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A surreal adventure through the underbelly of the Las Vegas Strip.
I was startled awake by a knock on the door. My bleary eyes blinked a vaguely familiar hotel room into focus. Where was I, again?
Oh yeah. My head was throbbing from the kind of hangover that can only be manifested by a six-night stay in Las Vegas. I was in bed alone at the Mandalay Bay. How the hell did I end up here?
After a weekend convention packed with handshakes, powerpoints, client dinners, and networking receptions, I had the brilliant idea to extend my trip and enjoy one more night solo in Sin City. I drank a million drinks and spent a million dollars and woke up to a million texts from friends back east about the gnarly blizzard that had buried Manhattan under a million feet of snow.
Shit.
Predictably, my flight was canceled and it would be three more days until I could get home. Also predictably, the next 72 hours were filled with bad decisions. I drank and gambled and drank some more, saving money by eating In-N-Out for lunch every day. By the sixth evening, my body had begun a full-on revolt.
“Who’s there?” I groaned sheepishly in the general direction of the door.
“Maintenance,” replied a calm, dreamy voice.
“What for?” I hadn’t called the front desk for anything. Had I?
The last thing I remembered was giving it the ol’ college try, attempting to knock a few back at the Delano lobby bar before hitting the tables. But as soon as that first Maker’s Manhattan touched my lips, I started to sweat. My mouth went dry, I started shivering, and everything around me appeared to pulse in time with my heartbeat.
I recalled fumbling to pay the check, clammy hands smearing ink all over the merchant copy. And then I was pretty sure I staggered to the elevator, my wide-eyed face staring back at me in the mirror as I ascended.
Had I damaged something during my delirious retreat to the room?
Just then, the smoke detector above me beeped, snapping me back to the present with a loud warning of its depleting battery life.
“You seem to have a chirp in there,” said the voice outside the door.
Begrudgingly, I rolled out of bed and squinted through the peephole. I was still confused about how and why the maintenance man was standing outside my door before I had even noticed the beeping. But now that I had noticed it, I wasn’t going to get any precious sleep unless it got resolved. And I really needed to sleep this one off.
“C’mon in,” I mumbled, half blind against the hallway light. The shadowy maintenance man lumbered into the room and closed the door behind him, leaving us both in complete darkness for a terrifying couple of seconds.
Finally the room illuminated with a disorienting click, blinding me once again.
“Sorry about that,” said the maintenance man. “I certainly did not mean to startle you.”
“Christ. I thought I was about to get mugged,” I grumbled.
“Goodness no! I assure you that would not be necessary, considering I can already access all of the guest safes,” he chuckled and jangled the comically large keyring on his belt.
“Yeah, okay, whatever, it’s fine,” I assured him. “Go ahead and do what you gotta do.”
“That is precisely what we are all doing, are we not, Mr. Talmage?”
How did he know my name? I really didn’t have any recollection of dialing the front desk. Could they have sent him here on their own? And even if they did, why would he bother to learn who I was?
“Did I call down or something?” I asked, maybe a little too hysterically.
“Good one, Mr. Talmage. Very funny, sir.”
At that point he went to work. Climbing up on a small ladder (where did that come from?), he began to unscrew the chirping smoke alarm from the ceiling.
“I always feel terribly for our guests when this happens. It is difficult to come into one’s room in the middle of the night to make repairs while one tries to sleep,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Yeah, I hear ya. It is pretty late,” I said pointedly, hoping he’d finish up soon. The clock on the nightstand read 2:03 AM. “What time are you here until?”
“Oh Mr. Talmage, sometimes it feels like I never leave.” As he said this, he lowered his head away from the ceiling he was working on, stared deeply into my eyes, and grinned.
I gave him a slightly bewildered look and rubbed my aching temples. I looked longingly at the bed, hoping for a quick return to slumber.
“You are in luck,” he said, seeming to read my mind. With a casual flick of his wrist, he silenced the alarm mid-beep. “I have recommissioned the battery, so you should not hear another peep out of this blasted gadget tonight.”
I hadn’t actually seen him replace anything. But I wasn’t going to question his methods, I was desperate to get back to sleep.
He continued. “Take care of yourself, Mr. Talmage. Be sure to hydrate.”
While it was strange to be accepting medical advice from the overnight maintenance worker at a casino, he did have a point.
“Hey man, I actually could use a Gatorade or something. Is there a vending machine on this floor?” I inquired.
“Why, of course, Mr. Talmage. And because of the inconvenience you have suffered this evening at the hands of that pesky device, I dare say you have earned yourself a complimentary beverage. Before you make your selection, hold down the pound sign and press B1. Your beverage will be dispensed free of charge,” he asserted.
“Pretty cool hack,” I said.
“It sure is, Mr. Talmage. I assure you this job does come with privileges. Not the least of which is a detailed knowledge of the hotel’s many… secrets.”
“What kind of secrets?” I asked, starting to get even more weirded out, but also kind of intrigued.
“Those, my friend,” the maintenance man insisted, “must remain undisclosed. At least for the present moment.”
And with that, he was gone. The room was eerily silent without him and the incessant beeping. The dry desert air scratched at my throat as I yawned deeply. I really needed that vending machine.
I staggered down the hall, eager to quench my thirst. I finally reached the humming drink dispenser, located the Frost Arctic Blitz, held the pound sign, and pressed B1 as instructed. As my drink was dispensed, the opening riff of MGMT’s “Electric Feel” began playing at a thunderous volume.
With a subtle, almost imperceptible motion, the vending machine's front panel shifted, revealing a concealed hinge. There was a whoosh of air, almost like a sigh of surrender to some unknown command. The panel swung open silently, revealing a passage bathed in an eerie neon light — an otherworldly glow that pulsed to the beat of “Electric Feel” as it progressed through its chorus.
Suddenly, I felt energized. The secret corridor, veiled from the world by the guise of a mundane vending machine, seemed to call to me with promises of untold adventures yet to be embarked upon. It was a portal to the unknown, a passage into the enigmatic depths of the concealed world beyond — a world where mysteries whispered, and shadows danced in silent reverie. For those who dared to enter, the vending machine was not merely a dispenser of drinks; it was a guardian of secrets and a gateway to realms uncharted.
And there, at the end of the hidden passageway, stood the maintenance man.
“Ah, Mr. Talmage. I have been expecting you. Are you ready to discover the many mysteries of the Mandalay?”
He tossed me a fifth of Jim Beam, from which I took a hearty swig — chased with a refreshing gulp of Frost Arctic Blitz.
“Fuck it,” I shrugged. “Vegas, baby!”
I followed my enigmatic guide into the passageway, which led deep into the bowels of the resort. We passed the bottle of Jim Beam back and forth and ventured forth silently, until a chlorinated scent in the air indicated that we were nearing the hotel’s massive pool area. We emerged from a tunnel beneath the tiki bar and were immediately handed enormous tropical drinks by a man in a purple smoking jacket and matching bowler hat.
“Thank you, Xavier,” said the maintenance man.
“You’re welcome, sir. You’re just in time,” replied Xavier. He nodded towards the wave pool where a group of two dozen fully-nude acrobats had just begun performing a synchronized swimming and diving routine to the score of Jurassic Park.
Before I could say anything, Xavier and the maintenance man disrobed and dove in, beckoning me to join them. Not one to miss an after hours skinnydip with what appeared to be the cast of Cirque du Soleil, I splashed in behind them, enjoying an awesome, yet damp, front row seat to the private performance.
After the show, the maintenance man disappeared. I figured he was off repairing a drainpipe somewhere else on the pool deck. Unbothered, I sucked down another tiki drink and shot the shit with Xavier for a little while about his previous gig — assistant manager of the largest magic supply store in Nevada.
“Only in Vegas,” I laughed.
Before long, the maintenance man reappeared, fully dressed and completely dry from head to toe. He tossed me a garment bag and said, “Inside is an outfit more appropriate for the remainder of our adventure. Please get changed, sir, if you would.”
I did as he asked, perplexed to find that the expensive black tux inside the bag was a perfect fit.
Once I was dressed, we left Xavier behind and made our way through a few more subterranean tunnels to the House of Blues kitchen. There, amidst towering tubes of jambalaya seasoning and piles of jumbo shrimp, we prepared an extravagant late-night feast. Bacon-wrapped lobster tails, towering triple cheeseburger creations, and endless racks of ribs were devoured with reckless abandon.
But it was in the kitchen's deepest recesses that the next revelation unfolded — a clandestine janitor's closet. Its seemingly unremarkable exterior concealed a room that pulsed with the hum of hidden machinery and the soft glow of countless screens. Inside, I saw Elon Musk and several of his creepy friends, watching in-room cameras in each of the hotel's suites, placing exorbitant prop bets on the whims and follies of its unsuspecting guests. When one of the cameras showed a businessman on the 19th floor masturbating, I watched in bewildered astonishment as Elon pulled out a stopwatch and shouted, “$100 million he lasts more than two minutes!”
Ninety seconds later, I watched Elon Musk lose $100 million to some weirdo named Carl.
“Tough break, E-dawg,” I said, passing him a fresh bottle of Jim Beam from the maintenance man’s stash.
“You win some, you lose some,” said Elon, taking a giant pull from the bottle and passing it back to me. He farted loudly and disappeared into his hyperbaric chamber to sleep.
“Do come along now, Mr. Talmage,” said my handy tour guide. “Not you, Carl. You creep me out.”
A series of hidden elevators led us up to Tupac's penthouse suite, perched atop the Mandalay Bay like an enigmatic kingdom in the clouds. Rumor had it that Tupac had occupied this lavish abode since 1996, never stepping foot outside. As the maintenance man and I entered the dimly lit, time-frozen sanctuary, I couldn't help but wonder about the life Tupac had led within these walls, cut off from the world yet surrounded by opulence.
“What up, homies?”
The legend himself had emerged from the shadows!
We did a few shots together, Tupac lamenting that all we had was Jim Beam. He’s more of an Evan Williams man himself. After a rousing game of Yahtzee, in which I had to zero out my Large Straight, the maintenance man said it was time to go. The final stop on our epic adventure was calling our names (even though I didn’t know his).
Once back in the secret elevator, the maintenance man passed me a handwritten invitation to a masquerade party at the Shark Reef, a place where the aquatic world and high society converged. We arrived to find guests in elaborate costumes gallivanting alongside the ocean's most magnificent creatures. Their laughter reverberated in the aquarium’s corridors, which, when combined with the shimmering blue reflection of the backlit shark tank, created a ghostly, disorienting atmosphere.
As a whale shark swam overhead, I found myself dancing with masked mermaids, clinking glasses with billionaires, and exchanging ribald secrets about the many famous movie stars who had visited the resort in the past. Owen Wislon was a popular subject in that regard.
Hours seemed to pass as I witnessed the extravagance and absurdity of the night. There were oddball bets, glittering treasures, and a great white shark named King Midas at the center of it all. The scene was a wild rollercoaster of excess and opulence, and I reveled in every moment of it.
Soon, a high-stakes game of shark roulette was in full swing. The billionaire set began wagering on which shark would swallow the golden bait fish in a sea of silver ones. Bets weren't made in dollars but in extravagant trinkets, rare artifacts, and even a baby grand piano once played by Sinatra himself.
With each bucket of bait fish flung into the aquarium, a collective hush descended over the opulent crowd. The sharks, sleek and menacing, seemed to perform a choreographed ballet of anticipation. The water turned electric with suspense as they circled, their eyes darting around to locate their prey. In the background, a jazz quartet played a discordant tune that only added to the weird vibes.
An older businesswoman, known for making her fortune in the rubber duck industry, wagered a solid gold replica of the Titanic, complete with diamond-studded lifeboats. A creepy trust fund baby from Wetzel’s pretzel empire countered with a genuine moon rock, bedazzled with emeralds and sapphires.
“You’re such a nerd, Carl!” I shouted at him from across the Shark Reef.
The night's chaotic culmination was marked by a blast of confetti cannons, which unleashed a blizzard of golden shark’s teeth, both real and counterfeit, into the aquatic arena.
And just as the first light of dawn began to creep over the horizon and in through the gift shop windows, I was jolted awake, back in my Mandalay Bay hotel room. The memories of the dream faded like smoke in the wind, leaving me with a sense of surreal déjà vu.
Because all of that had to be a dream, right? Definitely. It was the fever dream of a delirious man who had been in this godforsaken city for three days too many. But as I packed up to get out of Dodge, I opened the room’s safe. Tucked neatly beside my wallet, watch, and a few spare chips was a solitary golden shark’s tooth.
Anxiously, I tucked the heirloom into my pocket and rolled my suitcase hastily towards the elevators. I took one last glance down the hallway as the doors began to close. About 20 yards away, I noticed a maintenance man up on a ladder, repairing a light fixture.
He winked.