(Las Vegas, NV) She’s an Asian woman who doesn’t speak a ton of English, but I imagine her conversation in the housekeeping room of my floor goes like this.
Housekeeper #1: The boy in 012, he sick boy. He have problem.
Housekeeper #2: It’s Vegas, everybody has problems.
Housekeeper #1: No, he sick boy! He masturbates! He cokehead! All day long!
I couldn’t blame her for making the assumption that I’m a chronic masturbator and hooked on coke. On days when I can’t clean up my room before I run out to work, I leave behind at least one empty bottle of lotion and a Kleenex that may or may not contain evidence of a nosebleed. There are days I should just keep the “Do Not Disturb” sign on the door.
The simple fact is, the evidence is confusing. I’m too tired to pleasure myself, and I don’t use cocaine (the one thing I don’t need in my life is another addiction). In truth, no matter how much water I drink, I can’t stay hydrated. No matter if I drink no booze for 48 hours, I can’t stay hydrated. The result is lizard-like skin and frequent nosebleeds. Nothing I can do.
This is not for a great effort to remain healthy in an environment that caters to being as unhealthy as possible. I’m even betting on how healthy I can be.
The main source of food during the 16-hour workdays here is something they call The Poker Kitchen. Cold food involves wraps and salads. Hot food ranges from burgers to stromboli. Last year, I pretty much ate one piece of over-cooked pizza a day. This year, my first day on the ground, I accepted a bet from Pauly that I couldn’t last the full seven weeks without eating a slice. To this moment, I’m good. However, this is the first day I have been tempted.
I’m $30 to the good in what Pauly calls “Throwing Things” prop bets, in which one or the other of us tosses something (water bottles, matchbooks, a Milwaukee’s Best show girl) into a container. Also so far this year, I have accepted no prop bets that require me eating or drinking anything. Last year, I made hundreds of dollars on those (note: crayons are easier than daiquiris and crackers).
In a dream world, I could set up a staged scenario in which the housekeeper walks in on me, Pauly, and six of our friends from South America. The room would be a snowstorm of cocaine and an oil slick of Jergens.
My first question to the maid would be, “Would you eat two Keno crayons for $400?”
“You sick boy! Sick boy!”‘