Michelle, part II

I've thought a lot about Michelle, the bartender at the Crown night club, and wondered whether our chance encounter was a genuine friendly moment or just a night club hustle. I haven't been to a strip club since my brother-in-law's bachelor party in 1995 and find them utterly distasteful. Still, I recollect from reading about them in some Bukowski novel that a classic hustle is for the the girl to invite you to buy drinks for two; you end up buying a $25 glass of champagne while she drinks an equally expensive glass of ginger ale. Could it all be an elaborate hustle? I'd prefer to believe it wasn't, but I really need to know. It's not that I mind being hustled--I enthusiastically bet $20 the first time I saw a Three Card Monte game in Manhattan, knowing I was going to be hustled. It's just that I don't want to think I've stumbled on to something real when in reality I'm just being taken for a mark.

My friends are still playing cards at midnight, but it's back to the Crown for me to find out.

At a mere 12:30 a.m. the Crown is in full swing. The narrow bar is totally packed, and Michelle is confidently perched there , dishing out cocktails at 90 mph while delightfully dressed in the same raunchy outfit as before. The left hand side of the bar is packed with NFL-sized black guys in suits, while the right side is 4 deep with a wedding party I guess to be from somewhere in Orange County. There's just enough psychic distrust between the two groups that I can get all the way to the bar between them, where I find myself next to a very inebriated bride.

You can really only appreciate what happens next if you've been 5'5.5" and tried to get a busy bartender's attention. In this case, the bride can't be ignored, so Michelle comes over and asks what I want. "A Heineken," I venture, and then add somewhat shyly "unless you're ready for a couple of shots." Finally recognizing me, she reaches over the bar, grabs both my wrists and squeals "You came back!" Next thing I know there's a Heineken in front of me and she grabs a couple of 6-oz glasses. She grabs a bottle of an exotic blend of Vodka I've never heard of and starts making some concoction. The NFL linebackers are thirsty, the wedding party is restless, but the bartender is ignoring all of them and whisking around a collection of mostly pink-colored liquids (grapefruit juice? sloe gin?) and taking her damn sweet time. Finally, while the rest of the bar is staring at me and having a WTF moment, the witches brew is complete, we clink our glasses in a toast and down the hatch, they're gone. It is at once an ultimately inconsequential and trivial moment and at the same time somehow triumphant; for some reason I get a huge kick out of it, and even today it is one of the fonder memories of my second Vegas trip.

Now it's time to pay the piper. I reach down into my pocket and wonder if, after leaving a huge wad in the hotel safe, I will have enough to pay for it. I am somewhat confused when it comes to $7 until I realize that Michelle has charged me only for the Heineken. I leave a huge tip and walk away, but all of a sudden I am immensely tired and want to be with my friend Stephen. I leave immediately, and go back to the room, still chuckling to myself.