Divas Las Vegas (6 page)

And, sure enough, a full ten minutes later, my dear friend
reappeared looking queer as the day is long. Gone were the
long slacks he was traveling in. A frightfully short pair of
Daisy Dukes had replaced them, replete with colored flower
iron-ons, like the ones you frequently find on the bottom
of bathtubs. The warm button-down was gone, and in its
place was a hot pink muscle tee. Oh, yes, it was way too tight. He wore them no other way. I guess if I looked like
Justin, I'd dress like that as well. (Or maybe not.) The Bruno
Maglis were off his feet, and a very comfortable-looking
pair of high-tops were running circles around me. They too
were pink, to match the shirt. And, the piece de resistance,
atop his head he wore a very large, and very white, oldlady sunbonnet. The Queen of Las Vegas had apparently
arrived.

"Voila!" he shouted, modeling his ensemble. "Now
I'm ready. Slathered in sunblock thirty-five and properly
attired."

"Honey, for Fire Island you're properly attired, but I
seriously doubt that Treasure Island is ready for the likes
of you. You're not really considering walking into a casino
dressed like that, are you?"

"Just watch me." And he and his luggage were up and
walking, er, sashaying away.

I ran to catch up, and asked, "So you don't think that
you look just a tad, um...nelly?"

"Honey, I am not nelly," he insisted, waving his limp
wrist at me. (Obviously, I had my doubts.)

"What would you call it, then?" I persisted, as we headed
for the airport exit.

"I'd say I'm...animated."

"Animated, huh? What's the difference?"

"I can turn off the nelly whenever I like and be just as
butch as the next guy."

"Ah, I see. Did you say bitch or butch?"

"Butch, dear. I said butch."

"Okay, then. I see your point," I said, dropping it. But
in all the time I'd known Justin he pretty much stayed
animated. He must have saved the butch side for his tricks.
Nevertheless, I let him believe what he wanted to believe.
Besides, what's that saying about casting the first stone?
Personally, I don't have a butch bone in my body and am not interested in acquiring one. It doesn't seem to be doing
straight people any good.

And then, just a minute after stepping outside into the
searing heat, we were happily planted in the backseat of
a well air-conditioned cab and on our way to the hotel. I
knew that we were there to work, but I couldn't help feeling
excited and eager to do some gamblin' and carousin'. Mary
wasn't going anywhere, I figured. Though, for all we knew,
she wasn't there at all. In either case, I was bound and determined to have a good time. Having Justin as a traveling
companion ensured at least that much.

"So where are we headed?" asked our cigarette-puffing
cabbie.

Justin looked at me. I looked at Justin.

"Well?" we both asked, simultaneously.

"What?" we both shouted, simultaneously again.

"You're kidding me." I could tell he wasn't kidding,
though. And the look of horror on my face told him the
same thing.

"Well?" asked the cabbie, unwrapping a fresh pack.

"I thought you made all the plans," I whispered to
Justin.

"No, just the plane tickets, dude. I thought you booked
the hotel," he whispered back.

"Meter's running," shouted the cabbie, and then took a
deep drag on his cigarette. At that moment I felt like shoving
it down his throat. Damn, I was pissed. In all the confusion of losing my job and becoming semirich, I hadn't even
thought about the hotel. I guess I assumed, incorrectly, that
Justin was taking care of everything.

"Um, we thought we'd find something when we got here,"
announced Justin, off the top of his head. The cabbie gave
us a laugh that sounded like one lung down, one to go.

"You guys must be kidding," he rasped. He sounded
very much like a young Harvey Fierstein. (Which sounded just about the same as an old one, mind you.)

"Urn, no. Is that a problem, driver?" I asked, sensing it
was.

"You guys ever heard of COMDEX?"

I had, and I knew what this meant. "No rooms anywhere
in Vegas?" I guessed. (By the by, COMDEX was one of the
largest trade shows in the world at that time, which should
tell you what kind of shit we were now in.)

"Got that right," the driver croaked, and took another
long draw.

I turned to look at Justin. He was sitting there thinking.
I shrugged at him and mouthed a "now what?" And, in
typical Justin fashion, he had the answer. He reached behind
him and pulled out his Prada wallet. I could see the driver
staring at us in his rearview mirror, and when he saw my
friend pull out two one-hundred-dollar bills, he tossed the
putrid cigarette out the window and put the pedal to the
metal.

Justin leaned in and whispered in my ear. "Gets 'em
every time."

Mere minutes later, we were pulling up to our hotel. I use
the term loosely. I looked out the window of our cab and
read the neon sign that hung precariously over the doorway:
The Atlantis. From stem to stern, our humble getaway was
painted completely in blue and had happy fish and coral
drawn on it. I got seasick just looking at it.

"This it?" I timidly asked the driver.

"This and this alone. The only reason I know about it
at all is because my brother manages the place. He always
leaves a room or two open for emergencies. Like this one
here. Just let me go in and get you guys fixed up."

He jumped out, a brand-new cigarette already dangling
from his lips, and trotted on in to our hotel/aquarium.

"Did you bring the lube and some rubbers?" I asked
Justin.

"Of course. Why?"

"Because we're about to get royally screwed."

"Ah. Most certainly. Chin up, Em. At least we found
something. And we can't be more than a mile from the strip.
Besides, we'll never even be here except to sleep. And with
me at Marvin's, you'll have the whole room to yourself." He
grinned and lightly punched me on my arm.

"Fucker," I replied, also with a grin on my face. He was
right, it could have been a lot worse. Of course, I hadn't
seen our accommodations yet.

Our faithful cabbie emerged a few minutes later, with a
wide smile on his face that showed dark, yellowed teeth. He
held two thumbs up as he neared us. We got out of the cab
to hear what he had to say. By that time, we smelled liked
the Veteran's Hall on bingo night.

"No sweat," he informed us. "My brother has one room
left, and you can have it."

"How much?" Justin asked.

He paused before answering. I braced for the worst.

"A hundred-fifty a night," he coughed out.

"Well, that's not too ba-"

"Each," he interrupted.

Ouch. That certainly was the worst-especially since we
had no idea how long we were going to be there. But we
took it. I mean, really, what choice did we have? And this
was Vegas. Maybe we'd win enough to pay for it all. My
luck had been pretty good up to that point. I did win that
night with Chris, after all. (Yes, I know that was rigged, but
I was thinking only happy thoughts at that point.)

We got our luggage out of the trunk and thanked our
stinky savior for his help. "Sure, no problemo. We girls have
to stick together," he said, and gave us a sly wink and a
hacking cough. Then he handed Justin his private card and
told us to call him if we needed anything. I looked down
before I pocketed it. His name was Earl.

"Thanks, Earl," I said, and paid him his fare plus a hefty
tip. "We'll do that." Then he jumped in his cab and sped
off.

"Well, well, this journey is just full of surprises," Justin
commented as we entered the Atlantis.

"And it's only just begun," I added, looking around at
our new surroundings.

We walked into the thankfully well air-conditioned
lobby and set our heavy and numerous bags down. Surprisingly, there was a fairly nice-sized casino just beyond the
reception desk, and the place was hopping. Granted, the
clientele was somewhat on the shabby side, but at least there
was life.

The lobby and casino were all done in the same motif:
underwater. The place was a mess of coral, clams, plastic
seaweed, and brightly painted fish. The dealers and waitresses were all dressed like scantily clad mermaids and
mermen. And everywhere you looked, blue on top of blue.
It was ultratacky, but somewhat homey at the same time.
Besides, I told myself, gambling was gambling, whether I
was there or at the Bellagio.

And then...

"Boys, boys, welcome to the Atlantis." He pronounced
it like Ricardo Montalban welcoming us to Fantasy Island.
He was dressed in an all-white gabardine suit livened up
with a very loud, and very wide, fish-festooned ascot. I half
expected a pint-sized sidekick to appear from behind him,
blue margaritas in hand. (No such luck.)

And man, let me tell you, this guy was queer, queer,
queer. Right down to the lisp and swaying hips. He was
also surprisingly cute.

"You're Earl's brother?" Justin asked, shocked. Except
for the fact that they were both gay, the two were nothing
alike. No similarities whatsoever.

"Ah, yes, I can see where that's a bit of a shocker. My mother's first husband, Earl's father, was a truck driver.
Suppose he still is, actually. But only Earl would know for
sure. Now, my papa, my mother's third husband, was and
still is an accountant. In between came our sister's father.
He's a construction worker and she's, well she, bless her
heart, is a bit long in the tooth. The first marriage was for
love, the second was for sex, and the third was for security.
Hell, Mom's pushing sixty now, guess she figured she needed
something to fall back on in her old age. Anyway, that
explains why Earl and I seem so different," he explained,
rather long-windedly. Luckily, between breaths, he waved
his rather limp wrist for a cocktail waitress, and moments
later, we were sucking down a tasty glass of Malibu rum
and pineapple juice. Nice and tropical.

"Uh-huh," responded Justin, not really knowing how to
reply to all that.

"Well, anyway, welcome, and make yourselves at home.
Sorry for the room, in advance, it's the last one we have.
Quite possibly the last one in Vegas. My name is Jacques,
and if you need anything, anything at all, just let me know."
He was looking right at Justin, all come-hithery-like.

"Thanks, Jacques, we'll do that," Justin replied, shaking
his hand. They lingered like that for a second too long (I
know, gross, right?) and then we went and checked in.

"What was that all about?" I asked, accepting our room
keys from the friendly mermaid.

"What was what all about?" Justin asked, signing the
credit card receipt and knowing full well what I was talking
about.

"That. That back there. Not your type at all. You could
make juice out of all that fruit."

We headed on up to our room. "Please, Em, it was
nothing. Remember: never bite the hand that gives you the
only room in Vegas. Besides, he was kinda, well, sorta...
cute."

I let it go. To each his own. Besides, in two minutes it
would be someone else, and then someone else after that,
etc., etc. Then we were in our room and I knew why Jacques
had apologized in advance. First, it was at the end of the
hall, with the windows facing the outdoor pool. The smell
of chlorine permeated the tiny room, and so did the noise of
the screaming kids outside as they splashed each other. The
room itself was done in the same style as the rest of the hotel,
but being such a small space, it had a claustrophobic effect. I
was beginning to understand what a goldfish felt like.

"Welcome to our bowl away from home," I said, grandly,
and plopped down on the bed. The journey had depleted my
energies.

"Em, it's not so bad," he shouted, while peeing in the
bathroom. "Hey, they got soap shaped like seashells."

"Oh, okay. I feel much better, then, thanks," I hollered
back, dripping with sarcasm.

"Now, sweetie, chipper up. We're here, we're queer,
there's money to be won, vases to be found, and men to
lay. Plus, there's a bar in every corner of every casino in
this town. So let's Coppertone ourselves up and go have
some fun," he proclaimed, and smacked my ass for good
measure.

I thought about it for a split second, realized he was
absolutely right, and jumped off my squeaky bed.

"Let's go gamble!" I shouted.

"Sounds like a plan!" he shouted back at me as we raced
out of the pool-stinking room and into the still scorching
Las Vegas air.

"Where to?" I asked, getting into another cigarette-infused
cab.

"Well, nowhere with an underwater theme, that's for
sure," Justin said. I readily agreed to that.

He told the driver that we were headed for Paris. Vegas is a small town and we were there in minutes, which was good
because I can only hold my breath for so long. And Paris
is a gorgeous hotel and casino. The outside architecture
is magnificent. There's a diminutive version of the Arche
de Triomphe, and, of course, a replica of the Eiffel Tower
that also penetrates the casino, offering a splendid view of
the Strip at the very top. But for us, the best part was the
scrumptious frozen drinks we bought and promptly began
to drink. They were in blue, plastic miniature Eiffel Towers.
How very creative.

With drinks in hand, we decided to do some gambling.
The Paris casino is somewhat different from the others.
It's very self-contained, which makes for a unique din
when you're inside. Like the other first-class casinos, all
the machines are jacketed in identical frames, and in Paris
they're silver. Combined with the trelliswork over the card
tables, the gazebo bar, the live entertainment, and the legs
of the tower in the middle of the place, you couldn't ask for
a more beautiful setting to lose your money in.

Speaking of losing money, I don't know what it is, but
squandering my hard-earned cash while gambling doesn't
bother me in the slightest, whereas, at home, I only buy
Target-priced clothes, I never eat out, unless it's at Mickey
D's or the like, and, more or less, I put away every nickel and
dime that comes my way. In other words, I'm a tightwad.
(Doesn't that word convey a totally different picture from
what it actually means?) But when I'm sitting at a slot
machine, well, I just drop money, drop money, drop money.
One quarter or nickel after another. (And now Vegas is
awash in penny slots!) And, provided there's a free drink
sitting somewhere in front of me, which there always is,
I couldn't care less that I'm rapidly depleting my meager
funds. Just so long as every so often I win one nice-sized
pot, I'm a happy little camper.