Drink Rum

Anyone who reads me regularly knows that I’ve got a right knee that is trying to kill me. It’s the knee that Dr. Strangelove needed to match his hand. I’ve tried to kill the knee with drugs, but that’s just caused my brain to stop thinking and that’s all I’m good at. Over the past few weeks, I’ve dramatically reduced the amount of drugs I take. At last measure, I was taking 1/6 the dosage I took weeks ago. The good news is that my brain is coming back to life; the bad news is that it’s angry and joined my knee in try to kill me. Because my brain was asleep, tucked in under a Vicodin blanket for 8 months… it has a lot on its mind. It won’t let me sleep… and in the off chance that I do sleep, my brain makes sure the dreams I have are not my own. I convinced my brain that going to Las Vegas was a good idea. I had been wound up too tight lately and the chance to unwind was irresistible. But my brain told me to make sure I packed up a backpack full of narcotics to make sure it had fun too. OK, brain, OK.

Day 1, Friday

The alarm goes off far too early for a Friday. I’d already mentally quit working two days earlier and was only going to work to avoid taking leave. Because I was leaving early, I had decided to go in early as well. The masses of the DC-Metro area were out in full force and the time I usually use for sleep was going to be used for sitting in a car waiting for my turn to wait.

I sat on the bottom step of my stairs, staring at my two bags for the trip. I’d packed them the night before, but I was sure that the Hate Fairy had come during the night and replaced my underwear with beetles and my pants with cold cuts. I didn’t sleep the night before. For weeks, my version of sleep has been lying in a bed and drifting in and out of consciousness. Mostly, I just lay there… for hours staring blankly and letting my brain run a slide show of random thoughts and images for me until I find one disturbing enough to roll over to my side and then the process repeats. I’d seen a doctor about it, several times. She’d given me Ambien to sleep. My brain fought the Ambien and my brain won. It wouldn’t put me to sleep… but if I did fall asleep, at least I’d stay that way for a few hours. I’d not taken a pill before the trip because I didn’t want to oversleep. I succeeded masterfully in not oversleeping. So masterfully that I only looked at the back of my eye lids for three hours.

A few days before, my doctor had changed tactics on me… and my brain. She declared war on it. Chemical warfare. She was convinced that I was losing my mind. She gave me pills to fix that. I now had a backpack full of narcotics. Something make me sleep, something to take away my pain, something to fight off my brain with, something to turn my muscles into jelly, and some Tylenol.

When I picked up my bag, it clattered with all of the pills inside. I tossed them in the car and headed to work. Nothing eventful happened for the next six hours. I sat in front of a computer screen staring at work related documents, but I was day dreaming about Las Vegas. Day dreaming about Las Vegas was much better than my night dreaming was. For almost a year I’d had reoccurring dreams about going to Las Vegas. Some details changed from time to time, but the theme was always the same. I was in Las Vegas, but unable to do anything. I was always running around trying to find people or helping people get where they were going or late for a plane and rushing to the airport. The dreams were always about me never enjoying Las Vegas. No matter what I did.

2:00PM Eastern. I left my job without looking back. I didn’t say good bye or make a scene about my trip. I just felt like leaving and cleared it as needed. The parking lot was bright and hot that afternoon, probably the sun trying to get me ready for August in Nevada. I’m not afraid of the sun. I’m not afraid of much. One thing maybe… losing my mind.

At the airport, the terminal was packed full of people snaking around in the queues. If we’d had a giant paper mache dragon head and some streamers we could have had a great Chinese New Year celebration. But no one wants to celebrate anything while in line.

I took an upgrade option for more legroom on the plane. My knee made that decision. It wanted to stretch out and since it was in league with brain, I had no choice. It was a good decision. I fly United because I like to listen to the cockpit channel. It used to be because I like the whole aviation lingo… it reminded me of being a kid on air force bases. But now I like to listen so I know what’s going on with the plane. I know before we turn. I know when there’s bad weather on the horizon. I know where we’re going to park.

My seat was by the window so I could watch the world go by quickly. The area east of the Mississippi River is bland and boring from miles above it. To the west it gets much more creative. There was no one in the middle seat, which was great. On the aisle seat was a wonderful stereotype of a Japanese tourist. While my description of him may appear harsh or racist, I can only caveat the description with the thought that it is based solely on my observation without malice.

My new five hour friend arrived with cheap blue dress pants held high about his waist by two visually worn out suspenders. His thin plaid shirt was partially tucked in, partially buttoned, and partially clean. The black and white checked blazer he wore matched nothing in his wardrobe and showed signs of having been worn on a longer flight prior to this one. His face was unremarkable other than the Moe Howard haircut, thick, wide glasses, and an overbite the style of a certain Warner Brothers rabbit. This man fell straight out of a 1940’s propaganda film. I had little communications with Japanese Man during the flight. He spoke little English and I spoke no Get to Know Stranger. It wasn’t until after the bar cart came by that he made his presence known.

He’d ordered a Gin and Tonic or Gin and something. I didn’t care, so I didn’t look. The wafting stink of leaves and berries that is gin floated into my nose. I sipped my margarita to chase away the gin. Tequila was victorious. I was curious how the margarita would mix with pain killers. I should have been curious about how it would mix with the pain killers and the muscle relaxers. Once again, Brain was in charge and I was a spectator.

Sadly, I was forced to spectate Mission Impossible III. The movie was everywhere and I couldn’t avoid looking at the screen. I tried to sleep, but Brain said no. An a few minutes later, Japanese Man announced his happiness with his cocktail by belching loudly. If only he’d had stopped there, he might not have made an appearance in this story. Minutes later, he belched anally. Loudly. And continuously. I tried to breathe away from him. For the remainder of the trip he had his index finger jammed knuckle high into his right nostril. He looked like he was looking for something in there, but who knows what it was. Maybe it was pirate gold. I supposed I could have asked, but I didn’t want to be belched on. By either device.

The trip was painfully slow and the desired unconsciousness that I’d tried to induce medicinally wasn’t coming. We had a second film on the plane, Inside Man. Denzel Washington is a detective and there’s a robbery and some Irish guy. I wanted to see the movie, but as I watched Jodie Foster walk across the screen, turn to me and wink, a flight attendant tapped me on the shoulder and asked me to put my chair upright for landing. The flip down movie screens were gone and we were about to land. Sleep had ambushed Brain and held him hostage for an hour. It was nice that Jodie Foster paid my subconscious a visit though. She’s very sweet.

We landed very hard. I don’t know if the pilot wanted to wake me up (maybe Brain had gotten to him too), but he bounced us down the runway like Opie Taylor skipping rocks at the creek. We fishtailed to a stop and I looked around to make sure everyone else was experiencing the same level of concern. Someone in the back of the plane threw up. That was too much concern. I don’t get sick on planes or boats, or any of the typical places. I get sick on dry land. But not that night.

I walked through the familiar airport alone in the company of strangers. Slot machines were clinking and signs everywhere told me I needed to see the Blue Man Group and Cirque Du Solei. Everything looked very familiar, but very distant. I’d seen it all before, but didn’t recognize any of it. It was to be a reoccurring feeling of watching someone else’s experiences in Sin City vicariously, but not actually participating myself.

After arriving late and waiting for my bags and a cab, I was hours past due at the hotel. Devin had driven in from Los Angeles a few hours before and was awaiting my arrival. I hopped in a cab by myself and was whisked away from the airport to the strip by a driver who was at least high. Our conversations ranged from hookers to prostitutes as the driver seemed to be something of a whore aficionado. He was so excited about telling me about the sexual exploits of Cabbie and Son in Hookerland that he took me to the wrong hotel. I was headed to the Imperial Palace. It’s a Blue and White nightmare of the orient. They mixed all Asian cultures together to for a giant mess of a casino, but with friendly dealers and sexy cocktail waitresses. If I was Chinese I might have been offended that they put the sushi bar in the middle of their Chinese restaurant called Kim Jung Il’s Kabobs. I’m white and ignorance is assumed so I went with it.

The hotel the cabbie took me to was the Flamingo. A pink and white mess of a casino. When I told the cabbie, he looked confused and then took me to the proper place. For my troubles he gave me piles of VIP access cards to all of the clubs in town I had no intention of ever going to.

I checked into my 4th floor room. All of us were on the same floor, but I was on the other side of the building because I was in a lone king bed room and the guys had two queens per room. The elevator service was quite slow in getting up to the room. It was compounded by the fact that fat people were jamming them up and setting off the weight warning buzzer. I stood in the elevator ham sandwiched in by Mr and Mrs Porkins while they debated with two waifish girls as to what to do about the weight buzzer. Mrs. Porkins told the two skinny girls to get off since they were the last ones on… and the girls did, but the buzz continued. Mrs. Porkins then told two other twenty somethings to get off to. Still buzzing. She looked at me and opened her mouth and I mentioned that if she got off, everyone could get back on. She gave me an “I’ve Never!” look and I gave her a cold, dead stare. Her and her husband got off the elevator and the four displaced passengers got on. The buzzing stopped and up we went.

I quickly changed clothes and called Devin. I told him about my amazing view of the parking garage. His was similar.

During the day, I’d forgotten to eat. We headed downstairs to get some food and await the arrival of the others.