Loathing and Loathing in Vegas (day 1)

The plan: drive to Vegas early Friday morning, arrive around 12:00 noon (or so), gamble a little, meet up with Koby and his buddy around 5:00 PM, carouse, crash in Koby's hotel room, get up at the crack of noon, and drive back to Los Angeles. I figured, at most, I'll lose my entire $100 gambling allotment…maybe spend $30 on food and booze…plus the $40 in gas to get there and back. Put those together, and it meant I'd spend a great day in Vegas for an underwhelming $170 and change.

The beautiful blue chariot that would carry me triumphantly into "The Vegas."

Now that was the plan. However, as my dear friend Robert used to say, plans should best be left to either mice or men (who are very good at planning, apparently). Inevitably, my four-month good luck streak came to a catastrophic halt about 70 miles outside of Las Vegas, where my car gave what could best be described as a "shudder," followed by a "severe reduction in power." My first thought was, "Dang, Erika's supposed to be using this car for a background gig next week. She's going to be so mad at me." My second thought was, "Wow, if my car breaks down, I'll be stuck in the middle of the desert with a busted engine and very little money."

Luckily, the engine was able to crank out a couple of horsepower -- albeit much less than would be considered "normal freeway drivin' power." So I was able to continue on my way, but there was a persistent deafening whine coming from the engine…more specifically, the transmission (not that I could tell at that point). After a gut-clenching hour on the asphalt, I managed to nurse my busted ride into Vegas proper. I was headed toward the nearest repair shop when, with very little pomp (and a good deal of circumstance), my little blue car decided that it was tired of running on a broken transmission, and stopped. I asked nicely for the car to give me just one more little mile, but after a protracted argument (wherein I tried out every position on the stick shift – none of which, save "Park" and "Neutral," did what they were supposed to) the car won.

So I glided to a stop in a right-hand turn lane, threw on the emergency flashers, and called Mr. Chad Evans, who gave me the number of a local towing company (and thanks again, Chad…for keeping a cool head, and being there to Google around for me).

The site of the epic break-down.

The tow truck driver arrived in typical fashion (weird facial hair, and a cigarette hanging out of his mouth), hooked up my car, and took me to the nearest "transmission specialist."

Two of my new best friends. The tow truck driver, and the weird guy in a black tank top who watched the whole thing.

He assured me that the repair shop was near all the "good titty bars," and he had spent more than a few lunches with the company truck parked in the lot (which had gotten him in trouble with his boss, apparently). We got to the run-down repair shop, and the decrepit septuagenarian mechanic informed me that, as it was a holiday weekend (Memorial Day), they would not be able to look at the car until Tuesday…at the earliest. And he assured me, in a very uplifting way, that most repair shops in town would be closed for the weekend. And then he punched me in the testicles and charged me $80 for the favor. Honestly, I think that punch (had it actually happened) would have improved my day at that point.

But luckily for me, Mr. Tow Truck Driver had a mug full of repair shop business cards, and he managed to find a gentleman across town who was able to look my poor busted ride right away. Okay, good. Off we go.

After an uncomfortable, depressed 30 minute ride, we pulled in to Master Transmission Specialists about well outside of Las Vegas. The heavy-set former marine tending the desk assured me that he'd be able to look at it today…but the actual repair would have to wait until Tuesday. Fine. Whatever. I envisioned myself crashing at Koby's hotel until Monday (when he was scheduled to leave), then holing up in a nearby roach motel on Monday night, eating on the cheap, and bugging out of town as soon as the car was patched up – probably late Tuesday, if I'm lucky.

My lovely car's new home for the next couple of weeks.

Now, at this point, Vegas had got me for a $72 tow truck fee, plus the $40 for gas to get there. I figured it was going to be expensive to fix up the car, but a 1990 Geo Prizm? Looking online now, it appears that the car sells for roughly $1,800. How bad could it possibly be?

Well…bad. I asked the guy if he could provide me a rough estimate for a patched transmission. He hemmed…hawed…punched some numbers into a calculator…looked up some parts information on his computer…and told me flatly, "Twenty-three hundred."

"Wait, two hundred…um…"

"No, two thousand three hundred dollars."

I was floored. I didn't think the car was even worth that much fully repaired. And I tell him this…which sets him hemming and hawing again…after which he tells me that they might be able to get a low-mileage used transmission, that that'd cut down on the costs. Okay…how much for that?

More hemming…hawing…he makes a phone call…punches more numbers into a calculator…mumbles to himself…answers some questions from my increasingly annoying (and lingering) tow truck driver about a dune buggy he's working on…then finally…the total.

$1,500…before taxes. Rounded out to $1,650 after Uncle Sam's had his cut. So, tack on the $72 tow, and the $40 gas, before I've even hit the tables, I'm down $1,762. Crap. Crap crappity crap. Crap crap crap crap-crap crap. Craps? No. Crap. Better, but still...crap.

He offered to give me the weekend to think about it. Well, what choice did I have? In the meantime, he connected me with the good people at Hertz, who sent a kind, effeminate Asian man in a brand new 2008 Hyundai Elantra to come pick me up. Since my car was in the shop, I was elligible to get a rental car for $20 a day. For 4 days? Holy smokes! 80 bucks? I'd have spent about that much money just on a cab ride from the mechanic to the strip! Things are looking up for ol' Liz Lemon! I mean, yes, things are sucking very heavily...but finally there was some good news.

After a little paperwork, I'm cruising down the Vegas strip in a fully pimped out, brand new Elantra (IT HAS A CD PLAYER, FOLKS!!!!!). Vegas now has me for $1,842…which will soon be $1,942 – the extra $100 are what I'd planned on losing gambling. She may set my poor wallet ablaze, but she will not prevent me from enjoying myself.

My super-phat new ride. It would spend the entire weekend in the casino parking lot.

Because, you know what? Vegas owes me, dammit. That's right, Vegas…I'm talking to you now. I did nothing to deserve this – I drove from Seattle to Los Angeles in that same old ancient Prizm that you gleefully destroyed. Suddenly, my ol' reliable blue bomber can't handle a little 4 hour jog over flat desert terrain? Really?

So I tried to decide how Vegas was going to pay me back. Naturally, I thought the best way would be with slot machines. Damn you Vegas, and damn your slot machines…but that's where the Jackpots typically come from. When you see pale schlubs from Nebraska light up the "JACKPOT" after hours of dropping nickels into a machine.

Since I was destined for a bunch of easy cash, I dropped $40 into a Texas Tea slot machine, and eventually that adorable scamp who just lives to build oil derricks in Texas reimburses me with a whopping $20! That's right, Vegas…I'm the boss of you! You're not getting your filthy mitts on that $20 dollars! That's going straight into the "Help Tyler Fix His Car" fund. Thank you very damn much.

Then, flush from my huge win at the slot machines, debauchery. In the form of one "Koby," and one "Chad." I hooked up with these two ne'er-do-wells and started the drinking. They actually did Jagermeister shots – a total throwback to my college years, but I've got almost $2,000 worth of angst to forget about. Jager is a drink that has brought me nothing but grief in my brief history with it; and one that harkens back to my headier days, huddling in my crappy apartment in off of Alabama street in Bellingham, playing Dynasty Warriors late into the morning hours with my former roommate Matt.

The devil's brew...sitting innocently between these two guys.

After our introductory drink, we hopped a cab to the Hard Rock Casino. We discovered (quickly) that that casino sucked, so we hopped yet another cab back to a locale that was more our style – the Casino Royale. On the way there, the Jamaican driver offered us a ride and free admission to a boobie-viewing establishment. We feigned interest, because we were pretty well trashed at that point, and it seemed pretty funny. Once we finally arrived at the Casino Royale, we ingested our third drink of the night (another round of Jagermeister shots).

The night becomes a bit of a blur after that point. There was something about a game called "Blackjack Switch" that took a good chuck of my gambling bankroll. After that drunken defeat, I got a ham sandwich from Subway (where Koby and Chad made fun of me for only getting the 6" sub…which I thought was very cruel). Back on the streets, I grabbed about fifty of those little cards from the friendly Hispanic gentlemen on the sidewalks of Vegas offering…well, differing levels of female companionship (we were planning on playing "Go Fish" with them later at the hotel room, but that game never materialized). Koby forced me to drunk dial a friend of his from work. Somehow we stumbled down to the Wynn Casino, and got lost leaving the place...wandering around parking structures and back streets. After we found our way again, we blundered into a casino where a terrible cover band was playing, and our waitress offered Koby the opportunity to touch her "private bits" for the bargain price of $100. It was there, at Bill's Gamblin' Hall and Saloon, that I experienced an unpleasant bout with emesis.

Well Cousin Carroll…couldn't sneak that one by you, could I? Lousy nurses. Anyway, for those of you without a background if fancy-dancy medical terminology, I threw up. On the floor, next to the band. I was pretty incomprehensibly drunk at that point, so Koby practically carried me back to the Tropicana, where I collapsed in a drunken, mumbling, ague-coated heap. Then, like a true Florence Nightengale, he made sure I found my way to the bed, and promptly went back into the bright lights out to continue the party.

Stay tuned for part two...where you all get to learn a valuable lesson about "what happens after you drink heavily then fall asleep." It's a real doozy.

You can read all about it here:

http://japesandjibes.blogspot.com/2008/06/loathing-and-loathing-in-vegas-days-2-3.html