A Vegas To-Do

I hate planes. They just lengthen anticipation. I was sitting with Kristen Williams and Jordan Jackson, friends I’ve had since high school. We were all finally 21-years-old and the envy of everyone back home. We were on our way to Las Vegas, a trip I had been planning for months. But the six hour flight was killing me!

“Do you have a deck of cards?” Jackson asked me.

“Yeah. It’s a little early for drinking games don’t you think?” I said.

“No, not yet. I was thinking we could play ‘texas hold’em’ for practice,” she said.

Jackson shuffled and dealt, each of us winning multiple hands just for the satisfaction, but the game only kept us temporarily entertained.

“Why don’t we make this more interesting?” I offered.

“How?” Kristen and Jackson said simultaneously.

“We can sort of bet. We’ll write a ‘to-do’ list for Vegas. You know, ‘witness a Vegas wedding’ or ‘swim in a hotel fountain,’ and whoever has the lowest hand each time has to do the next thing on our list when we get to Vegas,” I said.

“I’m in, but we have to make sure we actually do them if the opportunity presents itself. No backing out,” Kristen said.

“What should go on the list?” Jackson asked, already pulling a piece of paper out of her sketchbook.

So we wrote. And wrote. And wrote. Soon enough we had more than 50 tasks, each ranging from the possible to the most unrealistic.

“So we have ‘collect a hundred stripper cards,’ ‘start a game of tag with strangers at the MGM pool,’ and ‘Eat in a casino basement (a.k.a. Hugo’s Cellar),’ those are probable, but I really hope Kristen gets to ‘high-five a hobo,’” I said. “She’d probably be friends with him by the time the weekend ends.”

“What do you think our chances are of ‘ruining a wedding picture’?” Kristen asked, laughing.

“I don’t know,” I said, “it is Vegas. It’s probably the same chances as ‘meeting a washed-up celebrity’ or ‘degrade hotel statues.’”

“We’re going to get into so much trouble,” Jackson said, shuffling the cards again. “Ah, I can’t wait.”

“High-five a Hobo:”

We were walking along “the Strip” when it happened. We took in all the sites we used to only imagine on T.V. The MGM, the Bellagio, the Mirage—all covered in so many bright lights, it didn’t even feel like nighttime. But it was, and the tourists were out showing their true colors. The girls were tripping over their too-high stilettos, and the guys were chasing fast behind them, hoping one would fall into their arms for the night.

We were walking past the “Ice Bar” when we saw him. He was wearing torn black cargos and a dirt brown hooded sweatshirt. Actually it was just dirty. His hair was only half-way dreaded, like he either was too lazy to finish the style or just simply forgot. He was bent completely over with his arms hanging limp in front of his face, and was staring at the city sewer cap below him—no, not staring, talking to it. I turned to my friend. This had to be her task.

“Kristen—,” I said, but she was already walking towards him. She bent over next to the man and asked, “Whatcha doing?” He turned his head to face her.

“It stole it,” he said.

“Stole what?”

“My cigarette.” We all looked down and sure enough there was a partially lit cigarette lying on the sewer cap. “I lit it and it stole it,” the man said, pointing to the metal cap. “I think it has my lighter too…bastard.”

“Well I’m sure it will give your cigarette back,” Kristen said.

“I tried, it keeps ignoring me,” said the man seriously. Kristen smiled, picked up the smoking cigarette and handed it to the stranger.

“How’d you do that,” he asked astonished, eyes completely bloodshot. Kristen smiled again, handed him her own lighter, and raised her hand.

“High-five?” she asked.

The man lifted his hand up slowly, following his new friend, and high-fived her. Kristen made her way back to us as the man followed her leave. Jackson and I were barely holding it together, keeled over, crying from laughter.

“I want what he’s drinking,” Kristen said as we stumbled away. [CHECK]

“Film a Scene from ‘Beatles Love:’”

“Is she watching?” Jackson asked me.

I looked over the edge and there she was, the “phone Nazi,” looking up at my group—no, glaring up at my group. She already reprimanded us twice.

We were sitting in the Mirage auditorium, halfway through the “Beatles Love” Cirque Du Soleil show. Characters were falling through the ceiling with only sheets to hold them up. Some were roller-skating off ramps while others were flipping from trampolines onto replicas of British phone booths—all to my

favorite music.

“Yeah, she’s watching,” I said quietly. “She’s probably going to watch us all night.”

“Damn. She already made me miss “Eleanor Rigby’ and that’s the one I wanted to show my brother,” Jackson whispered, holding her phone in her lap, waiting to hit record.

The plump ticket-checker woman, our “phone Nazi,” continued to hover over us, waiting to pounce the second a cell phone appeared

in one of our hands. Her yellow beehive-shaped hair clashed horribly with her pink painted cheeks, and she could barely fit into her red striped tights and blue dress, which made her look more like a Dr. Seuss character rather than a 60’s fashion icon—she must have been last in choosing stage costumes. Her eyes still never left us as I examined her. We knew recording devices were not allowed during the show, but we did not expect it to get this hostile. This woman was out for blood, as her pink rosy cheeks turned darker and darker.

Finally, and rather luckily, the room went pitch black. We could no longer see the “phone Nazi” through the darkness and she definitely could not see us. “Blackbird” began to play and the now-dim lights focused on the ceiling, illuminating the black silhouettes of birds flying above.

“Press record, press record,” I whispered quickly to Jackson.

And she did. She got every detail. The birds, the clouds, and the beautiful figures dancing on the roof to the slow guitar strums. She brought her phone back to her lap and Kristen asked, “Did you get all of it?”

“Yeah, it came out perfect,” Jackson said.

“Nice,” I said, a bit louder than I expected. Unfortunately at the exact same time I spoke, the music died and the stage lights turned on again, showing our faces. I bowed my head, praying the angry ticket-checker wasn’t looking my way. I lifted my gaze. Crap, she was. She was glaring again, eyes red.

We walked past the still-fuming “phone Nazi” when the show finished, our heads bent low. Kristen bravely stopped next to her, patted her on the shoulder, and said, “Let it be, miss, let it be.” [CHECK]

“Ruin a wedding picture:”

We were gambling in the MGM Grand at the time. I gave up on the “3-Card Poker” table. It took too much of my money and the dealer was overly happy as I left. No sympathy. I decided to feed my money in the “Wheel of Fortune” progressive machine instead. Each time I pulled the lever, I was more determined to spin that wheel and hopefully win my money back, but it was just wishful thinking. At least I had free drinks to humor me.

Kristen and Jackson were playing other various machines around me when we heard a scream. It wasn’t a fearful one, but an obnoxious happy one. I turned and saw a young man kneeling in front of a blonde girl, presenting her with an open box and a ring inside. I had never witnessed an actual proposal before, so it surprised me when one happened to show itself in the middle of the casino. The girl had obviously accepted since she was jumping up and down, showing off her new jewelry to her friends. I saw the camera as soon as Kristen and Jackson did.

“I know we said a wedding picture on the list, but an engagement picture is just as good, right?” asked Kristen.

“I won’t complain,” I said.

“Yeah, it’s better than nothing,” added Jackson.

“Well, this girl seems like the type that might get upset if I ruin even one of her precious pictures, so prepare to run,” Kristen said getting up from her seat.

Jackson and I arranged ourselves away from the picture-happy crowd as Kristen waited for the perfect moment. The proud couple was posing in front of a decorative statue when she lunged. She jumped, spread-eagle, in front of the two just as the camera flashed, adding a rude facial expression for a special effect. Then she ran, Jackson and I quickly behind her. We could hear angry shouts behind us.

“Run! Run! Run!” I yelled. “To the elevators!”

We weaved in and out of the casino tourists and finally made it to an open elevator. I hit our floor number, the doors closed, and we each broke down laughing.

“That—was—hilarious,” I said in between hard breaths. [CHECK]

“Jump in a hotel fountain:”

It was the last night of our trip and we were walking, yet again, on “the Strip.” Hundreds of people were still out, causing trouble in “Sin City,” and we were looking for more opportunities to check off our list. We happened to be walking by the Bellagio when their illumination water show started. It was beautiful and surprisingly peaceful, despite being surrounded by obnoxious, drunk tourists.

“Jordan, why don’t you jump in this fountain? I mean, it’s the most famous one,” Jackson said.

“Ha, ha, ha,” I said sarcastically. “I’d rather not die.”

“Fine, but you still need to find one before we leave,” she responded.

We decided to walk to Caesar’s Palace (which Jackson constantly referred to as “Caesar Palache”). Connected to the hotel was an indoor shopping mall, built to look like an outside marketplace. The ceiling was painted like a sunset sky and the floor was made of cobblestones. Inside this mall were also countless water fountains, each with unique designs and huge surrounding statues. I knew my friends were waiting for me to jump at each opportunity—literally, and I could not back out now.

We reached one that seemed to have the least security at its intersection. I removed my flats, took a deep breath, and climbed over the side into the freezing blue water.

“Hurry up and take the picture!” I yelled.

People were staring at me, utterly dumbstruck, as my friends fiddled with the camera.

“It won’t turn on!” Kristen yelled back.

“You’ve got to be kidding me” I said panicking.

My heart fell when I heard a whistle and saw two security guards running our way. I then heard the lens of the camera move into place, telling me it finally turned on.

“Take the picture!” I yelled again.

The camera’s “clicked” and I jumped back over the side of the fountain, dripping water all over the floor. And we ran. Through the entirety of the mall and out the doors, we heard the guard’s whistles grow fainter and fainter. We knew we were safe when we reached the sidewalk. I put my flats back on, high-fived my friends, and walked back to our hotel, smiling all the way. [CHECK].

“Pass out:”

I hate planes. They always take you back home when you’re not ready. Our trip was over and our “to-do” list was only halfway finished—a brilliant accomplishment considering most of the tasks were thought to be impossible. We were too tired to complain though. Instead, we took our new travel pillows and curled up in the small space we shared. What happens in Vegas doesn’t always stay there, because this was a trip we would be talking about over and over again—after we slept of course.