Fat Old Woman in Las Vegas: Gambling, Dieting and Wicked Fun (7 page)

Hector and I became fast friends. Within the first few minutes of meeting him, I’d heard his entire life story, and those of anyone he’d ever met. Hector liked to talk as rapidly as humanly possible. He was a sweet young man with black hair that glistened as much as the thick gold chains that dangled around his muscular neck. His black, silky shorts were loose and reached below his knees. His L. A. Lakers jacket was zipped open, revealing a white, ribbed sleeveless t-shirt.

Hector had a strong Mexican accent though he was born in L.A. He said he grew up in the city but needed to get to Vegas to chill. His friends told him to give it a shot. They claimed he’d love it. Frankly, I couldn’t see Hector ever becoming mellow.

He continued his swift dialogue, allowing here and there to let the woman on the other side of me, speak. Living in Tennessee, she was on her way to visit family in San Francisco for the first time. Her connection to Frisco was scheduled to pull into the lane next to Hector’s and mine. If nothing else, bus passengers are chatty.

Hector was nonchalant when he asked if I minded if he smoked. I told him to feel free. Why would I care? Within hours I’d be drowning in a tsunami of smoke filled casinos.

Hector reached into his pocket, and instead of pulling out a pack of Marlboros, he removed a plastic container and began to rotate the top to open. My Midwesterner sensibility told me Hector was obviously the frugal sort. He rolled his own cigarettes to save a few pennies. As soon as Hector lit up, the scent told me otherwise.

My jaw dropped open at his brazen, law-breaking attitude. The aging Southern belle and I stared at each with eyes as wide as Hector’s pupils. Together, the two of us bolted twenty feet to the left, the furthest we could get away from Hector without standing directly in front of a police car.

“Can you believe …?” I started to ask.

She interrupted. “My family told me to never be surprised by anything in California.”

I looked toward the gaggle of cops wondering if one of them had noticed the distinct illegal odor. Hector was such a sweet kid. I didn’t want him arrested for his stupidity. I didn’t want him to ….

Wait a minute. The plastic bottle Hector kept his weed in was a blue plastic cylinder with a white label encircling it. It was a prescription bottle. Hector was on medical marijuana, perfectly legal in California.

I mentioned that fact to Ms. Tennessee and we humbly headed back to where Hector was sitting. I felt old and outdated as if I’d started a rant about young kids and their music.
Now Jimmy Dorsey! There was a band.

By now, Hector was quiet and smiling like a contented feline who smoked a dime bag of catnip. We hadn’t even left for Las Vegas, yet Hector was already beginning to chill.

The bus pulled into a small desert town, an hour or so outside of downtown L.A., and I saw her step off the bus idling next to mine. Akeisha was one of my own. Tribal members fighting the same enemies in the universe. Sadly, the war will never end for either of us. The twenty-some year old warrior was a minimum of one hundred and fifty pounds overweight, maybe even two hundred, or more. Once the weight reaches a certain point, it’s hard for me to know.

Her steps were slow, hampered by chubby feet cramped into shoes too small. Her arches looked like a bubble ready to burst. Akeisha was very pretty. Her silky, flowing top and arm full of spangles glittered in the sun. A rhinestone headband circled her head, enveloping the loose ebony curls that highlighted weaves of platinum blonde hair.

Akeisha’s make-up sparkled with glitter and even from a distance I could tell she’d carefully outlined her lips into a welcoming heart. Over her shoulder, a crackled pink vinyl tote bag hung filled with whatever. Her tunic was a purplish mixture of complementary colors. Her pants were skintight leggings of a pale mint green. As she swirled around, the cleavage on her backside was as visible as the massive one on her front.

She shuffled in the direction of my bus. I gulped hard and looked at the empty seat next to me. It’s not that I didn’t want a large person sitting next to me. I understood too well the embarrassment and humiliation that occurs when someone overreacts to having a hefty soul as their seatmate. When I take any public transit I pray I can sit alone. I do not need a single insult, stated or silent, added to my list of perceived wrongs. That fact alone is the reason I prefer a private roomette on a train. No one but me will tell me I do not fit.

I doubted Akeisha and I could fit into the space Greyhound provided for two riders. I’d be overflowing into her designated area as she would overflow both into mine and into the aisle. I’d be scrunched up tightly against the window. As nice as either of us would be to each other, the five-hour plus ride would be unbearable.

As soon as Akeisha climbed on board and began to walk the aisle, purses or bags were instantly placed on seats that were previously empty. She proved herself to be a bright woman. She instinctively knew the drill. She didn’t ask anyone to remove items so she could sit down. Instead, she peered hopefully toward the back where I was sitting next to an empty seat.

I had chosen to sit in the second to last row in the aisle. Across from me was a sleeping and very tiny woman who managed to fold herself into a horizontal position, her body huddled within the framework of the two seats. She used the armrest for her pillow. Behind me was a bench seat that could easily fit two people, if not two and a half. It was as wide as two seats and the aisle together. One end butted against the restroom wall. Only one man was sitting on the bench.

Akeisha headed straight to it and said in a sweet tone, “Is the seat next to you taken?”

The thirty-some year old growled, “It’s broken. You can’t sit here.”

“What do you mean it’s …” Akeisha started. Her options for seating were becoming limited. Rumors on the Internet state that Greyhound continually oversells the capacity on their buses. If there were no seats for you to sit in, you’d have to wait for the next bus, which in some cases weren’t scheduled until the next day. Even then you weren’t guaranteed a seat.

“It’s broken,” he sputtered back as if there were no more questions to be asked. He shoved his bags on top of any unoccupied space.

My ’60s styled activist soared into a boil. There was no way the friggin’ bench seat could be broken. My head swirled around to protest but Akeisha had already turned her attention to the sleeping woman across from me.

“Ma’am, I need to sit here.” Akeisha’s tone was firm.

The somnolent sprite lifted up into an upright position. Her spiny fingers rubbed at her eyes before mumbling, “I can go sit with my husband.” She scurried out of the seat and walked toward the front. Akeisha breathed a sigh of relief and squeezed in to the small area. She scooted over to the window. She rumbled through her pink tote and pulled out an iPod. She placed the earbuds into her ears, right over her dangling birdcage earrings and looked content. As the bus pulled out, her head bopped up and down in time to the beat of music only she could hear.

I was happy as well. We were forty-five minutes into the trip and Akeisha and I had double seats to ourselves. If we didn’t stop at another town, the ride to Vegas would be actually pleasant.

Ten minutes later, the bus veered off the highway once more and pulled into another station. The journey was starting to feel like a metro bus line. I glanced out and saw at least ten people in line. Every seat on the bus would have to be utilized, even the “broken” bench seat behind me.

A young Asian woman ended up sitting next to me. Her small frame barely made a statement in the area that was provided for her. She immediately pulled out a Kindle and started to read. I assumed she was a student. Until I had to go to the restroom and disturb her by asking her to move into the aisle so I could exit, she’d be the perfect seatmate.

Meanwhile, a slim, handsome twenty-some year old man loomed over Akeisha. He wore black jeans and a dark brown t-shirt that looked road weary. He carried a small backpack in his hands.

“Do you mind if I sit?” he asked, his British accent floating through the air like a ’90s romance starring Hugh Grant.

Akeisha pulled her earbuds out and beamed a wide, warm smile. “Are you from England?” she gushed before motioning for him to sit.

It was easy to see Akeisha’s hormones stirring. Mine would have been as well. The man from across the pond was movie star gorgeous. Still, she looked uncomfortable when he slid into place. It was as if she wanted to apologize for just being alive.

My heart fluttered a bit. It was an apology I, too, had wanted to make most of my life. I sent a prayer upward to my chubby goddess in the sky and asked her to take care of the girl.

Akeisha’s friendly seatmate introduced himself. I didn’t catch his name but I heard Akeisha proclaim it to be a lovely name. Her voice was as big as her spirit. It easily carried over the sound of the wheels whirling underneath and the continual grind of the engine.

She offered the man a hard candy, but he declined. He must have asked if she’d ever been to Vegas because a conversation began that would last the entire trip. She promised she’d teach him everything he needed to know about Vegas, from where to eat to where to gamble to what shows to see. His gentle laughter proved he was enjoying her well-earned knowledge.

Akeisha announced she was what they called a “high roller.” She claimed to always come out a winner. Of course, no one ever believed her, but she insisted it was one hundred and ten percent true.

It wasn’t. No one consistently wins in gambling. No one. But the act itself dilutes a player’s ability to remember anything but the last time they won. I am convinced Akeisha wasn’t lying when she claimed victory over the slots. She was deluded, like all gamblers. She’d continue to believe that statement until her first loss. At that point, all of the losses she’d endured over the years would tidal wave into her consciousness. The disappointments and pain would stay like a polluted oceanfront only to be washed away by the possibility of another tidal wave of a win.

The cycle of lose-win-lose never ends. I know. I have been caught up in it for decades.

I pulled my iPod out of my bag and attached the earbuds. I was preparing to turn it on when the bus pulled abruptly along the side of the highway. My head jolted upwards and I looked around. One thing for sure, it was not a good place to be parked. Cars and semi trucks sped past. The shoulder along the highway was too narrow for a bus.

Upfront, passengers started mumbling. A few minutes later, the gossip finally made it to my ears. The gruff driver had pulled over, not in an emergency, but to make a call to his girlfriend on his cell phone. For five minutes he continued to chat away while passengers in the back began making bets when we’d be jackknifed by a semi.

As one last truck passed at a speed close to a near death experience, the driver abruptly pulled back on the highway and sped off.

Relieved, I placed the earbuds back in my ears and turned on my iPad. A few weeks earlier, I’d downloaded a video of a three-hour British miniseries entitled
The Secret of Crickley Hall
. The series was based on James Herbert’s bestselling ghost story. I’d actually already watched a bit of it on the train. It was an enjoyable spine tingler. The episodes were an hour each. If I focused on the first one, perhaps I could make it through an entire hour before I had to get up to pee.

The credits were running across the screen fifty-eight minutes later when I had no choice but to use the restroom. How bad could it be? I’d only seen a few brave souls enter the forbidden land.

I caught my seatmate’s attention and pointed to the restroom. She immediately stood up and stepped out of my way. I took a few steps into the aisle and opened the restroom door. I held my breath as soon as the urine stench hit my nostrils and stepped inside the cramped space.

I was, however, relieved I fit inside the lavatory. The floor was a sheet of ridged stainless steel. The toilet was also steel. The wall material was comprised of a greyish plastic or fiberglass. I had the distinct feeling I was heeding nature’s call inside a prison cell. Fortunately, the floor wasn’t sticky. That was a very good sign.

Because I am a coward, I didn’t dare look into the toilet before I sat on it, nor did I actually sit on it. I grabbed a bunch of toilet paper and wiped the seat clean. I tossed the paper inside the bowl. Unless we hit a speed bump and I fell backward, no way would I let any part of my body touch anything. I managed to hunch my corpulent self over the hole and heard the sound of tinkles. I’ve never peed so fast in my life.

When I finished I realized there wasn’t a sink but a gigantic bottle of hand sanitizer attached to the wall. When I hit the button to let a stream of gunk fall into my palm, the button didn’t work. Nothing shot out of it.

I exited the room and squeezed back into my seat. I grabbed the travel size bottle of Purell from my carryall bag. I squirted the chemically pine-scented liquid into my palms and vowed not to use the bus restroom again. Though it actually hadn’t been that bad of an experience, there was no telling what the next experience could be like. Frankly, I didn’t want to find out.

I leaned back in my seat and heard Akeisha tell her Brit that Circus Circus was actually a classy hotel and casino, though a lot of people didn’t agree with her. There were acrobats and jugglers who performed free-of-charge. You could spend all day watching them twirl about, just in case you’d already lost your money on the machines. And Slots of Fun, next door, sold foot long hotdogs for ninety-nine cents, just in case he was interested.

I clicked on the second episode of Crickley Hall. Ten minutes after I’d finished it, the driver announced we were pulling into Barstow for a 15-minute break.

Thank God. I would be able to make it to an actual restroom without peeing myself.

Maybe.

∞

The stop in Barstow sits along good old Route 66, a highway filled with old timers and tourists trying to get their kicks on. There is no way humanly possible not to begin humming the infamous tune the moment you see signs along the side of the road. In reality, the ditty is basically just a listing of towns along the way from Chicago to L.A., and not even presented in the correct geographical order. If you drove it the same way they sing it, you’d have to circle back a few times along the way.

Recording artists from Arrowsmith to The Rolling Stones recorded their own version of the song. However, the only voice I choose to remember is that of Nat King Cole as the Greyhound slid to a halt.

The bus depot and surrounding buildings, were a conglomerate of shops and fast food places including a Popeye’s Fried Chicken, McDonalds, Subway, Panda Express, Dunkin Donuts, fudge shops, Darigold Ice Cream, Subway, Starbucks, Barstow Station Liquor, retail shops, postcard vendors and more. Not only were Greyhound buses paused, but truckers, bikers and carloads of hungry, bladder busting tourists also congregated.

Barstow lies one hundred fifteen miles from Union Station in Los Angeles and one hundred fifty miles from Las Vegas. Not exactly halfway, but close enough for my bladder to do its happy dance upon arrival.

The grumpy driver barked, “Okay folks. This is a fifteen-minute break. Not a minute longer. I don’t care if you’re back on the bus or not, I am leaving on time. And that fifteen minutes begins,” he takes the time to dramatically look at his wristwatch, “now.”

Though I really wanted to bolt to the front and make a beeline to the restroom, that action wasn’t a possibility. There were fifty some passengers in front of me. Every single one was getting off the bus, slowly. I calculated my odds for making it back to the bus in time for departure. Including the likely scenario of standing in line at the lavatory, I’d be hitchhiking to Vegas.

A Popeye restaurant stood on the opposite side of the parking lot. A few of the bus riders were headed in that direction. I knew I couldn’t make that within the allotted time. My gait is painfully halting. No one who possessed a shred of literary ability would describe what I do as walking. Lumbering is a more accurate description.