I haven’t been writing much lately because my wife and I have been focused on moving north to Denver…every spare moment is devoted to packing boxes, and then transporting them to a friend’s garage where they will languish until we find a place of our own. I was rummaging through my laptop tonight, however, and I found a story I started and never finished. It is sort-of-autobiographical-but-not-really. Thought I’d share it with you.
I hadn’t meant to ride my bike through Circus Circus. That is to say, I had intended to, because I did, but I hadn’t planned it. It wasn’t even my bike anyway; why the hell would I own a bmx bike? This was Mikey’s bike, but don’t ask me why I was riding someone else’s bike through Circus Circus. Just seemed like the right thing to do, and I’m a man who fulfills his obligations whenever possible.
The amount of pink in that place is enough to make you want to puke up cotton candy on a clown. This occurred to me, of course, as I rode past the slots and toward the craps tables; I wheelie-dropped off a set of two stairs and landed with a thud that was harder than I expected—bmx bikes are heavy, and rigid—and kept rolling until two security guards stepped in front of me.
“Sir, there’s no bikes in the casino.”
“Sure there is. There’s one right here.”
They don’t like smart mouths, it appears. I get off the bike because they are ready to take it, and it’s not mine. I have half a mind to explain this to them, but I think they’d be a hard sell for caring.
“Are you drunk?” They ask.
“Of course I’m drunk,” I don’t say.
They let me go, and they watch me as I roll the bike next to me toward the elevators. They even follow me for a bit. Once I get into the elevators, I get back on the bike and start hopping around until the cab stops at my floor. I ride out and skid across the fucking pink carpet , leaving a streak that ends at the door to my room. A giveaway. Fuck it. I won’t be staying there long anyway.