Booze Battered Bubbles of Toil and Trouble

The deep dark truthful mirror never seemed to penetrate the fog of Las Vegas and Atlantic City for me.

Those towns were havens, sanctuaries within which my alcoholism could let its hair down and slip into comfortable clothes. There, I didn't have to impress anyone feigning sobriety with my breakfast. A double gin and tonic ordered at the bar at 8am in Casinoville is generally looked upon no differently than one ordered at 8pm. Especially in Vegas. After all, this is the land of 24/7 party time, with folks constantly flying to and fro all corners of the globe. Time ceases to matter; it is in fact considered a distraction and its acknowledgement rude: there are no clocks in a casino and, for the most part, the outside world is invisible from within its depths for this very reason. The ambient temperature remains perpetually hovering around 65 degrees, the air circulation providing a quasi stripper-perfumed scent that mixes in with the cigarette smoke and represents this world's atmosphere. Ah, truly home.

I was loath to arrive into either of these destinations sober, though I always left that way. Broke, shaking, sick. But on the way in, oh Mama! With Vegas, that meant getting good and juiced on the inbound five hour early morning flight. They poured me out of the plane at McCarran and I'd stumble blind through the ring-a-ding ding of the welcoming slots down the terminal out to a taxi destined for the nearest casino and casino bar.

I've lived entire lives at the blackjack table. It was never about the game, the gambling incidental. No, the thing for me was a sort of strange socialization. Plowed, I felt free to interact with the dealer and my fellow players as I never did actual friends and relatives. What's your names? Where you from? Bam! Black Jack! Dealer busts again! I'll have another double gin and tonic!  On and on.  I romanced, married, fought with and divorced many a black jack dealer, with her never the wiser.  We vacationed with our good friends around the felt among the cards and I was free.  By the time exhaustion had overtaken me, and I had to retire to the hotel room alone, I was too blotto to notice it was all a mirage (no pun intended).

I've been back to both places a couple of times since getting sober, A.C. to see bands/comedy acts and Vegas for work. There's no allure there now: they seem like different places, ones that hold nothing for me except foggy memories. It's sad in a way.  The magic is gone.  In the right mood, I can almost make out the ghost of my former self stumbling down the MGM carpet, grasping at a slot for leverage before pushing off again. The blistering Vegas sun, when I had to venture outside, often produced a violent, nauseous reaction in me.  However, it was short lived, the time it took to step into one of the ever ready plethora of taxis and off I'd go in search of the next sanctuary.  I never did find my Sera there.  As a consolation, I did make it out alive.