PART TWO

“Anybody got any money? Of course they don’t in this rich people town.”

A wino drifts on and dances in the street, tossing an empty bottle into the bushes. Spiderman pedals along on a bike. Michael Jackson and Prince engage in a heated dance battle while Elvis sits on the curb eating a Philly cheesesteak.

Drops of melted American stick to his suit, but somehow, he is still the king. A drug dealer offers me a swig of Hennessy and some coke outside Denny’s. He sparks up a joint. Wisps of smoke evaporate into the star-filled sky. Virgo gets a contact high.

Maybe we’ve all gone up in smoke. I twirl the ends of my hair and let my burger get cold. We’ve left time behind in exchange for this experiment. Fremont Vegas is a cross between a time capsule and a mythical realm. The famed kicking rancher, neon Martini glass, and turquoise blue of Binion’s Gambling Hall shine bright as ever.

This is the underbelly of Vegas, where the decayed dreamers come to splurge on what little they have left. A sort of neon death row. We take turns betting on who will croak first.

Street performers contradict one another. You can pay to move the man lying down in the center of the walkway into a different position. Or pay a group of masked breakdancers to move themselves. Men covered in bronze and teal body paint stand still and claim to be a statue. Women in little to no clothing pose as cops or nurses. They reel you in, and say take a photo. Only to rub their palms afterward and ask for a payment.

With Vegas being the hub of business deals, one can sell just about anything. Save for human organs. Although, I’d wager there’s a market for that too. This is the “store-closing sale” side of Vegas. The slots are looser and you can even put a drink on layaway.

Nino, a long-time friend from San Francisco, dropped in to join me on this fruitless search. We make our way to the Apache Inn. I stop a worker and inquired if it was true that the proprietor of the hotel had been killed over buried treasure.

“Oh yeah, he had millions buried on his property. The news will say it was an overdose. But his best friend did it. Why else would he be snooping around the property with shovels after the funeral? Not to mention he was sleeping with the owner’s wife. I’m no Sherlock, but that sounds pretty guilty to me.”

As I stroll through the casino, I notice the absurdity of the names of the slot machines. A mix of perversion, optimism, and holiness. If it’s not a sexual innuendo, the slots are named after gods, or given catchy names that signify luck, wealth, and prestige. Had they been given honest names like Bye Bye College Fund or Bo’ Bankruptcy, business might not be as booming.

But these casinos are smart. Never diverge from the formula. Entrap the subconscious via hypnosis and convince these poor souls they will win and life can begin anew.

At the El Cortez Hotel, I’m introduced to the sporting section: rows of desks seated in front of flat screens playing all the big-time college football games. If it’s not football they’re betting on, it’s the horses. Some like to stick to the statistics, study the spread, and calculate the odds. Others get drunk and go off intuition, betting on the underdog, or consulting their daily horoscope for advice.

The group here looks like a mix of truckers, construction workers, and full-time gamblers. Drinks are kept in constant rotation, numbers glossed over, and cigarettes utilized as fuel. Cheers, boos, prayers, and curses, are emitted as needed. White-knuckles are a constant attribute.

Essentially, you are betting on fate and no one has ever met fate and looked it in the eye— or at least lived to tell the tale.

Sheriffs with guns in holsters survey these men, ensuring they aren’t conducting shady operations. One man, in his late sixties, gets carded.

“Do you have an ID, any gambling credentials?”‘

He searches his pockets, knowing very well that he has nothing.

“Look at this beard, it’s grey! I have wrinkles all along my forehead. What more do you need?”

“An actual government-issued ID or passport. If you don’t have one you can’t gamble here. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

The man shakes his head and inhales the rest of his whiskey, threatening to sue this place. The remaining gamblers are so tense they are literally sitting on the edge of their seats. Faces drip with sweat and teeth are gritted so tight I expect a jaw to snap at any moment.

Mortgages, rent, college tuition, monthly paychecks, and life savings are left up to boys bashing heads and men in tights riding horses. Humans will bet on anything.

Our funds are low. I rely on the flask of absinthe and bark at a group of tourist vlogging each breath. The dullness of it all causes me to nibble on mushroom chocolates. This was once mafia land, and this trip has confirmed that the mobster mentality has not reached extinction, but has been given legs to run a marathon.

I should be asleep, resting for the night ahead. But the people enthrall me. This is a case study of culture. Nevada wishes to fry all your receptors. Coughing up money becomes second nature. There’s even a high in losing!

One casino after another. I’m not sure how much more I can take of this. My mind feels on the verge of collapse. I cool off in the corner while Nino talks sports with an older gentleman dressed in a Hawaiian shirt, sporting a Raiders hat. Whenever I look over, they are laughing or have an arm around each other.

A spirited sports debate ensues. People dart by me. I order a whiskey, sit at one of the tables, and take my notebook out. The sound is overwhelming, but I do my best to jot down notes. After a few minutes, I look up and see a man seated across from me and ask how he is doing.

“No complaints. I’m here with some old friends. Every year we all met up to do the draft. My team sucks this year but I’m glad to be back with my brothers.”

Despite the two drinks he’s already drunk, he seems level-headed. I ask how he likes Fremont.

“It’s cool. Things are cheaper, the people are a bit more lax. No one’s showing out. They act like themselves.”

“Have you seen the American Dream here?”

He takes a few sips before answering.

“America used to be the Strip but now we are Fremont and it’s pretty sad. The strip is cosmopolitan; it’s one big facade. Downtown is the real Vegas!Why pay for a show, when reality is its own trip? ”

I see what he means. Everyone is unapologetically themselves for good or ill.

After a couple of rounds, he expands on his thesis.

“Don’t get me wrong it’s still a good time and there are good people. This is the closest you’ll ever get to a Star Wars bar scene.”

There is no story. Fear and Loathing has already been written. You’ve created a myth of the man [Hunter S. Thompson] and undergone an odyssey of confusion. Pick up the pen and write. Write like you. It’s that simple. Otherwise you might as well leave the pen on the alter and offer it to someone who will use it and not bury their talent for fear of beginning. 

As we head in the direction of the hotel, a few Hebrew Israelites question us.

“Do you know your origins?”

I’m a descendant of Ocanxiu royalty, the original people.

They like this answer.

When I introduce myself as Jacob, they nod their approval.

“The house of Jacob will never fall.”

“You hear that Nino. That means we’re set.”

THE END