancient and its reviews average three and a half out of ten stars, but Dad said most people who leave reviews online are too picky and just like to complain.

When we pass by the famous, “Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas, Nevada” sign, my mom tries to snap a photo with her phone but it’s blurry. Mom scoots to the middle of the backseat we’re sharing and sticks her head between the driver and my dad. “This is my first time in Vegas,” she says, grinning at the driver like she expects him to offer her a “First Time Visitor” button like they do at Disney World. “He’s been before,” she adds, tilting her head toward my dad. I slump against the back of the seat, rolling my eyes so hard it hurts a little. My mother tends to overshare personal information with strangers like it’s burning a hole in her brain, completely oblivious to the disinterest of her victims.

“It’s Josie’s first time here too—she’s our daughter, just graduated high school last week,” Mom continues, smiling at me before returning her attention to the man in the driver’s seat. “I know what you’re thinking—we look too young to have an adult daughter, but she’s our oldest and we had her when we were really young.” Mom loves it when people tell her she looks too young to be my mother. The driver says nothing, keeping his eyes fixed on the busy road.

Undiscouraged, Mom asks, “Is the casino we’re going to really nice?”

“Nice casinos on the strip,” the driver replies in a bored, monotone voice, nodding toward the bustling jungle of lights and movement to our right.

“Is our casino on the strip?” Mom asks.

“No,” the driver and my dad answer in unison.

I’ve noticed both of my parents have slathered their southern accents on extra thick since our plane landed. “We ain’t in Mississippi no more, y’all,” Mom says, peering at the traffic and dancing lights. I roll my eyes again, fighting the urge to say something snarky. We all have slight drawls to our voices that come naturally from living in the Deep South, but Mom sounds like a character straight out of The Beverly Hillbillies.

She is right, though. The commotion of the city feels alien and overwhelming, even at nearly 2:00 in the morning. I rest my head against the window, watching the lights blur and blend together, wishing I’d flown out by myself like I’d wanted to. My dad, notoriously tight-fisted, discovered that for the price of one ticket to Flagstaff, Arizona, we could get three budget airline tickets for a red-eye flight to Las Vegas. The plan was to spend a few days in Vegas, then take a bus to Northern Arizona University in time for my freshman orientation.

The cab slows and parks in front of a building that must have been spectacular around the time my grandparents were born—a crumbling mass of white domes, gaudy gold trim, and flashing marquees spotted with darkened bulbs. When we step inside, I’m bombarded by the whirs and chimes from an endless sea of slot machines, their lights dancing in the dusty chandeliers. Mom makes me take a picture of her posing with a cardboard cutout of a Chippendale dancer while Dad pretends to be jealous. I’d be more embarrassed if there was anyone here my age, but this place is practically a retirement home. My parents even look young in this decaying crowd.

The only other person here who looks to be under thirty is a man sitting at the bar. He’s in all black with spiked raven hair and a single gold hoop in his left ear, talking to a woman who must be his mom—or maybe his grandma, judging by the veined and wrinkled arm she rests on his chair. Either way, she’s easily the coolest old lady I’ve ever seen—a shock of color in her hot pink pantsuit and lime green bob cut wig. I pray I’m half as hip when I’m her age.

We check in and drag the luggage to our room upstairs. A choking floral scent fails at masking the stench of mold and cigarettes, even though the sign on our door declares it a non-smoking room. Mom wants to stay in and upload the photos she’s taken before trying to get some sleep. “There’s no way I’m going to Vegas without making all my Facebook friends jealous,” she says without looking up from her phone.  

Dad is hungry and I’m feeling restless so we go downstairs together in search of food. “All these casinos have midnight breakfast buffets for next to nothing,” he tells me as we step into the elevator. “They entice people with cheap food, hoping they’ll stop and gamble, and most people fall for it—but not us.” He smirks, clearly taking pride in outwitting the beguiling lures of the Vegas nightlife. “They’re gonna lose money with us in town.” I turn my eyes to the ceiling, saying nothing. His stinginess takes the fun out of everything.

When we reach the main game floor, there’s no one manning the security podium. A bored janitor pushes a giant vacuum cleaner, muffling the constant pings and thrums of the slot machines. A handful of card dealers lean against empty tables, dark circles rimming their listless eyes. Dad glances around before giving me a mischievous look. “Wanna play a few penny slots?”

I gape at him. “But—I’m only eighteen,” I whisper.

“Eh, it’s dead in here. No one’s paying attention,” he says, taking one more look around. “Besides, you know what they say—When in Vegas…” He walks forward, sneakily gesturing for me to follow him onto the game floor.

“That is not what they say, Dad.”

I trail after him, feeling a mixture of apprehension and exhilaration. I’ve been dying for my parents to treat me like an adult—and what could be more grown up than gambling in a Vegas casino in the wee hours of the night? I feel a thrill bubble in my chest, pushing out the anxiety from breaking the rules. Dad was right though—no one’s paying us any attention as we walk past row after row of buzzing slot machines. Most of the players look sullen—you’d think they were sitting in office cubicles the way they yawn and slump on their stools. One woman scowls at the whirring reels, mindlessly pressing buttons. Her machine suddenly lights up, a wailing siren announcing a prize-winning draw, but the lady simply swipes her card again without glancing up. The melancholy atmosphere combined with the dizzying flashes and chimes is eerily discordant—it’s like a Chuck E. Cheese and a funeral home had a baby.

Dad and I take two Mega Moolah machines in a deserted corner near the restrooms. He shows me how to operate the game, and the five dollar bill he fed my machine is down to nothing within seconds. A cocktail waitress appears beside me in a short gold dress and black sequined bow tie. “Can I get you two anything to drink?” she asks, heavily darkened eyebrows raised in question.

Dad shakes his head and says, “No, thank you.” I’m tempted to ask for a strawberry daiquiri, but I don’t want to push my luck. Playing a few dollars on a slot machine is one thing, but I doubt he’d let me get away with underage drinking.

After gambling away another five bucks, we decide to cut our losses and find the buffet. As we round the corner, I nearly slam into the stylish older lady I saw earlier at the bar. “Oh—so sorry, Ma’am! Excuse me,” I stammer.

She smiles at me, straightening the bangs of her neon green wig. “It’s alright, doll. I’m sturdier than I look.”

Her companion, the young man with the hooped earlobe and dark spiky hair, chuckles. “It’s true,” he says, looking from me to my dad. “You guys in town for the May-December Mixer too?”

Huh? I look at my dad for clarification, but he’s wearing a look that mirrors my own bewilderment. “No, no mixers for us,” Dad tells him. “We’re on the way to accompany Josie here to freshman orientation.”

“Oh!” The guy shrugs, then smiles sheepishly. “My bad, man.”

The woman moves closer to the guy, taking his hand. “May-December is a type of relationship,” she explains, noticing our confusion. “One with a considerable age gap—like with Andre and myself.”

It takes me a few seconds to understand what she means, then suddenly I’m fighting the urge to gag. She thought that me and my dad were a couple? Oh ew ew ew ew gross! I shake my head violently, hoping my obvious disgust doesn’t offend them. Dad shakes his head too and clears his throat. “No, no. This is my daughter. My wife is resting in our room, and we came down to find something to eat.” His gaze catches on the lanyard around the woman’s neck, a laminated card declaring her a triple platinum club member of this casino. “Do y’all know if they have one of those two dollar breakfast buffets around here?” he asks.

The lady scrunches her nose apologetically. “Oh honey, they haven’t done anything like that in years. The only thing that’s cheap around this place is the watered-down drinks.”

Dad’s shoulders sag with disappointment. “Are there any reasonably priced restaurants?”

“The only one that’s serving at this hour is a tacky little themed Italian place on the fourth floor. We were planning on grabbing a bite there too—you’re welcome to join us if you like. I can get a discount for the whole table,” she says, fingering the card hanging at her chest. “And they usually let me stack it with my senior citizen discount.”

I see the dollar signs rolling in Dad’s eyes like the reels of the slot machines around us. “Why not?” He grins. “Like the saying goes: When in Vegas…”

“Dad, seriously, that’s not how the saying goes,” I say, but he’s busy sending Mom a text, asking if she wants us to bring her any food. His phone vibrates moments later with her reply. “She said she wants to join us,” Dad tells me with a crooked smile. “Apparently she’s too excited to sleep.”

Mom meets us in the lobby a few minutes later and the five of us take an elevator to the fourth floor. Introductions are made, and we learn that the woman’s name is Bertie. When she introduces Andre as her boyfriend, Mom’s eyebrows shoot up and she says, “Good for you, Bertie!”

We make our way to the restaurant, its facade a cheap replica of the Pantheon. Plastic vines and shelves of imitation ancient pottery line the walls, and a woman dressed as a Roman goddess asks how many people will be in our party. A large reproduction of an ancient stone tablet hangs above her, revealing the name of the establishment—When in Rome.

“See?” I tell my dad, pointing at the sign. “That is how the saying goes.”

Dad studies the sign with a furrowed brow, muttering to himself, “Well what is it they say about Vegas?”

Before he can solve that puzzle, the goddess leads us to our table where a waiter wearing a toga and a laurel wreath headband takes our drink order. The menus are printed on parchment scrolls—which seem cool in theory, but quickly become a nuisance as they keep rolling back up on their own. I scan the entrees, feeling fairly certain the ancient Romans did not eat meatball subs or deep fried mozzarella sticks.

As we munch on our Julius Caesar salads, a man dressed as a gladiator rolls a chariot shaped wagon to our table. It’s full of foam swords and plastic gladiator style helmets, each topped with a row of garish red feathers. “Wilt thou join the fight for thy honor?” he bellows, brandishing his own phony blade. “Wilt thou fight for thy freedom? Wilt thou fight for Rome? Who among you will accept thy emperor’s call to battle?”

It’s ridiculous and cheesy, but I feel my lips curve into a smile. I almost stand and take a hat and sword for myself, but decide against it when everyone else at the table politely declines. “No thank you, sugar,” Bertie tells the gladiator. “That helmet will flatten my hair, so I’m sure the emperor will understand.” She turns to me. “Don’t you want one, hun?”

“Nah,” I say, watching the gladiator move to the next table. “They’re for kids.”

I look over at Bertie as I feel her studying me. “Don’t grow up too fast, dear,” she says quietly. “I left home as soon as I could—wanted so badly to be on my own. Thought I knew everything there was to know about anything. But I’ll tell you, I spent what ought to have been the best years of my life working my tail off.” Bertie pauses to take a sip of her water, watching as Andre butters a piece of Brutus Bread. “And now, as you can see, I’m making up for lost time.” She sweeps her arm in front of her, like a model displaying a shiny new car. “But take my advice—it’s much easier and much more fun to enjoy these things when you’re young. Make mistakes, take risks, fall in love, and grab every happy moment that life decides to grant you with two hands.”

I’m blinking, trying to digest her wise words as the waiter reappears with our food. Our table goes quiet as everyone digs in, and I pick at my Spartacus Spaghetti and Marc Antony Meatballs, watching two toddlers play fight with toy swords while their bleary-eyed parents sip coffee from souvenir terracotta mugs. A sullen-faced man sits two tables over, a rolling oxygen tank his only dinner companion. He watches the rambunctious children, his contemptuous glare broken only by the thunderous hacks that shake his large body like an earthquake.

Mom and Dad are chatting with Andre about my new university’s football team, but I’m barely listening. Bertie turns to me and whispers, “Darling, I know it’s not worth much anymore, but I’d give my left breast to be your age again. And I’d give both of these sad sacks just to have my parents with me for one more day.” She looks down then, pushing her Bow-Tiberius pasta around on her plate, eyes glistening with sentimentality.

“Hey Josie, you want some of my Colossal Colosseum Calzone?” Mom asks. “It’s pepperoni—your favorite.”

“Uh, sure. Thanks, Mom.” I’m not hungry anymore, but I take the offered slice and put it on my plate. “It is my favorite.” Mom’s face lights up and I return her smile as Dad reaches over us to spear one of my meatballs with his fork.

“Dad tax!” he declares, popping the whole meatball in his mouth with a goofy grin. “Gotta teach you about the real world now that you’re an adult.” I roll my eyes but I’m laughing with everyone else, realizing with a jolt of sadness that I may actually miss these dorks.

We’re finishing the last of our Cicero Cinnamon Rolls when the gladiator rolls past our table again. “Hey Spartacus!” I yell before I can chicken out, and he turns to me with an amused arch to his brow.

“Thou hast requested me?”

“Sure have,” I tell him, standing and proudly raising my chin. “Tell your emperor I accept his call to battle. I would be honored to join the gladiator ranks.”

“Alright, that’ll be twelve bucks for the helmet,” he says, taking one from the pile. “And twelve for the sword too, but it’s twenty if you buy them both.”

Of course. This is Vegas, after all. Before I can tell the guy, no thanks, Bertie is shoving a twenty dollar bill in his hand and slamming the plastic helmet on my head.

“Would you take a picture of us?” I ask her, accepting the foam sword she’s offering and move to stand behind my parents. Bertie gives me a wink and begins snapping photos, directing our poses like an experienced photographer. Mom is ecstatic and Dad smiles obediently for the camera, yawning and stretching between shots.

We pay our bills and say goodbye to our new friends, thanking them for the discount and conversation. Andre shakes hands with my dad and Bertie smacks a hot pink kiss onto my cheek. We exit through a gift shop, pausing to browse the chintzy collection of souvenirs, and Mom grabs a black t-shirt from a rack and holds it so that we can see the front. In glittering gold letters, it reads, “What happens in Vegas…” She flips the shirt around, revealing the rest of the message on the back: “… stays in Vegas.”

“You should get this, Josie,” she says, checking the price tag.

“Ohhhh,” Dad says triumphantly, “That is how the saying goes.”

I laugh and shake my head. “It’s cute, but no thanks,” I say, hanging the shirt back on the rack. “I don’t want to leave anything in Vegas.”