In 1994 I made my first trip to Las Vegas. I was going there to get hitched in pirate costume. No, the Florida caper was not my first trip down the aisle as a pirate. I seemed to have a case of “rinse and repeat” that had began 10 years before.
My future ex-whatever at the time and I couldn’t afford to stay at the Treasure Island resort where we would be doing the deed, the matrimonial one. The other deed was being done that night on our honeymoon at the Imperial Palace, which was also the host hotel for the annual Elvis convention during the King’s birthday weekend. Very Honeymoon in Vegas, I know.
I had always planned to return to Vegas in the intervening years, but never quite pulled it off. Once the rigors of parenting kicked in, followed by eight long years in Florida, nearly two decades had passed between visits.
It was both with excitement and trepidation that I returned to Sin City at the end of April. I was there once again as a pirate, but this time not one walking down the aisle. Rather, I was performing with Knot for Sail at the Pirates Fest Las Vegas event.
I didn’t know what to expect from Vegas. I guess it’s natural for one to imagine that nothing has changed at all. But time has a funny way of demanding change. The Imperial Palace is no longer; it was under renovation as a new hotel called The Quad. Treasure Island dumped their pirates versus the King’s Navy act in front some years ago, retreating to the standard bearer of nearly all Vegas entertainment, tits and ass. They should really have just named the place T&A instead of TI.
On the flight down, I joked about the days of penny slots on Fremont Street. If you knew where to look, you could find slots that only took a penny. Plunk yourself down, shove in five pennies for five lines, and wait for the cocktail waitress to bring you a Screwdriver, which was basically rotgut vodka and Tang – A Tangriver.
This was back in the days when you used real pennies. Remember those? Now all the machines use bills. When you win big, a bunch of tinny recorded coin sounds plays on the machine. No coins fall in the tray, no dirty buckets of pennies to lug from one machine to another. All you get is a piece of paper.
There’s also no handle to pull. Oh sure, you can still hunt around and find a machine or two that still deserve the nickname One Armed Bandit. But they are few and far between. You don’t really have to pull the handle anymore. It’s all for show.
When I first came to Vegas, I found that these penny machines were perfect for me. I don’t like to lose a lot of money gambling, largely because I didn’t have a lot of money to lose. When well played, a single dollar could last an hour or more in Vegas.
I always gave the quarter machines a wide berth. Dimes, too. I’d play nickels for a while, but that could suck a buck away pretty quickly.
I know. Not much of a gambler, am I? Still, I do like to play for a while and a penny a pull was the perfect way to while away a few hours while getting drunk on alcohol-laden Tang.
Upon my return to Vegas I was heartened to see that all of the casinos now feature penny slots. I was in heaven.
But not for long. Those wicked casino owners and game designers had pulled the old switcharoo on me. Instead of giving me authentic penny slots that took real pennies, these new fangled devices would gladly swallow 25, 40, 80 and even more pennies in a single bet.
Oh sure, they looked innocent enough, touting their penny price on the signage at Texas Station (which does have a nice $4.99 breakfast buffet by the way). But once you fell for their little game, you quickly discovered that these bandits suck up even more money than the slots of old, the ones that were at least honest enough to tell you that they take a nickel, dime, quarter or dollar.
I admit that I didn’t realize this at first. I sat down at a Buffalo slot machine and put $5 in. I thought, hey, at a penny a play I could play all afternoon with a five spot. Ten minutes later, I was putting in a ten. A half hour later, a twenty.
Unaware that I was being bamboozled, I innocently placed the Minimum Bet, the blinking button that beckoned me. What I didn’t know was that this “minimum” was 40ยข at this particular machine.
To keep me from noticing my ever-shrinking balance, the wily buffaloes would stampede on occasion, dumping new credits into my account. Just as I was about to look down and see how much money I had left, those damned buffaloes would start running, the music would play, digital coinage would fly through the air and 480 credits would be added to my account.
Then the sucking would continue once again, promising to pay off for 20 mysterious lines of possible wins that wouldn’t even fit on the video screen filled with buffaloes, gold coins (which give you free spins) and sunrises.
This went on for some time. I would get lots of “credits,” then lose a bunch more. There was no ca-chink, ca-chink to help me keep track of my wins and losses. Pennies would pile up, then dwindle away, all being tallied by a soulless paper-spitting machine that said it only took a penny to play.
I admit that I still long for the good old days. A 10-pound plastic bucket, brimming with pennies, your hands blackened by the dirty little coinage, you drunk out of your mind on endless Tangrivers. On second thought, maybe they weren’t so good after all.
In the Emerald City, far from the centalating sights and sounds of Sin City,
– Robb