THE PROMISE OF VEGAS
I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again. The promise of America is alive and well in Las Vegas, Nevada.
What could I possibly mean? It feels like an adult, sinful Disneyland, where instead of taking a picture with Mickey Mouse, people come from all corners of society to lose their shirts and dignity playing Blackjack. It’s ridiculously, frivolously expensive. Gondola rides inside the Venetian are $156 and meals at the Eiffel Tower restaurant overlooking the Strip are $200 per person. One night at the Cosmopolitan is $500.
I’m not here to defend Vegas. I can’t pretend to know the intricacies of casino policies or of the sex work industry. I can’t ignore the frat boys passing out cardboard discount coupons for prostitutes or the elderly women hunched over the Flamingo’s slot machines for hours. It’s not an easy place. It’s certainly not a palatable one.
But Americans crave feeling like they are a part of the elite. And Vegas puts elitism on a platter for all to enjoy. The blatant consumerism pressed against the backdrop of the dancing Bellagio Foundations makes wealth feel attainable, like if you just tried your hand at Roulette once more, you could win it all. And if that isn’t America, I don’t know what is. That earnest, bright eyed hope, even in the midst of struggle, is what makes me love this country.
“Vegas is beautiful at night. It’s not about the money, you just like the lights,” MJ Lenderman so prophetically sang in his indie-rock hit song “She’s Leaving You.”
He’s right. It’s not about the money. I do just like the lights.
On a recent Friday night, my brother Fletcher and I drove five hours from Mammoth to Vegas to see Phish play at the Sphere. Phish is more his thing, but the tickets were a Christmas present from our mom, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to spend time in the promised land.
Fletcher is a 6’5” suave college senior with an ear piercing. He’s like me but much, much cooler.
He likes dubstep and plays guitar in a band. His pulse on the Phish discovery is strong. He appreciates things like how “tight” Trey Anastasio’s tone is. He has a favorite live Phish album.
At no point during the show did he turn over to me and whisper “what song is this?”
My brother wore his favorite Ween shirt. I was clad in a neon blue flapper dress and knee high boots. One of us belonged. The other did not.
Sitting in the back of the sphere, we were engulfed in visual splendor. During “Tela” an enormous bird spread its wings and exploded into a psychedelic frenzy. Their 26 minute version of “Crosseyed and Painless” featured an intense red laser foray. At one point, during a song I did not recognize, drummer Jon Fishman stood up and put his mouth on the hose of a vacuumcleaner. His vacuum solo.
Intermittently, Fletcher would turn to me and say, “this is soooo sick.”
It was so sick.
What really killed me was the people watching. The group of ten in the row in front of us wore hats that said “phun.” A man in a space suit across the aisle with a “100 shows” banner slung over his shoulder. Another dude in a Phish donut shirt kept saying “this is my 243 show and I’ve never seen this song before!” A third guy in neon pink booty shorts and a neon green visor gave me a sticker on the way out.
“Here you go, gorgeous,” he said. “You’ll need this.”
A tiny replica of him, holding a disco ball, that read “Phish Ken.”
Vegas, I kept telling myself, holds a version of promised America for these people too. Only here could they lose their faces in Trey Anastio’s glory while watching bathed in trippy art. The Sphere was their place to let their freak flags fly.
The next night, we decided to hit the town. We allocated ourselves $100 in cash each and met up with my boyfriend, who was conveniently there for a Magic the Gathering convention.
Ah, Vegas. There’s something for everyone.
After walking along the Strip for some time, we decided to gamble in the Venetian. I didn’t know how to play Blackjack and the boys vetoed the slots. We settled on Roulette.
Fletcher put $25 on red. Zing! Success. We moved on. Stopped while we were ahead.
At the next table, I placed $15 on black. It was a hit. I did it again. Hit. A third time. Hit.
Suddenly, I’d made $65 in house money. Fletch, who placed on red each time I went black, was losing cash fast. Soon enough, he’d lost everything. Then for me, a loss, another loss, and a third.
I kept thinking I’d win it back. How wrong I was.
Then the three of us headed to Fremont Street, away from the Strip. Fremont is a step away from the glitz and glamour of the rest of the city. It felt real, more authentic. The streets were dirty, unlike those by the Bellagio, which are kept immaculate by custodians. We traded in New York, New York for live music and a group of dancers.
Eventually, we found a secluded set of stairs, lit a cigarette, and called an Uber. On our way into our driver’s Tesla, Fletcher slipped on a pile of puke.
Promises are meant to be broken. I couldn’t hold onto my casino cash forever and Fletcher’s Vans were ruined.
Vegas’s glory crumbled before us. What remained were the bonds of siblinghood.
