SOMEHOW, my ability to pay for a cab back to McCarran International airport depended entirely on the Philadelphia Eagles’ beating the Jacksonville Jaguars by more than three points. The weekend wasn’t supposed to end this way. Why not? Well, because I had had this “feeling.” I was in Las Vegas with my girlfriend, Carrie, for her cousin’s wedding. The wedding was splendid, so at least that part of the weekend went well. But I might have known how things would end up when I went to check into my hotel. The Luxor didn’t have a registration for any Hayes, other than “Rocky” Hayes. So when THE WEEKLY STANDARD tried to fax an edited copy of last week’s piece, it went to Rocky. Only one problem with that. Rocky had cancelled. I got a message on my cell phone from an editorial assistant, wondering if “Rocky Hayes” was (a) my brother or (b) my Vegas persona. This should’ve been a sign. At any time, in any casino, you’re likely to run into someone who thinks he has the place figured out. My first such encounter came on Friday afternoon at the Monte Carlo, when I happened upon The Roulette Expert. I was surprised to see that someone who knew how to beat the odds had a well-feathered mullet and was wearing a NASCAR T-shirt and jeans. I suppose I’d expected someone who looked like Wayne Newton or Danny DeVito. In any case, I listened intently as he instructed his friends, who, unlike The Expert, were laying down several hundred dollars with each spin of the wheel. “I’m telling you, there’s a pattern,” he insisted, eyeballing the lighted board showing four reds in a row. “Black. I guarantee it.” He was not discouraged when the ball settled comfortably on a red number. “Yeah, it was either that time or the next one,” he explained to a friend who, judging from the $500 he then laid on the table, was buying this line. “Black,” said The Expert. “No doubt.” Red. Four more times, The Expert promised a black winner only to have the ball land on red. Finally, the fifth time, the ball landed on black. “See,” he said with obvious pride. “Told you.” I left that scene feeling vastly superior to these poor fools who had clearly abandoned any ability to reason they had brought with them. I meandered over to an empty blackjack table–carefully chosen for its lucky location. Having allotted myself $100 to gamble with for the day, I realized within two minutes that going one-on-one with a dealer means you win or lose at a faster pace than is the case with a table full of players. (Genius, I know.) Four minutes after I sat down, my dealer, Frank, said his first words to me. “Wow, that was fast,” he uttered with a smirk. “Better luck next time.” I stopped, turned around, and fired back. “At least I don’t have to wear a glittery vest on my job, jackass.” (Okay, I made that last part up. But that would have been a $100 line, right?) And so the whole weekend went. I tried craps, horse racing, football parlays–all with the same result. The only time I won was when I put $20 down on the Wisconsin-Penn State game. But even that was only half a victory. I had correctly picked Penn State, but being a Wisconsin native, I’d really wanted the Badgers to win. Late Sunday afternoon, I was sitting on the ticket that would pay me $18.31 if the Philadelphia Eagles beat the Jacksonville Jaguars by at least a field goal. In terms of actual cash, though, I had precisely $1.08. I’m not sure exactly how my winnings had dwindled to that paltry sum. But, after calling my bank’s automated teller line, I realized there was no way to get more money (except by an Eagles victory). Carrie, too, was out of cash. Which was a shame, because I had this feeling that if only I could get my hands on some dollars–just enough to hit the slot machines for a few minutes–I’d walk away a winner. I’ve never liked the Eagles, and I’m usually happy when they lose. On this day, however, I was a huge Eagles fan, cheering louder than anyone in the Luxor sports book when they did well, and cursing their every failure. (I should probably point out that my $10 on the game was almost certainly the lowest amount wagered by any of the three hundred people in the room.) The Eagles lost. By the end of the game, they had become my least favorite NFL team. After we spent several minutes seeking answers to highly embarrassing questions–Do cabs take credit cards? Can you wire money on a Sunday?–Carrie found $20 in her purse and we were off to the airport. It’s tempting to say I’ll never return to Vegas. But I know better. I’ll be there again and soon. And next time I’ll win. I just have this feeling. –Stephen F. Hayes
