On most days, I parked my car at the top floor of the casino parking lots out of choice. I loved the overarching views top floors provided—they were the kind of views you’d see in city-produced brochures of the Strip in airports.
Today, though, I parked out of necessity at the top. Every spot in the first nine floors was filled, and all but the far corner of the top floor was taken. A typical Saturday evening at 8 p.m. saw the casino packed, but not at capacity. I swore under my breath when I had to park so far away, but had a subtle grin when I realized the benefits.
After parking in the corner, I slowly opened my car door, making sure not to scrape the vehicle poorly parked about a foot away from me. I got out, and looked ahead at the Mirage. I hadn’t yet played there, but I had always wanted to check it out since it was the first “modern” casino. Maybe I should do so soon, I thought. I have to be able to say I’ve checked out all the casinos here.
I turned around and began the long, echoing walk to the elevator doors, hoping for good cards. Let’s get some aces, some sets, and some full boats. Those cards would determine if my $500 grew into $1,500 or shrunk to air in my wallet. I would sit down at the smallest stakes, where the buy-in was $300, and let it ride with whatever the dealer dealt.
DING. DING.
The bronze elevator doors opened. No one was inside. I stepped in, pressed the third floor button for the casino and let the stereotypical elevator music calm my mind. The elevator didn’t stop once on the way down.
The doors slid open on the third floor, and like taking an elevator to a nightclub, a wave of sound rippled through me. This wasn’t the thumping of Tiesto or the bass of Benny Bennasi, though—this was the “fuck yeah!” shouts, the clanking of glasses and the shuffling of casino chips. And I still had a long, construction-heavy hallway to walk through before the casino even came into sight! I rubbed my hands together in anxious glee as a Christmas-like smile grew on my face.
The sounds only grew louder in volume as I walked down the hallway. A couple of people dressed in designer dresses and suits straggled on by, intoxicated from a strong dinner or day at the pool. I double-checked my watch. It was only 8:05 p.m.
Goddamn, I thought.
Vegas.
I took an escalator down to the casino floor. The masses matched the sounds. Every table was shoulder to shoulder full of gamblers. Waitresses fluttered around like vultures, waiting to scoop up another red chip tip for a free drink. Everyone was dressed like they were headed for a GQ convention. I couldn’t quite match up, but if the night went well, I could always head home and throw on a suit and shirt to go with my jeans.
I made it to the poker room and saw dozens of tables off to the side, surrounded by monitors displaying the chip levels, blinds and winnings for each place in a tournament, among several other numbers I didn’t bother to examine. First took home over $4,000 for this particular tournament.
“Not bad,” I said.
I looked up at the waiting list.
“Fuck… well, that’s good, I guess.”
The wait list for $1/$2 no limit Texas hold ‘em was 23 people long.
23 fucking people! I had never seen a list that long for a poker room that wasn’t running a six-figure jackpot promotion. Usually, if a list ever got into double-digits, the poker room would just open another table and cut the list down to a few people.
The Venetian, however, had run out of space. This 23 person wait list was a true 23 person wait list, and I figured at best I was going to be waiting an hour.
