YOU CAN'T TRUST A FART AFTER FORTY

PLEASE BE ADVISED, THIS COLUMN CONTAINS: ETHNIC SLURS, TOILET HUMOR, EXTREME VIOLENCE, RAW SEXUALITY, HARSH LANGUAGE, DRUG USE, FAMILY BETRAYAL AND WHAT MIGHT BE CONSTRUED AS CRUELTY TO ANIMALS.

Everybody loves Las Vegas stories.  Mine are usually sanitized for the enjoyment of the majority but today's has a hardcore spin on politically incorrect issues.

Casino life subjects its workers to knuckleheads and oddballs, on both sides of the table. I dealt, in both Atlantic City and Las Vegas, and my experiences out west were far more frequent and acute. In Vegas, it seemed every other person was an eccentric, weirdo or character. So looking back, it's laughable to think of the caliber of the loonies whose company I avoided when you consider the rejects I befriended.

The downtown Holiday International Casino, (1979), was a tremendous career boost. I only had five months experience and was working with savvy masters of the business . So during my four-month stint, I had fun getting quality mentoring by a kooky yet entertaining staff.

"THE HOLIDAY" WAS MY THIRD CRAPS DEALING HOUSE.  IT WAS A BEAUTIFUL, MODERN CASINO THAT WAS DESTINED TO FAIL BECAUSE OF ITS TERRIBLE LOCATION, AT THE NORTH END OF MAIN STREET.

The Holiday was step up for beginners like me but it was a hellish refuge for polished professionals who fell from high places. Paul "Shag" Darrow (33), a free-spirited coke-fiend typified that notion and was my favorite pit boss, ever..

IN THE 70's BEFORE CRACK,  USERS DILUTED THEMSELVES INTO THINKING THAT COCAINE WAS THE CADILLAC OF HARMLESS,  RECREATIONAL DRUGS.   STATUS-MINDED PEOPLE LIKE PAUL DARROW ADVERTISED HOW "COOL" THEY WERE BY WEARING COKE PARAPHERNALIA AS JEWELRY.  IN SHAG'S CASE, A RAZOR BLADE TIE CLIP.  

Darrow had dealt high-limit craps in the best casinos in town.  Despite his fancy credentials, he was only toiling at our dump until something better came along. To cushion his massive fall from grace and the boredom, was to be wired, (we used twenty-five cent chips and had a fifty-dollar house maximum).  He also had a strange curiosity concerning vermin.  His worldliness was limited to have only lived in upscale Newport Beach (California) and Las Vegas.  So he took a liking to me because I was a New Yorker who could spin exaggerated yarns about roaches, water bugs and his favorite, rats.

My four main supervisors under him were characters too.  Jess (26) a Vietnam vet who shared his graphic sexual exploits with innocent civilians he "met" while in action. 

Dwayne (28) the pride of Bend Oregon was a ridiculous liar.  If he said the sky was blue, I wouldn't bet on it. He concentrated on implausible gambling dribble but his audience knew it was nonsense due to his tell, (the habit of widened his eyes and leaning in close to his target). 

Noah (32) was spacey but the most intelligent of the group.  He dwelled on missing the hippie lifestyle and fantasized about moving to a commune in Maine.  

The biggest screwball of them all was Dick Paynlewski (41).  He was a dopey loser, who drank too much, gambled too much and with the exception of prostitutes, had trouble relating to women.  

In their own way, these men were all supportive in helping to hone my craps dealing craft. But Paynlewski stood out as the only one, I ever thought of as a friend.

PUT A YOUNGER BOB UECKER (above) IN A CHEAP, WRINKLED SUIT.  ADD BAD TEETH,  A CONFUSED, DOUR AND PASTY COMPLEXION AND YOU HAVE THE PERFECT ACTOR TO PLAY DICK PAYNLEWSKI IN THE FILM VERSION OF HIS LIFE.

Dick was a prime character in my short story, "AGNES CARMICHAEL, OF THE CARMICHAEL CALIFORNIA CARMICHAELS."  If you think the title is mouthful then you're a perceptive person.  Because there was a two-year gap from the time I worked with Paynlewski at the Holiday until I saw him again...that's when Agnes "the Mouthpiece" Carmichael, (in a match made in heaven), became his first ever "real" girlfriend.

In 1981, I lost my craps dealer position at the Stardust Casino. Similar to the Holiday, the best rebound  job I could muster was a toilet called the Vegas Club.  To lament this devastation, after my first night, I met my former roommate Ciro the Hero, (before he became Ciro the Zero), at Binion's Horseshoe.  

We caught-up for an hour and at 5:AM, we crossed the street to Hotel Fremont and shot craps. The one other player at their only open table, was a  plumpish woman around thirty with a shiny face full of purple zits and a low-cut blouse.  She approached.after our unsuccessful session and tried hitting on Ciro.  Up close, she had frizzy, disorganized hair and chipped tooth that made her goofy.

Ciro politely brushed her off.  We tried to pass but she blocked his path, arced her back to promote her stretch-mark ravaged cleavage and said, "What's the rush?  I just want to be friendly."  Ciro got serious fast, "Get your fat tits and fat ass out of my face."  She grabbed his arm, "Hey, my father can make big trouble for you.  He's a big man in Carmichael...everyone in Sacramento knows him."  Ciro said, "Well you ain't him and the last time I looked Dorothy, you ain't in Kansas no more."  She said, "Daddy's a big man here too.  He has a forty-thousand dollar credit line at the Landmark (casino) alone.  Everyone in Vegas knows the name Cyrus Carmichael.  And when I finish blackjack school, he's gonna juice me into any casino I want."

Ciro faked an apology.  She smiled, "That's okay, let's go for a drink."  He said, "You're cute but I have a girl and she's the jealous type."  It was a half-truth because his girlfriend was a married woman that he was having Thursday afternoon relations with...and she didn't care how he spent the rest of his time.  Coincidentally, this girl was an assistant cage manager at the Landmark.  The next day, Ciro called her at work.  She confirmed that Cyrus Carmichael owned a real estate company and was indeed a big player from Carmichael California.

In the weeks that followed, I didn't transition well to the lowly Vegas Club.  In addition to making peanuts compared to the Stardust, one of my new supervisors, Ralph Winters, (a Wayne Newton wannabe), kept trying to jackpot me, (get me in trouble).  

Winters' reputation as an ignorant hater was well deserved. Once on a live game, a blackjack floorman Edmund Khalifa (a Catholic born in Dearborn Michigan of Arab descent), came to take up a collection for our terminally ill shift manager's surprise party.  Winters was such a prick and scoffed in front of the customers, "Beat it you fuckin' pushy camel jockey."

Khalifa left in a huff. To lighten the mood Winters bragged to us, "There's a new keno writer, a real train-wreck, who loves to give head."  We were a captive audience at our craps stations and compelled to listen.  He rattled off names of our coworkers who, "The Mouthpiece" had already serviced on the roof of the Horseshoe garage. 

That keno writer was Agnes Carmichael.  Her Mr. Wonderful daddy, didn't make good on his promise to get her a great dealing job.  So "Carmichael" as her name-tag read took her future into her own hands...or in this case, mouth.

Soon her persuasiveness or as she called it, "friendliness" paid-off as she sucked her way to a blackjack dealer job, at our bottom-of-the-barrel Vegas Club. She had a couple of weeks experience when I saw my long-lost supervisor Dick Paynlewski walk in.  He was with a local casino hustler, Simon "Coat-Rack" Rhett.  When Rhett left, fate brought Paynlewski to Carmichael's BJ table.

On one of my breaks I spotted Dick dousing a chili dog with hot sauce, at the snack bar.  He was drunk, slurring his words and holding the counter for stability. I didn't mention the dog crap-like dollop of beans on his brown shoe as he made it obvious that he hadn't changed.  

Paynlewski was still at the Holiday and frustrated about gambling away all his money.  He said unkind things about female Asian dealers and added, "I don't even know why they let scum like that in our country.  Hell, they ain't even Christians."  I said, "Dick, I'm not Christian."  "Don't worry buddy," he burped, "you know you're okay."

He grilled me about Carmichael but I wanted to know why he was hanging around with that parasite Coat-Rack.  Coat-Rack (70+) had been famous for selling table game systems to naive suckers, as a "past-poster," short-change artist and rail thief. In his advanced age, he evolved into supposed leigtamacy by being a walking pawn shop.  He loaned down-and-out gamblers money but took disproportionally expensive items as collateral.  

I asked, "What did you hock with Coat-Rack?"  Dick said, "Nuthin'.  This time I bought a big-ass attache case full of eight track tapes.  Now tell me about Carmichael?"  I shrugged, "She's new.  I don't really know..."  Dick interrupted, "She's really funny.  Wanna hear what she said?"  Before I could respond he added, "After I lost my last buck she said, 'After work, I'm having a party in my mouth.  Wanna come?'''  He saw my raised eyebrows and said, "Get this.  Then she says, 'don't worry about my chipped tooth, I know what I'm doing.'"  I said, "Sounds like a keeper."

We were walking back to my game and Dick whined, "I'm tired of all the Pollack jokes...do you think I should change my name?"  I said, "To what...Joe Paynlewski?"  He called me an asshole and added, "Remember the time Shag was all coked-up and threw a ferret on our (craps) table.  At that split second, how was I supposed to know that he was the one who did it.  Shit, I broke my nose trying to catch that rat." 

How could I forget...that is the funniest thing I ever saw inside a casino...or out.  Dick showed me the scar where the varmint bit him, "I was a victim of circumstance.  That could've happened to anyone but every goddamned day, all I hear at work are dumb Pollack jokes......" I cut his rant off, "When did you splurge and get a car and since when do you listen to music?"  He pointed to his temple, "I got an old beater off Coat-Rack and for ten more bucks, he threw-in all those eight tracks.  I don't need a player for it 'cause it's an investment. I'm going to resell those babies."  I went off-topic because my head was about to explode, "Dick, don't change your name.  Save your money, that shit is expensive.  Besides, you should be proud of your heritage.  Don't let small minds influence you."  I didn't think he was listening as he asked, "Could you spot me a twenty till pay-day?"  I said, "Sorry. I work here. I'm broke."  He muttered, "Some friend you are."

Carmichael and Dick soon were a couple.  He became a mature father figure who provided unconditional acceptance to her shortcomings.  And he got his first prolonged relationship and a sense of calm.  But after a short time, their co-dependency, (drinking and gambling), accentuated the boundless insecurities of their purposeless, helter-skelter lives.  Still, Carmichael came off as happy-go-lucky but when Dick found out that she considered her ongoing oral sex escapades as an act of friendliness, he became more irrational each time.

In the middle of a Vegas Club shift, I snuck out to take an audition for a better job, (the Horseshoe).  On my way back in the stinking alley behind the Golden Goose Slot Parlor, I saw Dick and Carmichael having a violent argument.  He said, "I heard you took on five guys last night."  She said, "I'm faithful to you.  That isn't sex...I was only being friendly...besides, it was only three guys."  Dick palmed her face like a basketball and shoved her down onto the wet, filthy pavement.  He cried, "Even one guy is cheating!"  Dick was about to kick her side when I said, "Hey!"  He ran off and yelled, "Whore!"

Why they stayed together, I'll never know because she never changed. It seemed that whenever I saw them, they were drunk, gambling, arguing or all three simultaneously.

   

Around that time, Ciro's casino cronies were meeting at a spa on an Indian Reservation, near the Utah state line. He invited me along.

(STOCK PHOTO)  I CAN'T REMEMBER THE NAME OF THE PLACE. BUT I KNOW THE KIDDIE POOL WAS SHAPED LIKE A TOMAHAWK AND THE ONLY BUILDING HAD A BAR, GIFT SHOP AND LUNCH COUNTER.

At the resort, we were surprised to see Carmichael and Dick in the tiny crowd.  She greeted me enthusiastically in a one-piece crimson bathing suit.  Dick, in brown trousers, a dress shirt and loafers looked like he was ready to go to work.  He and Ciro seemed acquainted. They shook hands but Dick remained serious and indifferent.  Carmichael smiled and poked his rib, "I know Steve from work but..." Dick snarled, "Ciro, this is Agg.  It's short for Aggravating." 

Later, Ciro and I were walking into the men's locker room and Carmichael followed us in.  She blithered about how great the mineral hot springs were and unzipped her swimsuit.  She removed one of her shoulder straps and said, "Am I getting a sun burn?"  Before we answered she pouted, "Maybe its hard to tell."  So she pulled down the other side, to fully expose her boobs.  Ciro said, "A lady needs privacy when she gets undressed."  She said, "A gentleman would look the other way."  He walked up to her, guided her into a shower stall and began kissing her breasts.  I scurried out.

I went into the U-shaped bar. I found Dick nodding out with his elbow on the bar with his hand propping up his head.  A half eaten hamburger, some nibbled onion rings and a double-scotch was in front of him.  I went on the opposite side and ordered a beer.  

In a while, grinning Ciro marched in.  Dick suddenly woke-up and bolted out the door.  Ciro and I laughed at his odd behavior.  Dick returned, gulped down his drink and blushed, "You can't trust a fart after forty."  Ciro couldn't hold back his hysterics and walked out.  Dick got the attention of the Native-American bartender, held up his empty glass and used a poor, stereotypical accent to say, "Hey chief, me trade-um wampum for heap more fire-water." 

Outside, Ciro bumped into Carmichael and she led him back in.  Instead of sitting with her boyfriend, she stood between Ciro and me.  She pinched Ciro's nose and declared, "I'll be your best friend if you buy me a beer." She chugged the big mug dry and began massaging both of our crotches at the same time.  Her hands were hiddened by the bar as Dick said, "You better not be giving Ciro a hand job."  He was walking out in disgust as Carmichael said, "I wouldn't think of giving Ciro a hand job."  She whispered to us, "I'm giving Ciro AND Steve a hand job."

On the hour-long drive back Ciro gushed, "Carmichael is fuckin' talented.  It must come from gobs of experience.  If giving head was an Olympic event, she'd win the gold medal. She puts these exploding Pop Rocks candies in her mouth when...wait!"  He interrupted himself and said, "Forget that, check this out.  Carmichael said Dick farts in his sleep, farts during sex and once shit in the bed when he came."  I said, "No?"  Ciro said, "Well, even a medium-sized wet fart would be shitting the bed to me." We laughed all the way back to Vegas.

That night at the Vegas Club, Edmund Khalifa told Carmichael that Ralph Winters complained to the terminally ill shift manager about getting strong-armed for his now, non-surprise birthday party. She told off Winters and turned her interest to family man Khalifa.  A week later, after a few oral sessions in his car, Edmund implied that he was leaving his wife for her.  She decided to dump Dick.

Khalifa brought Carmichael to one of his brother's unoccupied rental properties.  Two hours later, at six-thirty in the morning, he insisted on giving her cab fare.  To save time, they waited outside on the second floor landing.  Khalifa become aloof.  He looked at his watch and calculated that he might be able to get home before his wife.  Carmichael didn't appreciate how the festivities were unfolding.  She thought that Dick would never discard her this way, until with a deep sigh she realized that Edmund just rocked her world like no other...and for so long.  Her disappointment in "Eddie" for not taking her back to her car subsided as a new sensation radiated within her.  She smiled grabbed Khalifa's crotch, unzipped his fly and said, "Eddie, you were right, I did like it in the butt.  Let's go back inside and..."  Suddenly a yellow taxi turned the corner. He pulled up his zipper and said, "What are crazy?  I have neighbors."  He gave her a ten-dollar bill...and the bum's rush.

Back in her car, the digital clock atop the Mint Casino read, 7:11.  She felt lucky and headed home to cook her twelve-year old daughter Harlene breakfast and drive her to school.

The Gilbert O'Sullivan song  "Alone Again, Naturally," came on the radio as Carmichael drove south on Paradise Road.  She was singing along as she entered the Charleston Boulevard intersection.  Carmichael smiled lightly.  She was squirming from the pleasant feeling in her rectum as a speeding drunk ran the light and plowed into her driver side door.

Carmichael spent the next seventy-two hours in ICU, clinging to life with the help of a respirator.  

Harlene had left a message for her powerful grandfather. He didn't come to town, return her call or contact the hospital.  Instead, a reprentative of Carmichael Realty Enterprises arranged with the billing department, "to spare no expense."  Carmichael was situated in a deluxe private room.  By the third day, the room was adorned with three over-sized bouquets with an identical new "note:"  From Cyrus Carmichael.

On that third day, Harlene phoned Dick.  The lost soul was tipsy but arrived fifteen minutes later at the hospital with the apparent sobriety of a judge. He bickered with the nurses but because he wasn't family, he wasn't allowed in...until sobbing Harlene insisted.  

Carmichael had feeder tubes coming from her abdomen.  She was breathing on her own but was still in a coma. Dick's belly shuddered as a nurse summarized from her chart, "Ms. Agnes has suffered a broken hip and has internal bleeding." He cried as she continued, "In addition to innumerable other injuries, her spleen and a kidney have already been removed, and she'll never get pregnant again."

Harlene left with her friend's parents at 10:PM. Dick decided to stay the night.  He lovingly, kissed Carmichael's face, rubbed her arm and whispered words of encouragement.  Hours later, he emptied her bedpan and was washing it as he began rehearsing a marriage proposal. He returned to her side and contorted his body so he could clean her bottom. He was giving her one last wipe as she painfully moaned.

Dick sprang up.  He was about to ring for help as Carmichael softly groaned, "Eddie, put it in my butt again..."  Dick couldn't believe his ears.  He snuggled up to her and whispered, "What did you say?"  There was no answer.  Dick said, "This is Eddie, what do you want?"  Barely audible she croaked, "You were right Eddie, I did like it in the butt...do it again."

Paynlewski punched the wall.  In a frenzy, he paced while trying to figure out what to do.  Carmichael garbled, "E-E-Eddie," he grabbed her throat and choked her.  At that same instant Dick's stomach seized up on him.  His mad dash avoided a tragedy and the ultimate embarrassment.  He got out of the toilet, smashed one of the lavish bouquets to the ground and stormed away.

Dick guessed that Eddie was Carmichael's coworker.  He sped through the sparse traffic downtown.  At 3:AM, he haphazardly parked on Ogden Street and jogged to the Vegas Club's rear entrance.  Dick began asking employees, "Is Eddie working tonight?"  His quest was made more difficult because everyone knew Khalifa, only as Edmund. Finally a roulette dealer answered, "There's no Eddie's on this shift...unless you mean Edmund, he's the floorman watching that last BJ table."

Paynlewski was seething in hatred and bent on revenge.  He recognized Edmund's Middle Eastern coloring and wanted to attack the reprehensible heathen who defiled the girl he wanted to marry.  Dick noticed an approaching security guard and decided that this was not the time to confront his rival.

Dick ran out and began searching every downtown casino.  Hours passed.  He was so sleep deprived that it looked like he was in a trance.  The third time he checked the Union Plaza Casino he saw a short, downtrodden hustler and asked, "Have you seen Coat-Rack?"  The flea said, "No, he's probably home.  Simon only comes out at night."  Dick said, "Night? What time is it?"  He slowly pulled out a beat-up, antique, silver pocket watch and said, "That's funny.  I bought this off Simon five years ago..."  Dick stopped him, "Yeah, yeah whatever..."  The man said, "Hold your horses buddy boy," as he donned a pair of glasses with one frame missing.  He held the watch to his ear and muttered, "Jeez.  It musta stopped. But I can tell you with certainty that it's half past noon."  Dick was confused as the man pointed to the digital clock on the roof of the Mint Casino.

Paynlewski's reflex was to hit him, instead he demanded, "Where does he live?"  The opportunist extended his right palm, "Don't get so bossy.  My memory ain't what it used to be."  Dick slammed a five into the derelect's palm and yelled, "Where?" 

Dick ran back to his car.  He ripped a parking ticket off the windshield and raced away. Six blocks away, he saw a dilapidated two-car garage behind 37 Cincinnati Street. In a shady spot, Coat-Rack, in green leisure-suit pants, a western shirt and bolo tie, sat on a tree stump sipping apricot brandy from a pint bottle .

Paynlewski grabbed the old-timer's elbow and prodded him inside."Simon, you gotta gun for sale?" Coat-Rack drawled, "Whoa big fella...before I tell you if I have such an item, you gotta tell me what you need it for."  Dick didn't answer.  Coat-Rack probed Dick's eyes and said, "You look like shit."  He didn't wait for a response. "This ain't another one of your stupid POE-LACK ideas...you know you still gotta back-up the five C's you owe me from last week's Poe-Lack bullshit."  Paynlewski nodded as he  silently absorbed the shame.  The old man shouted,  "Y'all think I just fell off a turnip truck?  C'mon now Buster, speak up!  Swear to me that you ain't aimin' to kill nobody?"  Dick was staring at the ground as he sniveled, "I-I swear."

Through a sea of hapharzard merchandise littering every inch of the floor, Coat-Rack tip-toed to a bureau. His matching polyester suit jacket was dangling on a hangar from the open drawer as he shuffled through small items until pulling out a .25.

The sermon started with keeping the good name of Simon Rhett out of any police reports.  He took a deep breath, "Lookey here sonny, if the cow patty hits the fan, you found this piece behind a dumpster!  If you fuck-up, remember, this pee-shooter might be hot.  Plus you got no license and you ain't getting no paperwork neither.  Jesus H.  Christ, I don't even know if you know how to use this damned thing."  Dick said, "Looks like a toy"  He grabbed for it but Coat-Rack pulled it back, "Sixty, in cash, now."

Armed with a two-minute tutorial and a loaded Saturday Night Special, Paynlewski returned to his tiny efficiency apartment. In a juvenile manner he stood in front of the bathroom mirror and practiced drawing.  Soon, he felt like a pro and put it in his pants pocket.

Dick went to the hospital and trudged up the corridor towards Carmichael's room.  At the nurse's station, he got mobbed and was given the rock star treatment.  The women called it a miracle and congratulated his TLC and patience for pulling Agnes out of her coma.

In the room, a fourth bouquet was set next to the reassembled one that Dick had broken.  He was surprised to see Harlene and her friend cheerfully sitting beside lucid Carmichael.  The patient was sipping cranberry juice when Dick asked the two adolescents to give him a little one-on-one time with Carmichael.  The gigglers were on the way out as Zombie-like Dick confidently gripped the concealed gun .  He was swooping in for the kill as Carmichael gasped, "I'm sorry." Dick withdrew an empty hand from his pocket.  She continued, "I was weak, I strayed, please forgive me...I did 'it' with another man."  Tears streamed down her face.  Paynlewski was at a loss.  His anger melted.

He took her hand. She sobbed, "They told me what you did for me...I almost died."  Dick gingerly kissed all over her face.  She was becoming woozy and weakly grabbed at his groin.  She was on the verge of passing out as she felt the gun's short barrel, "Wow, you are happy to see me."

The head nurse barged in, "Visiting hours are over."  She looked at Dick, "This one's dead on his feet.  Go home, Aggie will be fine."  Carmichael strained to be heard, "My own fuckin' father never came and neither did any of my friends."  She started coughing, "Dick, I'm never going to be 'friendly' again....I love you."  Dick's heart was pounding but before he could spit out his marriage proposal, the nurse pulled the curtain and ordered him out.

Dick went home.  He was emotionally wrought and physically exhausted but Edmund's face was indelibly etched in his psyche.   Consumed by vengeance, he decided to stay awake until eight.  All he could think about was blowing away that sodomizing Arab bastard.  Dick started hallucinating.  He washed his face and stood out on his tiny terrace.  He stretched and took deep breaths of fresh air but still felt lightheaded.  Dick returned to splash more water on his face. He stared down his reflection and drew his pistol as he mumbled cliches from old westerns.  Finally he croaked, "Edmund, this town isn't big enough for the two us," and fumbled the weapon.

The gun went off.  The sound in the claustrophobic bathroom was deafening.  It was followed by his lingering painful wail from shooting himself in the foot.

The next day, Dick phoned me.  I couldnt believe he had my number and shocked by what happened. Far stranger, I remained skeptical that he was handcuffed to a hospital bed.  He added, "Steve, I told the police that I found the fuckin' gun by a dumpster, I was messing around with it and didn't realize it was loaded.  They gotta investigate first. Hopefully those jerkoffs won't press charges."

I agreed to visit Carmichael. and tell her the story.  Before we hung up Dick added, "Do you think Coat-Rack sells engagement rings?"  "I said, "Wow.  I guess?"  He was grabbing his stomach and said, "Lookit, my gut is killing me. I gotta run but one more thing.  I went through with it and legally changed my name."  I said, "Isn't that expensive...I thought you were broke?"  "Yeah, I borrowed $500.00 from Coat-Rack."  I was speechless as he continued, "Anyhoo, you are now speaking with Richard Thomas Payne.  Like the Revolutionary War patriot, you know, the dude who wrote that 'Common Sense' pamphlet.  From now on, no more Pollack jokes."  I said, "So you want everyone to call you Richard?"  He said, "No, I'll still be Dick."  I said, "Then your name will be Dick Payne...like dick pain and Carmichael will be Mrs. Dick Payne."  Richard Thomas Payne angrily said, "Steve, you're crazy, nobody thinks like you."  I was about to say, good luck as Mr. Dick Payne shouted, "FUCK! I just shit myself."

Something tells me, he'll always be 'Mr.  Payne...in the Ass,' too.

                                                                         # # #

I've always said, "Vegas is a great place to work but I wouldn't want to live there." The main reason is, it's a transient town .  Most people gravitate there to live a permanent luxurious and carefree lifestyle or wanted a quick fix to "restart" their lives, or were running away from something.

At some point, reality sets in and most leave.  This creates a revolving door of neighbors and coworkers.  Leaving the town with, a decent percentage of  desperate dregs struggling to live. 

For me, reliable friends were difficult to find.  Sadly, the ones I took into my life usually had harsh, hidden agendas too. This wasn't an environment where my wife and I wanted to start a family.

Since leaving in 1984, the few friends I kept in contact with dwindled.  By 2009 when we spent part of a family vacation in Las Vegas, all that was left was Ciro the Hero.  Unfortunately for all involved, our hour-long meeting didn't go well.  He was such a major diappointment that I was embarrassed to have exposed the newly dubbed, "Ciro the Zero," to my wife and son.