The End of the Wild Wild West
I couldn't go in one last time before I headed to the middle of the country.
It wasn't a case of not wanting to see the place and the remaining lifers on staff. It was that I was completely weary of repeating the story of my failed marriage and why that I would inevitably been required to regale them with before splitting. These were people in a venue who knew me a year and a half ago and with whom I shared a unique slice of American history—we navigated the pandemic and the unprecedented shutting down of Las Vegas together. My personal implosion would be nothing more than gossip and the thing is still to fresh to be shunted over into that category.
So I left Vegas without saying farewell to the Wild Wild West Gambling Hall and Hotel.
A day after fully landing in Kansas I received notice that Station Casinos, the WWW's parent company, had announced the entire property was to be closed, demolished, and the land developed for something a bit more upscale (presumably to cater to visitors of the still pretty new football stadium a quarter mile away).
My time at the WWW (roughly eighteen months) was, at the time, both invigorating and tough but I now see it through a great deal of fondness for the people I met and got to know. Hell, I wrote a book about the experience entitled Casino at the End of the World which will, as far as I know, be the only written record that the place ever existed. It was, however, featured in the film The Hangover, so there is that.
As tribute here, I'd like to leave a few excerpts from that book.
The casino is not anything like a library so screaming out about personal issues is standard operating procedure.
“There’s something wrong!”
She had just lost her money at a Timber Wolf slot machine. She couldn’t understand how she lost her $10 despite the fact that she came into a casino, plopped her ample ass into a chair, slid the bill in the validator, and pressed the buttons. The money was gone and, in her perspective, there was something terribly unfair afoot.
“What can I do to help?”
“I want my money back!”
“Did the machine not credit you with the money?”
“What? What does that mean?”
“When you put your ten dollars in, did it show up on the screen so you could gamble?”
“Yes! And then I spun the thing and it took my money!”
“So...you gambled and lost?”
“Yes. I want my money back. This thing stole my money!”
I explained to her patiently that that is exactly what the machine is designed to do: take your money and let you gamble. If you gamble and lose, it isn’t stealing, it’s gambling and losing. She couldn’t get her mind around it. For fifteen minutes I demonstrated how she could win—the scores of micro-rules, the requirements in the fine print for larger payouts, the reels that would get her bonus games. She listened but still wanted her $10 because, in her mind, she was supposed to win. The concept of losing her money was like hearing someone speak in gibberish to her.
“I’m sorry, darlin’. I wish I could help you understand. You gambled and lost. You don’t get your money back. Now, this is a casino and every dollar you put in is a risk that you might lose it. If you can’t handle losing it, you probably shouldn’t play.”
“That’s not fair,” she responded, her mouth turned into a sneer.
“Welcome to Vegas.”
✶
Circa 1978
Ike is the current Head of Security. He is a bulked up Irish dude with tribal tattoos and an obvious love for the accoutrements of being a cop without actually, you know, being a cop. He takes me around the property to show me things from Jackson’s list and to ensure I understand how this property works in the dark corners.
“Those rooms up there? Those are the more popular haunts for the hookers. We got a coupla regular pimps who rent them out and the girls bring guests up for a poke.”
“Do you call Metro when you catch them?”
“Nah. Metro doesn’t care and, as long as they aren’t fucking in the casino, there isn’t much we can do. If we notice it and can document it, we’ll kick ‘em out of the hotel and bar them from renting again. They always find ways around it, though.”
We walk over to the truck parking lot—a huge, sprawl of asphalt with everything from box trucks to eighteen wheelers with a tiny gas station on the north side—and Ike points out a few blind spots hidden by garbage dumpsters.
“You gotta check these areas a coupla times a shift. That’s where the meth-heads get high and wait for truck drivers to rob. If you catch them, don’t try to do anything yourself. Call security and we’ll handle it. Did you hear about the knife violence around here from a few years back?”
“Uh… no.”
“Yeah. We get some bad actors and once in a while shit gets real. Don’t be a hero. My supervisors carry a firearm and pepper spray. Always call security.”
✶
It wasn’t the blood that turned my stomach. Neither was it the anguished look on his face as the security officers rushed to help him all while slightly terrified of the potential for more violence. What caused both a sense of disgust and a flash of rage was the couple with the smartphone.
It was a regular Friday night. The casino was half-full—the bar was standing room, the slots were chirping and singing, the Sportsbook wall of televisions were showing some baseball, some NASCAR, and some ESPN commentary show. I was in the cage, assisting one of the bankers with an ancient printer that had decided to go inert for no apparent reason.
The radio on my hip flared with a panicked voice. “Security to M.O.D. We have a..a gunshot!”
I dropped the printer cables and bolted through the two doors. A young guy was sitting at the Buffalo slots closest to the door. The hotel registrar was in hysterics as she wiped blood from her face and neck. Blood trailed from the front desk to the kid and three security officers were surrounding him. Mike, the supervisor, seemed in control and was being handed towels to have the wounded bleeder hold to his neck where there was a steadily weeping bullet hole in plain sight.
While technically in charge, I could see that another voice of authority was unnecessary so I quickly popped over. “What do you need, Mike?”
“Call 911. Call Jackson. Call Daryl. Kid was shot outside on Tropicana and stumbled in here for help. Don’t know if he was followed.”
I made the calls in rapid succession with limited information. I walked out to the front parking lot while talking to Jackson to see if the shooter was outside. He was not. The kid’s car was up on the curb on Tropicana, still running, the passenger door wide open, the lights still on. I knew better than to touch anything—I’ve seen enough crime procedurals to know my way around a crime scene in theory—so I had one of the security guys who seemed most shell-shocked to stand and watch the vehicle to make sure a barfly didn’t just hop in and drive away.
It wasn’t the blood that made me see red. It was the couple in the casino filming the kid as he moaned and bled into the no-longer white towel with their phones. Sharply, I strode in between them and barked “C’mon, people. Jesus Christ, have a bit more dignity, yeah? Stop filming this or get out!” Of course, now I was a part of their Facebook documentary of the moment but they suddenly both looked embarrassed—this wasn’t some rogue cop moment—and apologized.
“I’m sorry I was so abrupt. We get a lot of wild here at the West but this is extra. Please swing over to the bar and let me buy you drink.” They complied and wandered over to the far end of the joint all while gawking at the kid.
According to Mike, the kid was being chased by another car down I-15 and they were shooting at him. He was hit and took the Trop exit. Saw the casino lights and bolted to the front doors. He went directly to the front desk, spraying blood all over the desk attendant and then collapsed backward toward the closest chair. He was awake and in extreme pain but still lucid enough to keep his eyes darting to the door.
His black t-shirt was soaked and there were bloody handprints on the chairs, the slot machines, his jeans. If this had been a script, the police and paramedics would arrive in this very moment. Instead as we waited for the soldiers of the State to come in and take care of a mess none of us was equipped to conclude, the adrenaline from the shock began to wear off. Things on the floor continued as if there was no gunshot victim bleeding over in the corner. As if he was just another part of the Vegas off-strip experience.
"Mike? You got this? Anything else you need at this moment?”
"I got it. I'll let you know when the PD shows up.”
I went back to the cage. Fixed the printer. Checked in with some guests who wanted to know what was going on. Dealt with a woman who claimed a machine had eaten her $20 bill (it hadn't). Then the radio squawked "Security to M.O.D. The police are here.”
Like a flash, an officer sporting a rifle the size of my leg strode in, all diamond hard eyes and readiness to do battle. He scanned the room quickly, not even registering my oncoming presence. His electrified machismo seemed out of place until it occurred to me that he was responding to a call about a gunshot wound which meant the possible presence of a weapon and a shooter.
Six more officers came in with the same militarized bearing but with pistols in lieu of the Rambo gun. A moment of visually sweeping the room, and all but the first holstered their weapons and their demeanor softened in an instant.
Thirty seconds later came the paramedics and the entire team took positions. The hard guard with the bunker buster stood at the front doors. Two officers came over to question the front desk staff. Two more were talking with Mike. The other two were with the medical team, tenderly questioning him and tending to his singular neck-hole.
Unknown to me were an additional four officers outside dealing with his car. The parking lot was filled with red and blue lights from seven different vehicles and the place flickered like a rave from the early nineties.
I looked over at Mike. He was doing his level best to pose official but it was obvious he had been relieved of responsibility by the cops and paramedics. That’s when I noticed the rest of the room.
In my mind all hell had broken loose. Blood, big-ass guns, the fuzz. One gaze across the casino floor and aside from the couple I had sent to the bar, no one had batted an eyelid. The people who had been neck-deep into slot machines, Bud Lights and Tequila Sunrise's were unmoved. The kid in the corner with the gunshot wound to his neck had not fazed them.
An old lady with a tiny dog in her purse was still hitting the spin button and waving her hands across the screen, looking for her payout.
"Is everything OK?" she asked without looking up.
"I think everything's under control. Yeah. It's OK.”
"That's good. You think you could get the waitress over here? I need another beer. I've been playing for a long time and she hasn't come over in a long time.”
"Sure. No problem. Apologies for the wait."
✶
“Excuse me, sir? The casino and hotel are closed due to the pandemic. I’ll have to ask you to leave the area.”
He was looking a little ragged. He had an overstuffed backpack on and it was dark outside.
“Pandemic? What? Why are you closed? Casinos are never closed!”
“The pandemic? COVID-19? It’s a global virus. Vegas has been shut down.”
“Bullshit! If you don’t like the look of me just say so but don’t lie about being closed!”
“Have you been near television or the internet lately?”
“No. I was hiking. Came from Utah. Why?”
I got out my phone and browsed the news. I held it up for him to read.
“Fuck. FUCK! Where am I supposed to go? Is the hotel closed?”
“All of the hotels are closed.”
“Not on the Strip. The Strip never closes.”
“Whatever you say.”
“Can you call me a cab?”
✶
“I have an issue. I trust Jason. He’s the best. But I put $100 on the Raiders and he fucked it up. I should’ve won but he didn’t take the right bet.”
“I’m sorry. Once you walk away with the ticket, that’s your bet. We can’t void it now and allow you to change it after the game.”
“That’s bullshit, man. I need that money. Shouldn’t have bet it because it was for my cable bill but it was a sure bet and Jason didn’t write it down right. It’s his fault, not mine.”
“You ever go to a drive thru at McDonald’s?”
“What? Yeah.”
“They give you your order, you drive home, get inside, and discover that instead of the Double Quarter Pounder with Cheese they gave you a Filet-o-Fish?”
“I don’t get this…”
“If you drive back and ask for your actual order, they’re not going to refund your money or give you a different order because you went home and didn’t check it in the drive through. Right? The receipt they gave you was for a fish sandwich, you have a fish sandwich, and it doesn’t matter that practically no one likes those fish sandwiches. It’s yours now.”
“Oh. I get it.”
“That ticket is your fish sandwich.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“I hear you. Maybe you shouldn’t gamble if losing is unfair.”
“Yeah but winning is the point.”
“Yup. You win some, you lose some. Welcome to Vegas.”
✶
What you think of when you think of Vegas is a very different thing than I do. You see the neon, the fountains, the extravagance. I see a seedy truckstop casino a half-mile from the New York New York Casino connected to a crummy Days Inn with the weirdest, most eclectic clientele, the place could’ve been conceived of by Bukowski. The Wild Wild West Gambling Hall and Hotel. I'll miss you.
