I have just arrived in Las Vegas to attend the ceremony where Jeanne David is being inducted into the Women in Poker Hall of Fame. More about that in a different missive – this is about a visit to an unexpected shard of the Sin City Universe.
I’m about to take the elevator down from my room at the Horseshoe in Las Vegas, having just checked in. I’m feeling quite proud of myself because I’ve booked two nights in this hotel for $163 all-in. Mid-Strip, and during the National Final Rodeo.
About which I need to say something. I hadn't been in Vegas when the Rodeo was there, but yee-hah, it’s a thing. I’ve never seen so many cowboy hats in my life, and I lived in Nashville for three years. Refreshingly, a large percentage of those cowboy hats are on actual cowboys and cowgirls – folks who look like they get up at 5:30am to muck the stables and have tossed more than one bale of hay into a truck. I mean, there are certainly some wannabes, but even they look like they’re trying to blend in with the real McCoys. Unlike Nashville, none of the cowboy hats are pink.
George Strait, Chris Stapleton, Garth Brooks, and Shania Twain are in town, there’s a massive Cowboy Christmas market at the Convention Center, and I’m told that South Point looks like a ranch, for all the horse trailers. All in service of the 200,000 (Yes ma’am, I said two hundred thousand) rodeo-bound visitors.
Anyway…
Interior - Lobby - Evening
There I am in the elevator lobby at the Horseshoe, 6pm, waiting for my turn to ride down, when the Queen of the Night (with apologies to W.A. Mozart) comes around the corner into the lobby. She’s pushing six feet tall, and that’s before the 3” stiletto heels on her leather boots. Black gaucho pants, black blouse. Jet black hair, chiseled features, and pale skin.
But it’s the cape that does it.
She’s wearing a black cape, or maybe some kind of duster – I’m trying not to stare. I do note that it has red trim. She’s carrying a small purse and a shopping bag. I mean, if Prada made shopping bags. Both are black.
I’m wondering if I’ve accidentally walked into a movie set, but they set movies at the Bellagio or the Wynn, not the Horseshoe. No, I quickly realize that this is just what passes for IRL in Las Vegas, and Queen of the Night is not here for the rodeo. At least in the sense that she doesn’t have tickets for the barrel racing. Fortunately, an elevator arrives shortly, giving us both something to do. She steps into it, and I follow. There are already three people in the car. The doors close.
Almost. Because right then, the Universe shuffles the deck.
Zipping up to the elevator is an older woman (i.e. my age) who says, “Can we get in?” Turns out that “we” means her and her husband, who’s on one of those scooters that Doyle Brunson made famous. Now, I’d ridden up with them a bit earlier, and knew he had a schtick…“I don’t have brakes or a rearview mirror – everybody be careful.”
People are squeezing to the edges of the car to let them in, and somehow they get in there. The doors close.
Almost. The Universe throws in another riffle.
The simulation that is Las Vegas
A buzzer sounds, indicating that the car is overweight. Mrs. Scooter starts apologizing profusely and trying to direct her husband to back out of the elevator, rearview mirror or not. These all being fine and gracious rodeo-goers, a couple of folks volunteer to get off so Mr. and Mrs. Scooter can ride down. I glance over at Queen of the Night, who's silent as the grave, fixed with a hundred-meter stare, obviously wondering what sin she committed in a past life to deserve this.
Finally, my good manners supersede my desire to see this mini drama play out (not least what QotN’s part will be) – I step off the elevator and walk to the far side of the lobby.
Two other people get off, which satisfies the car’s overweight detector, and the car descends toward the Strip, where Mr. and Mrs. Scooter and Queen of the Night can continue their roles in the simulation that is Las Vegas.
