Friday, September 24, 2010

The Bubble Bath, Part 10

  Editor’s Note: We have just realized that more drinking is in order, since our buzz has been quashed by running about on the beach in Atlantic City, and then scarfing down funnel cakes like we don’t have any sense. After a brief bit of squabbling about our drinking destination, (Bubbles wanted to invade a fancy bar in the Trump Taj Mahal. When she informed us that the drinks were roughly 30 bucks apiece, Terry and I chose otherwise.) we headed back to Caesars, where our Atlantic City journey had begun…

  Once we re-breached the confines of Caesars, we all immediately headed for the bathroom. This was somewhat tacky and uncool, racing in the door and knocking people down to get to a toilet, but we really didn’t care, being white trash and all. I do have to say that the Men’s Room on the lower level was quite posh, with urns of expensive flowers and an attendant that was really invested in getting a nice tip (for what, the way he loaded the toilet paper dispenser?), but all it really meant is that the drinks in here weren’t going to be all that cheap, either. I can sense these things.

  There’s something to be said about cheap dive bars with peanuts in a bowl and people with dental issues. Sure, you might end up in a brawl with incestuous kinfolk fighting over bed partners, but at least the beer is inexpensive and you don’t have to put on any airs. I just want to drink. I don’t care if my couture is not Vogue-worthy or if the establishment is not on some queen’s “go-there-and-be-seen” list of hot spots. I don’t have a movie coming out, so why should I care who sees me where?

  Besides, inbred people can be quite fun to hang out with. Their expectations are already low, they aren’t concerned about what you smell like, they generally know where cheap but good food can be found, and they don’t judge, unless sports teams are involved. We can learn a lot from these folks. Try it.

  Anyway, Bubbles and I were most concerned with whether or not there was an area in the Caesars casino where we could both drink and smoke. (Back in the day, you could do this anywhere. Things change.) Bubbles cornered some guy who appeared to be somewhat official, and presented our requirements. He clearly stated that we should go up the escalator to the second floor and head to the left.

  So we did.

  The people on the second floor had no idea what we were talking about. It was totally smoke-free up here. How dare we presume that the sinful suckage of nicotine would be allowed in their midst? Well, hell. Your homeboy downstairs said this was the place to be for us degenerates. Nope, we needed to head back down the escalator, and they would appreciate it if we didn’t breathe at all, so second-hand smoke wouldn’t annihilate all the Christians playing slots.

  As we made the march of shame back to the escalator, we encountered a kindred employee. He knew exactly where we could defile our bodies without unwelcome judgment. He accompanied us down the floating steps and pointed. Over there. That quadrant is a free-for-all of decadence and political uncorrectness.

  We raced to said quadrant.

  And found fellow sinners in a swanky bar area where no one cared what we did. The enormous bar was fairly packed, with most of the barstools occupied, and no place where three people could slip in with relative ease. There were, however, several counter-height tables surrounding the bar, but there were no barstools on which to place our weary and slightly sand-encrusted behinds. Bubbles took care of that. She marched up to the vacant barstools around the curvaceous bar, snatched three stools from various locations, and quickly made ourselves a home around one of the satellite round tables.

  Once ensconced, we waited for someone to pay attention to us, and proffer drinks.

   No one did.

  Well, then. So we surveyed our surroundings, trying to determine if there was some type of protocol to drink procurement that we didn’t really understand. Off to one side were a number of comfy looking couches and chairs, in what appeared to be an exclusive area where magical things happened. I say this because there were velvet ropes preventing the commoners from gaining access. Perhaps this was where the “high-rollers” consumed beverages when they weren’t placing bets that made my yearly salary look insignificant.

  No customers were currently in this drinking Nirvana, but there was a woman who appeared to be some type of serving person. She was tidying up a bit (I guess the last round of rich people had tossed things about and spilled caviar here and there), getting things ready for the next round of self-absorbed nouveau riche to wander by. We tried to get her attention, clearing our throats and attempting to look parched and needy.

  She and her surgically-enhanced breasts didn’t care. If we weren’t on THAT side of the velvet ropes, then we were nobody. She continued to fiddle with the comfy chairs, pushing them around just so and whisking away random peanut shells that had dared to infiltrate this land of opulence and drunken, exuberant tips. We hated her, even if her boobs did look cute in her semi-hooker outfit.

  Bubbles, who doesn’t put up with being ignored, lasted roughly 3 seconds before she stomped up to the bar to get us beverages. To her utter shock (and our absolute terror), the bartender on this side of the oval bar did not immediately run to her assistance. He stupidly chose to pay homage to the drunken rich  men already seated at the bar, lighting their over-priced cigars and generally offering up his bum to anyone who might be interested.

  Bubbles made an alarming noise of dissatisfaction, indicating that she was on the verge of ripping someone a new recycling portal.

  Terry and I, quivering, quickly analyzed our surroundings, making note of all escape routes and any public-defender lawyers that might be standing nearby. (We’ve learned that when Bubbles is on a rampage, you better be able to run like hell, and you don’t want to waste any time figuring out where to run. A few inactive seconds can lead to incarceration.)

  Luckily, Bubbles decided to use one of her non-aggressive charms on the clueless bartender, and was able to procure our drinks in a relatively short amount of time. She returned to our table, passed around our beverages, and only briefly spoke of her dislike for the dumb-ass bartender. She had allowed him to live only because he was so old.

  Oh? I made another inventory of the various bartenders rushing about, refilling drinks and shamelessly groping themselves for whatever tip it might bring. Bubbles was right. These guys were definitely on the AARP side of things. What was up with that?

  Then I studied the clientele. Got it. We were the youngest people in the room (aside from Implant Princess in the velvet rope area), and we are in our 40’s. This is the clear distinction between Atlantic City and Las Vegas, at least when it came to people with money. In Vegas, there’s a wide range of ages when you’re talking about fools with more money than they know what to do with. In Atlantic City, they lean toward people who can get a Senior Citizen Discount on an omelet at Denny’s.

  Anyway, we drank. Because we’re certified in that skill.

  Suddenly, it occurred to me that my jeans were still rolled up from our oceanic adventures. Great. I’d been running about the swanky casino like Ellie Mae Clampett on a bender. Not thinking things through, I reached down and unrolled the first cuff.

  Next thing I know, all kinds of crap is pouring down my leg and making a very noticeable pile under my chair. Gallons of sand, chunks of broken shells, what might have been a baby crab, and two cigarette butts.

  Oh. My. God.

Click Here to Read the Next Entry in This Series.

Click Here to read this story from the beginning.

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