Las Vegas: The Warmth (no pun intended) Of a Reliable Old Friend

I’ve recently returned from a short 3-day excursion to Sin City. If I were counting (and I’m not) I would guess this visit would register somewhere in the 40s, or maybe even possibly low 50s. My love affair with Las Vegas emanates back to the mid-60s when my brother and I would be virtually abandoned at the Sahara Hotel by my otherwise somewhat responsible parents (it was simpler times back then, even in Southern Nevada) on jaunts there during the summer and often during our school’s Christmas break. I recall the first trip as if it was yesterday, but truth-be-told it was the summer of 1965, 53 years ago.

In 1965 Beatlemania was still going strong, Lyndon Johnson was President, and the federal minimum wage was $1.25 per hour. My parents, believing that the resorts were totally safe and secure to allow children to run free, would leave us a room key with copious instructions on how to charge food and beverage to the room. Often, we would awake and they’d already be in the casino, so we’d charge breakfast at the hotel’s grand coffee shop then head to the pool with key in hand.

Sitting poolside with not a care in the world AND an unlimited source of snack and drink (I was 9 and my brother was 6; drink meant a never-ending, keep-em-coming supply of Shirley Temples / Roy Rogers, lemonades, and cokes); if I didn’t utter at the time what a great world we live in, it’s only because that’s not how 9-year old’s think. While my parent’s abandonment was a very real thing, I knew exactly where they were in the resort, and although minors are never permitted to traipse through the casino, we never had any fear or anxiety about missing them. I knew, at that young age how to pick up a house phone and request a page.

I was never bored poolside. As a child I loved to swim, so being at a resort pool with unlimited ability to eat and drink, often meeting other abandon children experiencing the same freedom, was nirvana. I met kids from towns throughout Southern California, became friendly with a couple of boys my age from New York City and a girl from Toronto. I’d stay poolside from roughly 9:00 a.m. until either the pool closed or my parents sought us out for dinner. My brother though, being a few years younger, could only take so much fun-in-the-sun relaxation. He seemed to require more action, which he found at the Bell Captain’s Desk. One of the bellmen, we’ll call him Oscar, was super nice to both of us, and would let my brother follow him as he did his duties. My father, waltzing by the bell desk, sees my brother just hanging out and wonders what’s going on. The bellman tells him that my brother is no bother and that he’s actually “helping.” My father lays a tip on the bellman which solidified a great relationship with him for many years to come.

On subsequent visits, Oscar took my brother and I to a UNLV game at Sam Boyd Stadium, and he checked a friend and I into the Frontier Hotel after the desk clerk refused to register us because we were all of 16 years old and had arrived without a parent or guardian. He became, for a short five minutes, our guardian. That momentous Vegas experience will be touched in greater detail later.

Our relationship with Oscar proved fruitful in other ways too. He would tip us off as to which rooms the celebrities performing at the hotel were staying in, and, given the general lack of security back in those days, we would merely hang out in the elevator lobby of the given floor and wait patiently for a ride down the elevator with the likes of Don Rickles, Buddy Hackett, and Vickie Carr when they exited their respective rooms. Imagine my father’s surprise coming out to the Sahara pool and finding me sitting with Tommy Smothers and Pat Paulsen and their families. Another relationship forged in the elevator lobby of a high floor in the tower. Autographs were never sought. A simpler, gentler Las Vegas to be sure.

While my parents could never be considered Vegas “Whales,” they patronized the Sahara exclusively and left enough money on the tables to be recognized and comped, and they quickly develop rapport with dealers, pit bosses, floor men, and other administration level employees. I recall overhearing lots of discussion about a casino credit line.

By 1968 I was 12 years old and already a veteran of multiple excursions to Vegas. To our surprise, a new hotel/casino with a circus theme had opened across the street from the Sahara, and we were anxious to check it out. My father walked us across busy Las Vegas Boulevard, showed us the family-friendly arcade, deplored us not to enter the casino, gave each of us a $10 bill (a fair amount in those days for a child) anticipating it would last us most of the day, and then scurried back to the casino at the Sahara. I recall having loads of fun, but somehow knew it was not sustainable. While my brother preferred the midway at Circus-Circus, I was missing the glistening blue waters of the Sahara pool. Since he was only nine at the time, I was responsible for keeping an eye on him, so a return visit to Circus-Circus was top of the agenda the next day.

Being 12 going on 21, I took umbrage with my father’s insistence that he needed to chaperone us across busy Las Vegas Boulevard. I convinced him that I was ready, willing and very able to shuttle my brother across the boulevard and safely into Circus-Circus. He readily agreed, and thinking back on it I would say it was more a parental granting of responsibility than bad parenting, but you be the judge. As two boys, ages 12 and 9, wait for the light to turn green at the intersection of Las Vegas Boulevard and Sahara Avenue, a sedan pulls up, window rolls down, and two older ladies ( I was all of 12, so "older" probably meant 25) inquire as to our interest in attending a “party.” Given my resolve to follow my father’s directions to a tee, we say no thanks and mosey on across the street. Only years later, in Vegas while reminiscing with my brother did we comprehend what actually took place. Could these women really be soliciting us, mere children, in the same manner it happens on the casino floor and in the bars within the hotels? My father said we misunderstood the women’s request, but who knows what would’ve become of us had we wanted to go to the party. I mean I was 12; I didn’t know whose birthday it was and hadn’t bought a present. That’s what she meant by party, right?

I know the picture I’ve painted of my parents might’ve landed us in Child Protective Services, but it really wasn’t that bad and I’d like to think the level of responsibility I showed my parents as a pre-teen contributed to the new-found freedom. While a lot of the time spent in Las Vegas as a kid was done without direct parental supervision, my parents always made sure there was a show or two on the itinerary for the family. They wouldn’t (or actually couldn’t due to the “blue” humor) take us to see Rickles, Hackett, or Redd Foxx, who was a staple in the lounge, but we did see the likes of the afore-mentioned Smothers Brothers, Pat Paulsen, and Vickie Carr (all on one Marquee show), and also Sammy Davis Jr, Lou Rawls, Sonny & Cher, Steve & Edie, and the King of Rock n Roll, Elvis Presley.

No promises were made, but during the Christmas break of 1970, my father told us he’d attempt to get a reservation to see Elvis Presley at the International Hotel, directly behind the Sahara on Paradise Road. As soon as we checked in to our Vegas home-away-from-home at the Sahara, I accompanied my father to the International to secure a reservation. My memory of entering the hotel was akin to an Elvis-themed amusement park. Presley classics were loudly played throughout the lobby, large Teddy Bears were strategically placed throughout the casino, kiosks were set up selling every imaginable Elvis souvenir, and every employee wore either a straw hat or button advertising Elvis's run. This was 1970, so Elvis still had a few good years left before he crashed and burned. In two words, he was still relevant and huge! This was validated by the charade that the entire run of nearly a month was completely sold out.

We approached the showroom and were greeted by a tuxedoed gentleman. My father inquired about the possibility of a table for four at either the dinner or late performance. I vividly recall the maître ‘d exclaiming with a degree of arrogance that the entire run was sold out, but to check back next week. Since we were only to be in Vegas THIS week, my father went into overdrive. He asked the maître ‘d if he could leave his name and room number at the Sahara, and if perhaps a cancellation might occur the maître ‘d could simply call him and he’d commit to the reservation. The maître ‘d explained that if he did that for every potential cancellation request, he’d be doing nothing but making phone calls. He stepped away from the host stand for a moment and I witnessed my father taking a $20 bill and quickly folding it so he could hide it in the palm of his right hand. Confused, I watched on. My father scribbled his name, the words SAHARA, and our room number on a slip of paper, handed it to the maître d’, graciously thanking him and extending a handshake. We got no more than a few steps away from the host stand when the maître ‘d requested that my father re-approach. Amazing timing, but a cancellation for the next evening’s dinner show miraculously just became available. In less than 2 minutes? I learned a life lesson that afternoon; a properly folded Andrew Jackson, discreetly and in some respects naively delivered, could instantly turn a no into a yes, especially in Las Vegas in 1970.

The next evening as we approached the showroom I witnessed my father pull the same trick with the host seating us at our table. My father introduced himself with a handshake and a $10 bill, and again, miraculously our table was upgraded from the back of the room to what I later learned is termed “ringside.” We were so close to the stage that we saw every room key, bra, and panties thrown on stage to Presley, who exclaimed, “ah, thank you very much” in that patented Presley style. Seeing Elvis was a highlight of not only my youth, but of my life. The show was fabulous, and, by virtue of it I forever forgave my parents for the bad parenting they exhibited during our Vegas trips. The Presley experience would be one of the last family trips to Las Vegas. Beginning with a fateful trip during the summer of 1973, my excursions to Las Vegas became trips sans parents. My parents provided me with a Vegas primer as an inquisitive child; call it Vegas Lite 1.0. Vegas Lite 2.0 would come with a substantial degree of pain and suffering.

Turning 16 with the new-found freedom of a driver’s license and a hand-me-down car, my closest friend Richard and I began dreaming of a summer trip to Las Vegas. Several months prior, I mentioned the fact to my parents, who blew it off as nothing more than talk. Besides, we were only 16 years old. Vegas was no place for teenagers, we wouldn’t be permitted in the casinos, and it was just a bad idea all-the-way-around. What they didn’t know was that I had already reached out to our bellman friend Oscar to assist us in checking into a hotel if we were denied. In those days you could make a hotel reservation at any of the Strip resorts without a deposit, so I merely called their 800 number and made a three-night reservation.

While I loved the Sahara, and had stayed there probably a dozen times in the past 8 years, it was my parent’s hotel; I wanted to venture out and create my own vision of Las Vegas. I had always taken an interest in the other Strip properties, paying attention to both their physical location and the under-the-breath comments my parents would say (“luxurious,” “dump,” “whorehouse” et al). By age 16 I had also developed my own standards and opinions of the other resorts, albeit not with the same world or Vegas-view my parent possessed. No internet in 1973 to quickly view everything about every resort on the Strip, I was limited to a phone book and a series of 800 numbers calling each property and asking about room rates and availability, and requesting brochures about the properties that were received in the mail. Since Richard and I both had minimum wage, part-time jobs ($1.65 per hour), saving would be paramount, and a budget would need to be strictly adhered to. Our choices of places to stay included The Riviera, the Dunes, and The Frontier. Since the Frontier was far more casual than the Riviera and Dunes, we chose it as we were convinced its informal ambiance would result in a “wink-and-a-nod” as two minors attempted to sit at a blackjack table or play the slots. Couldn’t have been further from the truth, at least for me.

Two weeks before the trip I reminded the owner of the bakery where I worked that I’d be taking off a few days for a vacation that was pre-arranged several months ago; he affirmed it. My parents, however, acted as if I had never uttered a word about it, and they threatened to do everything in their power to put the kibosh on the trip, including taking my car keys away. I don’t recall how the negotiations went, but I must’ve worn them down because when push came to shove there was little objection, with only the typical parental warnings of exerting caution wherever and whenever it was necessary, and, to ensure I used plenty of sunscreen.

My boss at the bakery had a completely different take. On the day before leaving for Las Vegas, as I was closing the store, he arrived to pick up the day’s receipts. I reminded him that I’d be gone for a few days, but back on schedule the next weekend. He failed to recall his approval of my request for the vacation and the reminder two weeks earlier. Bad enough that we were all afraid of him as he carried himself like a mafia captain, and was not beneath threatening physical harm to teenage employees, but he gave me an instant ultimatum; show up for tomorrow’s shift or don’t come back, period. We left for Las Vegas early the next morning.

The 4 ½ hour trip from LA to Las Vegas was uneventful until we arrived at the Frontier Hotel and were denied check-in due to our minor status. Temporary hiccup; called Oscar, who immediately came to the Frontier and checked us in. We checked out the room and decided to hit the casino. Being 16, I looked all of 14. Richard, the same age, was 6 feet tall, had the ability to grow a full mustache, and begun experiencing an extremely premature receding hairline, all to his advantage!

We descend upon the casino in a confident manner, Richard sits down at a blackjack table and is instantly dealt a hand without any scrutiny placed upon his chronological age. As I stand behind him watching the play and sizing up the room for my own attempt at play, I immediately receive a tap on my shoulder from a gentleman in a suit and a Frontier badge that indicates he’s part of the floor security. I recall seeing the communication device jetting out of his ear, which made him look that much more official. My heart jumped out of my chest. He was very cordial and professional, but made it clear that unless I could show identification indicating I was 21 years of age, I couldn’t be in the casino. Then he asked where my parents were. The appropriate answer was 300 miles away in Los Angeles, but I told him they were at the pool. He advised that I join them at the pool and that he had better not see me in the casino again. Trouble averted, to some degree.

On our drive to Vegas, Richard and I discussed how we would specifically spend our time there. For him it was all about gambling. For me, it was about the Vegas experience, with a heavy dose of the Frontier pool. There was also show reservations at the Sands to see Don Adams and Lola Falana. ereTRichard brought $600 to game with, and I reminded him to pace himself by risking only $150 per day, which would get him through the 3-night stay plus the getaway day. After being 86’d from the Frontier Casino, I immediately set myself up at the pool, which, in retrospect was the absolute worst thing I could’ve done on that day.

Sitting on a chaise lounge in the blistering heat, I so thoroughly enjoyed the intense warmth after being in the ice-cold air-conditioned casino that I delayed lathering myself in sunscreen. Oh, wait, the barmaid is here; I’ll have a coke and a club sandwich! No use putting on sunscreen now when my food and drink will be delivered shortly. Long story short, I sat in 100+ degree heat for 5 solid hours without ever putting on sunscreen, seeking shade, or refreshing myself in the actual pool. In other words, I burned raw, but I had no idea of the damage until I walked into the main building and was hit by a gust of cold air conditioning.

As soon as I hit the elevator lobby I knew I had serious problems. My skin felt extremely tight, was lobster red in all areas not covered by a swimsuit, and I felt a wave of nausea come over me. Barely made it to the room before vomiting. Within minutes of arriving in the room Richard arrives and exclaimed that he had lost all the $600 gambling money he brought in a time span of roughly an afternoon. I figured he was joking and that he’d produce a several hundred or thousand-dollar win, but true to his word, Richard had lost every penny he brought save a few bucks for meals. A mini disaster was unfolding, but, we had a dinner show at the Sands to deal with first.

Thinking that a shower would sooth what ailed me, I quickly jumped in and out as the water, regardless of the temperature, caused me intense, searing pain. But panic hadn’t yet set in; I figured getting a little dinner in me, plus the show would take my mind off the burn, until I attempted to put on a pair of socks. Forty-five minutes later, among cries of pain and many expletive deletes, I hadn’t yet dressed complete, but I did have my socks on! I recall the general discomfort of getting in and out of vehicles and walking as every step rubbed and chaffed burnt skin. The show though was a brief respite from my pain; Don Adams was hilarious although it hurt to laugh.

Not feeling any better after the show, we returned to the Frontier to plan our next moves. I figured I could still go out by the pool, although I’d need to stay firmly planted in the shade. Richard figured he’d still spend time in the casino, watching the action since he was now tapped out. Undressing for bed I realized that parts of both legs and the tops of both feet had multiple blisters the size of half dollars. It would be a long 2 more days for both of us as I was self-sequestered in the room, and Richard had to entertain himself by watching the casino action instead of participating.

My parents had requested that I call them when I arrived in Las Vegas and when we were departing. I decided not to mention the small fact about my “minor” case of sunburn when I called to announce our impending departure. Besides, it would probably turn to tan when I got back to LA, and the blisters certainly would clear up. No need to worry the folks; Dad was on a business trip so why excite Mom. We packed our bags; all we had to do was negotiate the 4 ½ hour drive home through the scorching heat of the Mojave Desert. We’d be smart and leave Las Vegas at 6 a.m. with an anticipated arrival in our LA neighborhood by 10:30 that morning. I slowly wedged myself into the driver’s seat of my Ford Mustang (easier said than done when burnt over 60% of one’s body) and headed west on Highway 15. Our milestones were the towns of Baker, Barstow, and Victorville. Check those off as we pass through and we’d be home before we knew it.

Forty-five minutes into our journey home I noticed that simultaneously the radiator gauge was pointing far to the right with a prominent red light illuminating in the middle, and, there was smoke rising from under the car’s hood. Luckily for us (lucky being a relative term in Nevada) we were approaching the single exit for the town of Jean, Nevada. To call Jean a one-horse town is assuming there is actually a single horse there. According to the 2010 census there is nobody, horse or human, living in Jean, and my guess is their has been no population growth there since my last visit. They do, however, have a post office and a catch-all gas station, souvenir outlet, coffee shop combo that has gone by various names through the decades. We stopped there to assess the situation. Once again, getting in and out of the car proved more painful than I could’ve ever imagined.

No one there was prepared to help a couple of stranded teenagers, so, left to our own volition, we assumed the radiator was the problem, given the reading of the gauge. I grabbed a rag out of the trunk and jiggled the radiator cap, which made a whistling noise with each careful semi-turn. Scalding radiator water was a literal fountain as the cap was removed. Neither of us had a clue as to the inner workings of a radiator let alone any part of the car except to fire up the ignition and fill the gas tank. We waited 30 minutes or so for the radiator to cool down then filled it to the brim with water. Upon turning the car on, the radiator gauge went back to the center and froze. See, no reason to panic. A few well-placed screams and grunts getting back in the car and we were off! This problem was nothing more than a small hiccup; we’d look back on this years later and laugh we assured ourselves.

Back on 15 heading westbound, I couldn’t take my eyes off the radiator gauge. Our first return milestone was Baker, CA, which was 60 miles ahead, and it had just a few more people and commerce than Jean. With roughly 10 miles to go, the cooling gauge went haywire and the red light returned. Smoke was clearly evident again under the hood. Now there was a reason to panic. A guardian angel must’ve been watching because we made it to Baker on a smoking, dry radiator. I pulled into what seemed like the only gas station in Baker and asked if we could get a quick repair. The attendant said there was no mechanic and that we’d be better off to find one in Barstow, our second westbound milestone 58 miles away. We repeated the radiator fill-up routine and headed out, hoping it would get us to Barstow and possibly beyond.  There are eight-to-ten small hamlets between Baker and Barstow, including one called Zzyzx, CA. I don’t recall which ones we were forced to stop at, but it took several “rinse and repeat” sessions with the radiator to get us to Barstow.

By the time we pulled into Barstow, it was roughly noon, or six hours after we had departed Las Vegas. Our plan of arriving home by 10:30 a.m. quickly became a not-so-funny joke. We took refuge from the sun at a McDonald’s, and felt it a good of time as any to call home and describe the situation at hand. I told my mother that we were experiencing some car trouble and that we were stranded in Barstow. We had been on the road for six hours and likely could not make it back without the car being repaired, as attempting to drive with radiator problems as we hit suburban / urban traffic would prove to be a nightmare. Oh, and by the way, I have severe burns on 60% of my body.

With my father out of town, my mother grabbed my grandfather and told us to wait in Barstow for their arrival, which took about 3 ½ hours. We nursed soft drinks in McDonald’s until my mother and grandfather arrived. The shock and disappointment on their faces when they saw the condition I was in I’ll never forget. Was I told to be careful, wear plenty of sunscreen? Yes. Did I? Well, I had intended to.

 While we waited at McDonald’s, my grandfather went to a couple of gas stations explaining our dilemma until he found a mechanic who agreed to prioritize our repair. By 7:30 p.m. (or 12 ½ hour after we left Vegas) we were finally on our way home, with me taking up the entire back seat of my mom’s car in a prone position to minimize the sunburn pain, and Richard riding shotgun with my grandfather in the Mustang, which now sported a rebuilt radiator. We arrived back in LA by 11:00 p.m. I’ll hold back on the gory details, but a visit to the doctor the very next morning yielded a diagnosis of severe 2^nd and 3^rd degree burns. I was ordered to bed with my legs elevated, wrapped nearly head-to-toe in gauze supporting an ocean of greasy prescription ointment. I stayed in bed for two solid weeks, only getting up to use the bathroom. When the last dressing was finally removed I peeled for weeks, like a bad case of leprosy.

Neither the broken-down radiator or the bad sunburn were valid excuses for why the trip didn’t quite go as planned. My parent’s take was that we should’ve never gone in the first place, Las Vegas being no place for teenagers, and not doing so would’ve been good for my skin, although the car’s radiator would’ve eventually blown up. Undeterred, I returned to the scene of the crime 2 years later for a repeat performance, only this time at the pool I never came out of the shade although I was lathered with PF50 sunscreen, and I specifically had the radiator checked prior to leaving Los Angeles. That trip was uneventful; I didn’t attempt visits to casinos but continued to enjoy the tropical pool area and overall Vegas vibe.

“Las Vegas is a nice place to visit, but you wouldn’t want to live there,” the saying goes. Still, when a promotion opportunity came my way at the end of 1979 to relocate to Las Vegas I jumped at the opportunity. I would now be a resident and view the city from a completely different lens, or so I thought. Newly married, we took an apartment down the street from the UNLV campus and began exploring our new town. This was a very different Las Vegas than today; the state had less than 800,000 residents in 1979. Today the Las Vegas metropolitan area alone has more than 2 million. Back then drive 10 minutes in any direction and you were more likely to find tumbleweeds and cactus than commerce or people.

While I had absolutely no prior experience with Las Vegas proper, I was quite the expert on the Vegas Strip, and to a lesser extent, downtown. My new colleagues found it hilarious that I still patronized the Strip. In their world, no locals would ever be caught there unless dropping off or picking up a friend or family member at a resort. They showed me a Las Vegas that I’d never be aware of left to my own desire, recommending restaurants and small casinos that were local friendly. Several of my colleagues moonlighted as bartenders and dealers at off-strip and downtown casinos, hoping to escalate their careers to a major Strip property. When they found out that through a family member my wife was literally “green lighted” a job at the MGM Grand with no prior casino experience, my newly-found Vegas cred was elevated quite a bit, and I overheard constantly that I must have “juice” on the Strip. This made me both popular and reviled. Still, after 6 months we came to the realization that Las Vegas was indeed a very nice place to visit, but we really didn’t want to live there, so we promptly quit our jobs and moved to Los Angeles.

Since ending my Vegas residency (I like the sound of that!) the city has become a special destination for “bro” reunions with my brother (we’ve done several), 21^st Birthday celebrations (my daughter complied; my son failed at the “no honk guarantee”), concerts, and, well, just because. Spent two straight Christmases there as an alternative to unnecessary family drama.  I never need an excuse to go to Las Vegas.

Over the past 40 years my trips to Las Vegas have been short on gambling and long on bliss. My gambling pattern and strategy will never produce life-changing money; nor does it have to, it’s all about entertainment and relaxation. Simply place me in the shady heat by day (in a Cabana if a large party), a sublime eatery at night, a show that resonates, the occasional adult beverage; throw in a few hours in the sports book and I’ll find complete satisfaction in the warmth of my 50+ year friendship with the town.