Vegas, 4:00-5:30 a.m.

The last hour, following Dana’s suggestion, I have a margarita and then a beer while we rack up our chips, but I am still way too wound up to even think about sleeping when I finally leave the poker room at 3:45 a.m. I rush back to my room, drop off my stuff, and race off to try to make Last Call at the Voodoo Lounge. I’m too late, and out of desperation check out Court, the Rio’s attempt at a hot night club. It’s on its last throes, a half dozen couples making out in the lounges or weaving aimlessly on the dance floor. I sidle up to the bar to virtuously order a bottle of water. The bartender is tall and very attractive in a fierce sort of way. She’s dressed in a variant of Vegas sleaze that’s strikes a resonant chord somewhere near my root chakra: a black halter top low enough to cover almost nothing of her pink bra, short black leather pants, coarse fishnet stockings, and black leather boots. I hand her $8 for the $6 bottled water and figure that’s the end of it—after all, I’m at least twenty years older than anyone else in the joint, I’ve been sweating profusely playing poker for thirteen hours and I’m dressed in my faux-businessman wrinkly collared shirt. For some reason she strikes up a conversation with me and wants to know what I think of her club. Then she offers to treat us to a couple of shots on her tab and I hesitate for a nanosecond before thinking “Hey, this is Vegas.” I suggest tequila and she makes a face and counters with Vodka and Red Bull. I tell her the Red Bull would keep me up for days and I have a poker tournament at noon (a slight exaggeration, but I want to make it clear this is my last shot). It’s settled: a Vodka Red Bull for her, and a vodka cranberry shooter for me. We knock them back and, not wanting to overstay my welcome, I start to drift off. “Come on back when you’re not in a tournament,” she says, and adds “Tell the bouncers you’re Michelle’s guest and you won’t have to pay anything.”

On my way back to the room I notice two very attractive and quite tipsy young Asian girls getting more money at the cashier’s line. I think nothing of it until I see them five minutes later in the gift shop. One of them is taking a picture of the other fanning a sheaf of hundreds and acting like she just won it all at the tables. As I always do, I offer to take their picture together and of course they agree. I can’t help busting them by mentioning that I saw them withdraw all that money at the cashier’s cage. They’re not the least beat sheepish about it and flash me a big grin. It takes me a while to locate a toothbrush and the other sundries I’m looking for. When I finally make it to the cash register, they’re in line ahead of me with a bottle of vodka, a bottle of Kahlua, and a six-pack of beer, obviously meant for immediate consumption.

At times like this I wish I’d discovered Vegas when I was single.