Fat Old Woman in Las Vegas: Gambling, Dieting and Wicked Fun (6 page)

“I’ll have the Signature steak, medium well. And just the veggies please, no potato,” I instructed. The steak dinner served with a baked potato topped with sour cream, and a mixed medley of veggies was posted online at 945 calories. I easily knocked off 250 calories by avoiding the loaded spud. I didn’t bother to include the calories for the small iceberg lettuce house salad, with its few shreds of carrot and slices of tomato. I’d eat around the crotons on top of it and not add the packaged Paul Newman salad dressing provided.

The other passengers at the table were already enjoying their meals. The man and his wife were having the vegetarian plate (455 calories). The man seated next to me was devouring the half-roasted chicken with a side of rice (1370 calories).

Harold and Edith retired eight years earlier, but it was only this year they were about to travel. They waited until “Audrey Hepburn” their pet Pomeranian, passed. Audrey lived to be fifteen years old. Edith reached into her wallet and pulled out a tiny, pink rhinestone decorated framed picture of the dog.

Gorgeous.

“I can see why you named her after a movie star. She’s beautiful,” I said, not wanting to acknowledge the pain I was feeling at the moment. It had only been a year since I’d lost not only the best cat in the world, but my best friend, Lila.

“Are you on vacation?” I asked Joe.

“Nah, heading to a conference in Flagstaff. Work related.”

“What do you do?” I asked.

“Geophysicist,” he replied.

“And that is?” I asked, feigning ignorance.

He gave the answer meant for simpletons. “I study earthquakes.”

I asked, “Any chance the big one in L.A. is going to happen within the next thirty-five hours? I’m getting off the train in L.A. before heading to Vegas.”

“I’d be more worried about Vegas than L.A.” he replied.

My eyes widen. “An earthquake?”

He answered, “Nah, the gambling.”

And so the conversation went for the hour or so. The three of us talked about pets, natural disasters, and the possibility of California falling into the ocean before I hit a jackpot. I inquired about every single disaster movie I could think of that featured an earthquake, wondering how realistic they were. Joe assured me none of them were.

After turning down the free dessert offered, I headed back to my room. On the way I stopped in the loo. Something was different for me on this trip. Every half hour I wanted to pee. Every thirty friggin’ minutes! The constant jiggling movement of the train put my bladder into relief mode. If it continued, I wondered if I’d sleep though the night. For the first time ever I wished I had a bedroom compartment.

There is a major advantage to riding in the much cheaper roomette. The beds run parallel with the tracks. In a one-bedroom compartment, the beds are positioned horizontally across the tracks. When the train stops or lurches, when lying down, your body will naturally roll forward or backward. A friend, who rode in a one-bedroom cross-country said she was constantly stopping herself from falling out of bed. She didn’t sleep a wink all night, terrified she’d roll off and break a hip when she hit the floor.

I’ve never felt that way in the roomette. I’ve never felt anything but safe.

Once I reached my room, I saw that my SCA (sleeper car attendant) had turned down my bed. He’d set out both pillows for me, and pulled the blanket from the top berth. I slipped off my shoes and positioned myself on the bed. I pulled the curtains that hung over both the door and the hall windows closed. The Velcro didn’t quite line up, but I’d learn to expect that. I traveled enough on Amtrak to carry a few extra diaper pins to clamp the curtains together. Finally, when I could no longer see into the hallway, I assumed no one could see into my room.

I focused on the windows looking out at the darkening horizon. Scenes of Missouri passed by with its rolling hills and partially snow covered land. On my return trip, green would be the dominant color of the landscape, as the last of the snow and brown and yellow foliage naturally disappeared.

I clicked on my cell phone and texted my husband I was on the train. I also texted a few friends who seemed convinced I’d never make it to Fort Madison, that I was alive. I wanted to let everyone know I was safe as a bug in a rolling rug.

I pulled the exterior window curtains and plugged my iPad into the electrical outlet on the wall. I slipped in my earbuds. The bed pillows were already propped up behind my back. I settled in to watch a movie, uninterrupted except for pee breaks every to, or the sound of the occasional announcement coming in over the intercom.

Passengers were reminded about safety issues—
Shoes are required at all times
— or pending arrivals—
The next station stop is LaPlata, Missouri
.

On my iPad the opening scene to
Wild
appeared. I’d read Cheryl Strayed’s memoir two years earlier and loved it so much I immediately read it again. I’d put off seeing the film version until my journey.

Wild
is the story of a woman who attempts an eleven-hundred mile solo hike along the Pacific Crest Trail. It is a tale of triumph and survival over disaster and foolish mistakes. It seemed apropos for my scary-to-only-me solitary adventure.

I leaned back and thought about my trip.
So far, so good.
The first day of traveling alone went fairly well. I didn’t have a stroke. My tattoos reminded me to take my medicine on time. I didn’t have a headache. My calorie and carb intake were right on track. My knees not only functioned, but I hadn’t screamed out in pain, once. Unless I counted the two dollar non-winning Iowa scratch off ticket I’d bought at a gas station along the way, I hadn’t lost a dime in gambling.

For me, life didn’t get any better than that.

∞

The next station stop is LaMar, Colorado….

The sun peeked through a slit in the curtains as I awoke to the sound of the intercom. The combination of deeply inserted silicone earplugs and a sleep machine that pushed a rush of air through my nasal cavities, blocked out part of the announcement. From what I could gather, the tiny town of LaMar, Colorado would be our next station stop. Breakfast was being served in the dining car and a reservation was not needed.

I looked at the schedule guide my SCA had placed in my room. The train was due to arrive at Lamar at 6:59 a.m. Unfortunately, it was ten minutes after eight. It was only the first morning and the train was over an hour behind schedule.

Seated on my bed, I slipped out of my nightie and slipped on my top with ease. Putting on my pants however, was more of a struggle. I reached under the curtain, unlocked the door and slid it open. With the curtain still pinned together, I managed to step into my pants and hoist them up over my hips, my feet sticking out into the hallway. I put on my required footwear to leave the room, grabbed my purse and makeup and hit the can. I quickly brushed my teeth, took my meds, added a layer of lip gloss and made sure my wig wasn’t lopsided.

Except for sleeping, I wear a wig at all times. My lack of hair seems so miniscule in my litany of my physical deficits, I’ve never written about it. Follicles started disappearing fifteen years ago. I never bothered to find out why. My mother had the same problem. It had to be genetic and I just had to deal with it. Period. One Raquel Welch wig later, I easily walked the streets, holding my head up high.

Breakfast in the dining car is the only meal on Amtrak that doesn’t require a reservation. The hours vary but normally it is served between 6:30 a.m. to 9:00 a.m. We were still in the central time zone. Later on in the trip, time zones would become confusing for me. But, I never changed the time on my watch and wouldn’t. It was more important that I take my meds at exactly the same time I took them at home. Even in Nevada, I’d be on Central Standard Time.

The Lounge Car Attendant waved me to sit at the first table in the car. Once again I lucked out. I was given an aisle seat. Or perhaps the LCA seated enough obese riders to know the difficulty we large folk had in fitting into the booths. Amtrak dining cars were designed long before the obesity epidemic hit America.

My table came with breakfast companions. One was an extraordinary thin and well-dressed (by Amtrak standards) woman who was traveling across the country alone. She’d grown tired of jetting, she said. Across the table sat a pair of missionaries returning to America after thirty some years in the field.

“America’s changed,” I informed them.

They laughed. The man answered, “We know.”

The couple served in a small village in Japan, preaching the gospel and hopefully enjoying sushi. I asked their church affiliation. Religion and I departed ways years ago. The two seemed nice enough, perhaps a bit more polite than any minister and wife I’d yet to encounter. Hopefully, Japanese culture rubbed off on them, instead of the opposite happening.

“Are you going to L.A.?” I asked the single traveler.

Blondie poked at her fruit salad and looked rather uncomfortable, her Botox injected face struggling to display a smile. Perhaps it was my size or obvious lower, economic status that disturbed her. Or maybe she just didn’t like Raquel Welch.

Finally, she mumbled back with a forced pleasantry, “Santa Monica.”

Ah, that was it
!
Santa Monica!
An ultra rich bitch who must have felt like she was traveling across the country in a cattle car.

I resisted letting out a
moo
.

I turned my attention back to my food, an egg white veggie omelet with a side of apple and maple chicken sausage. I delved in with glee. I estimated the calorie count to be around 400 calories, total. On the last forkful, I noticed the missionaries were studying the tattoos on my hands and forearms.

Almost instantly, I found myself telling a falsehood. With a shrug of my shoulders, I said, “I’m a biker.”

The snooty woman next to me slid to her left by another inch or so. The missionary’s wife told me to be careful.

Though I am never comfortable with lying, and rarely tell even a tiny fib, I enjoyed the moment. The bike I referred to was my Trek eight-speed that sat in my basement. But my little misdirection allowed the Christian woman to do what she loved to do, give me a pleasant warning of the dangers that lay ahead. I had handed the rich bitch a present as well, another tale of horror to tell at her next Mahjong game.
(“Did I tell you darlings about my Amtrak experience? I actually sat next to a …)

I scooted back to my room, stopping at the loo along the way. It was 9:15 a.m., and my Kindle was waiting for me. The device contained twenty-seven unread books, along with thirty-seven books I wanted to read again, someday.

As I snuggled into my roomette, I gazed out the big picture window that had become dirty from dirt and dust tossed up into the air by wheels spinning on metal tracks. The scenes of snow covered Missouri had morphed into Midwestern flat lands and wheat fields. A bit later, we’d cross into the ranges of Colorado. I’d watch the sunset across the Arizona desert. The next morning I’d wake up in California, a galaxy away from frozen Minnesota.

But for now, I’d read about travel. Eventually I pulled the curtains shut to reduce the sunlight and clicked on my Kindle. I started to read
Tracks: One Woman’s Journey Across 1700 miles of Australian Outback
by Robyn Davison. A truly marvelous book, it had me at the first line …
“I arrived in Alice at five a.m., with a dog, six dollars, and a small suitcase full of inappropriate clothes.”

If I hadn’t been riding my answer to insomnia, I wouldn’t have been able to stop until I got to the last page. But once again, the sound of the whistle as the train rocked back and forth had me dozing off almost instantly. Though I had just awoken a few hours earlier from a ten-hour slumber, my eyes closed involuntarily. I was sound asleep by the time the train traveled through the half-mile tunnel at Raton Pass. I woke up just before the last call for lunch.

Arrival in Albuquerque, New Mexico, was an hour and fifty-three minutes late. At 5:05 p.m. I’d been on the train for over twenty-two hours. It was time to breathe fresh air intermingled with train exhaust and the cigarette smoke from dozens of passengers who lit up the moment they stepped onto the platform.

For a girl from Minnesota, the fifty-eight-degree outdoor temperature felt like basking on a tropical beach. I strolled by the rows of Navajo or Zuni vendors. They stood behind tables hawking handmade jewelry, handicrafts, clay pottery, colorful hand woven blankets and area rugs. A used paperback or two made it into their inventory as well. A few years ago I purchased five black beaded necklaces with a pendant for every member of my then writers’ group. The necklaces were five bucks each. It only cost me twenty-five dollars to prove I didn’t lose all of my money in a casino while on vacation.

Nothing caught my fancy. If it did, I realized I already owned it. Before the conductor called “All aboard,” I was seated in the dining car learning how to win a fortune at Roulette from the man sitting next to me.

“Really?” I said nonchalantly, as if I’d heard how to win forty grand every day of my life. “You only need ten bucks to win that amount?”

From the picture window, I could see the tan desert darken as the sun fell below the horizon. Pueblo homes glowed as lights on their inside sent rays of light outward into the night. The New Mexico mountains were behind me. The Southwest Chief was barreling towards Winslow, Arizona where I would not end up standing on a corner with seven women on my mind. The only thing I was concentrating on was what the gentleman in front of me was saying.

“It’s true. Roulette is all about maintaining your strategy and betting the same amount, every time,” Dan said.

“I thought the game just spun a ball around, or something,” a skeptical woman seated next to me said. I’d already heard her life story in a matter of minutes. Helene was a former nun who, in her fifties, discovered the love of her life, an agnostic janitor by the name of Doris.

“That’s what people think. But I’ve won as much as six hundred bucks in one night,” he boasted.

“Why not forty grand?” I asked, tasting a bit of my seared Salmon dinner, complete with a chili lime butter sauce and garlic mashed potatoes, (a satisfying 610 calories).

Dan shrugged, his Adam’s apple moving up, hampered by the tie he wore. A white shirt and a tie was apparel you rarely saw worn by an Amtrak passenger, but then Dan was an accountant from Kansas City on his way to a convention in Flagstaff. If anyone knew how to keep or lose money, it was a CPA. He answered, “I get bored, easily. Anyway, this is what you need to do ...”

My ears perked up. I’d try to remember what he was about to divulge. But, I’d heard hundreds of sure-fire gambling tips during my decades of debauchery and none of them have worked. I doubted if Dan’s would be the one.

He started his explanation, “Say you’re willing to lose two hundred bucks?”

“Two hundred dollars?” Helene, the former nun who, for once, was acting like a nun, yelled out.

“Go ahead,” I answered, preparing to memorize every word he said. I promised myself that I’d give his strategy a shot when I hit Las Vegas.

By the time dinner was complete and Dan’s lecture ended, I shuffled back to my room, exhausted. I fully intended to watch an episode of a BBC mini-drama I’d purchased for the trip. Or at least read another chapter or two of
Tracks.
But like all good intentions, my plans were easily discarded. At 8:00 p.m. I fell sound asleep, only to wake when I hear a booming voice on the intercom say, “Our next station stop will be Union Station, our final destination.”

∞

Union Station, the largest depot in the Western United States, is an astonishing blend of Mission Revival, Art Deco, and Spanish/Southwestern architecture. Throughout the decades it has managed to fight off satanic real estate developers proposing demolition or condo conversion.

Perhaps it was the overwhelming perfection of the architecture of Union Station that set me off on a time-travel daydream for a few, brief moments. As soon as the train creaked to a halt, I was decades younger and tens of pounds slimmer. The naturally long, black thick hair of my youth flittered in the wind. The image of a cheap silver colored wig-wearing oversized senior dissolved into an adolescent fantasy of the young Pat running off to Hollywood to become a movie star. I was not sixty-seven but seventeen years of age as I arrived in the land of milk, honey, and Walt Disney.

My feet were swathed in ruby red, four-inch stilettos that could be used to carve a Thanksgiving dinner at Warren Beatty’s house, if need be. My pink, thin-strapped dress hinted of both innocence and the possibility of innocence lost rather quickly. My luggage was not the heavy, leather carryall I bought at a thrift store for six dollars in Minnesota, but a red, round vintage American Tourist case. I was the picture of a starlet in waiting.

I paused in the doorway as the make believe scenario paraded across my brain. I inhaled and a California cocktail of sea fed oxygen, train exhaust and smog brought me back to reality in a millisecond.

I stopped my time traveling when I noticed the car attendant shooting an irritated look in my direction. The man’s hand was held high in the air, waiting there for me to grab.

Unless I have assistance, there is no way for me at this age and weight to step down from any train safely on my own. Even my size ten, extra wide New Balance shoes with the Velcro straps pulled tightly do not prevent my ability to fall. My steadiness isn't what it used to be. Nor is my common sense.

My sneakers hit the ground and I slipped the attendant twenty bucks for his help for the duration of my trip. For thirty some hours he’d worked hard to keep the sleeping car spotless and the coffee freshly brewed.

He was aware I would be taking the Amtrak bus to Las Vegas. When I’d mentioned that fact a bit earlier, I thought it was my imagination that a look of ‘Yikes!’ crossed his face. He hailed a Red Cap who steered his electric cart toward us. The driver jumped off and loaded my bags into the back of the vehicle. He asked where I was heading and I answered the Amtrak bus to Las Vegas. Though his face was expressionless it was still able to display his inner thoughts … ‘there goes my tip.’

I was beginning to doubt the assurance I’d received two weeks earlier from the Amtrak Reservationist regarding the thruway service. I asked if it provided transportation for Amtrak riders only. She assured me over and over it did.

I wondered if that were actually true, but at that point, what did it matter? My journey was already set in perpetual motion. Nothing was going to stop me from getting to Vegas. Nothing. And besides, how bad could a bus ride be?

The cart, filled now with three other passengers and a dozen bags, weaved through the crowds streaming toward the exits. Overhead, California sunlight began to peek down on the concrete pathway through the open ceiling of metal beams. My fellow passengers were both American snobs and regular folks from across the pond. Each group was heading to different spots throughout the station.

I turned to a frigid woman sitting next to me and said, “Great day, eh?”

She smiled the
‘my god why is this old fat lady talking to me?’
smile and turned away. I wondered if she knew the Santa Monica woman and if they were buds.

I turned my attention and ears to the Europeans upfront mentioning movie stars they hoped to encounter when in Los Angeles. Oddly enough, Jim Belushi was on the top of their wish list.

The cart pulled into the landing behind the First Class waiting room. The Europeans stepped off the cart and took their one hundred seventy-four pieces of luggage with them. The snob was still on board. We rode together in silence until she escaped at the stop for the airport shuttle. I didn’t even bother to say goodbye.

I was left alone, jiggling about in the hard, cushioned vinyl seat as I basked in the outdoor sun. A few days earlier I’d sat in my living room, watching my husband shovel six inches of snow in our driveway.

In a matter of minutes, the driver sped down a side alleyway next to the station. He ended up at Amtrak’s vast parking lot for commercial traffic and public transportation. Dozens of people were already lined up in front of empty bus lanes. The cart swung in the last of four lanes, the one with the Greyhound sign plastered on a concrete column in front of it.

I ask, “Is this the Amtrak shuttle? The one to Vegas?”

He shrugged and responded, “This is where the bus picks you up.”

Not a definitive answer for sure. I have a feeling he’s endured the same question many times before. I’d have asked him for a clearer, more precise answer but by now, I sounded so much like the snobs I protest about in my daily life I was beginning to hate myself.

What is so wrong about taking a Greyhound, if that is what it turns out to be? How big of a snob was I?

The driver lifted my luggage onto the sidewalk for me. I handed him three bucks for his effort and he gave me a surprised, “Thank you” back.

My inner berating of my hypocritical nature began.
What is so wrong about a Greyhound? Is it because it’s filled with poor people? You grew up poor! You grew up with an outhouse. And you were only a few miles from the Chicago city limits! And in your thirties, the only reason your landlord didn’t evict you in your thirties is that you ended up marrying him!

It wasn’t traveling with poor people that concerned me. In all of my life experiences on the road as a comedian and in life in general, I have learned that the poorer the person the nicer they are and more giving.

My anxiety wasn’t based in elitism. It was an intense awareness of the many stories perpetuated by Hollywood filmmakers and crappy authors. The stereotypical tales that are filled with the usual suspects riding a greyhound bus: a released - by - mistake - only - an - hour - earlier serial killer, an escaped patient from the nearest loony bin, or a life insurance salesman in need of one more sale to meet his quota.

To be brutally honest, my number one issue?

Peeing.

Learning to control one’s peeing is a very important life lesson to anyone under the age of three or over the age of sixty.

The nice thing about riding in a sleeper car is there is a restroom on each of the two levels of the car. The one-bedroom compartments have their own personal loo. Rarely have I waited more than a minute or so before relieving my tingling bladder.

If I am in an automobile, I know that a gas station is usually a few minutes away. If need be, I could always pull off the side of the road and squat. Not that I have ever done that, but the comfort in knowing I can, quells any anxiety I have about road travel.

But using a bathroom on a bus? There is a reason my novel
Murder by Chance
begins with
a three-hundred and fifty-pound rider found murdered in a restroom on a tour bus. I’m not afraid of being killed, exactly. What I do fear is squeezing into the bathroom and being so obese that I cannot squeeze my way out of it. Of course, I can easily fit into the small space, but my terrors of not being able to fit, are stronger than my realty.

Another debilitating phobia lurks in my consciousness. The locks on the restroom door could jam. I could be trapped inside the moving outhouse for hours until the driver reached his final destination. The driver would resort to using a crowbar to get me free. I would be humiliated when the bladder-deprived passengers gave the driver a round of applause. Me, they’d shoot dirty looks.

Then there is the very true fact that a bit of pee splashing is bound to happen. Once they are in a restroom on a bus, men have to actively hold onto their precious with one hand while their other hand is placed on the wall, trying to secure balance as the vehicle careens down the highway. Statistically, seventy-four percent of the men will miss their mark. Just like they do at home.

I looked at my watch. The bus ride would be between six and seven hours. There was bound to be at least one or two restroom breaks along the way. But, that could be hours away. I glanced at the entrance to the Amtrak station and decided to head for the can one more time. Even though I had just peed fifteen minutes earlier, it would be a prudent measure on my part to try again. If the bus ran according to schedule, I had fifteen minutes to do my deed and get back in time.

I rushed into the station, pulling my luggage behind, my heavy shoulder bag shifting about on my shoulder. The restroom was on the other side of the lobby. A line of women waited outside the entrance. I joined the queue taking note of every second that passed.

I made it back to the departure area just in time to see three newly arrived police cars with their lights spinning and sirens blaring. Bent over one of the police cars was a young man, his hands cuffed behind him. The police performed a quick body search. One of the officers was holding his head firming against the trunk of the car. Four other patrolmen rushed into the station.

I scuffled over to a young man seated on a concrete bench and sat down next to him. An older woman joined us.

“What’s up?” I asked.

He shrugged his shoulders, as if witnessing three cops on one citizen was an every day occurrence.