Z The Vegas Shuffle

The Vegas Shuffle

One day Captain Vegas turned up at my flat looking like Princess Leia
Organa had just given him a very special birthday present. He was doing
the lambada and his hair was slicked and ready to go.

"Which cat got your cream?" said 16 as he attempted to balance one of
the chips we were currently eating on the end of his nose.

"I have some news," said Captain Vegas, "so can you please take that
chip off your nose and listen carefully."

I don't know why, but I thought Captain Vegas was going to tell us the
Bank of England had collapsed. I told him to sit down.

"This is no sitting down news," said Vegas. "Not sitting down news at
all."

"Then what is it?" I said.

"I've won four return tickets to Vegas from the back of an industrial
deep-fat fryer," said Captain Vegas, "no expenses asked."

"And?" I said. I knew there was more. With Captain Vegas there always
was.

"And as Leia and Chewbacca and Hans are kind of tied up right now on
federation business I thought I'd take you guys with me."

"Fantastic," I said.

"Brilliant," said Seven.

"Wonderbra," said 16.

"So who's not going?" said The Poet.

And then I realised. The Poet, 16, Captain Vegas, Seven and me, The
Loop Garoo Kid, the self-confessed leader of the band, made five, not
four. Five into four didn't go. Unless you counted each of us as 0.8 of
a person. And even though we might, airport security probably
wouldn't.

"Don't worry," said Captain Vegas, "I have a plan."

"What is it?" I said, slightly worried, as Captain Vegas was not the
kind of person who ever had plans.

"I'm taking the ones with the smallest bums," said Captain Vegas. "The
seats are economy class. It says quite plainly on them, no big bums
allowed. It's stamped in red. So it must be official."

"Sounds fair," said 16.

"If you've got a fat arse, you don't deserve to go," said Seven.

"A bum is a bum and a seat is a seat," said The Poet. "There's no way
round it."

"I'll go and get the tape measure," I said.

When I came back The Poet, Seven and 16 were lined up against the
wall, their hands were flat against it and their underpants and
trousers were around their ankles. I knew the score. I handed Captain
Vegas the tape and I went and joined them.

"I hope he doesn't decide to measure anything else," said 16.

"He wouldn't have a tape long enough," said Seven.

"It's not that big," I said, looking down and at an angle.

"I was talking about my van," said Seven.

"Be quiet all of you," said Captain Vegas speaking like a commandant
let loose from the baroque Bavarian opera for the night. "I need to
concentrate for this."

"Sorry Vegas," I said and then I felt the cold steel against my arse.
I prayed for the best. I hoped my arse was small. If not I would stay
at home and write a book about it. It would be a pastiche of Arabella
Weir's 'Does My Bum Look Big In This?'. It would be about a pair of
gloves. It would be called 'Does my thumb look big in this?'

Eventually Vegas got to the end of the line. He told us we could turn
around. We did and we held our breath.

"So who's going?" said Seven.

"Is it me?" said 16.

"The loser is?" said Captain Vegas.

"Yes?" I said.

"The loser is?" said Captain Vegas.

"Yes?" I said.

"Excuse me," said Captain Vegas, "but you could just all pull up your
pants. It's off putting. All those cocks. I mean. I know it's not the
Oscars but a little decorum wouldn't go amiss."

"Sorry Captain Vegas," I said.

"Sorry Captain V," said The Poet.

"Sorry C V," said 16.

"C V," said Seven. "Hehehe."

And then Captain Vegas announced the result.

****

"Will you miss him?" said The Poet as I looked down from the airplane
window to Seven on the tarmac. He was holding a small flag which said,
'Welcome Home'. It was all we had been able to find in the local branch
of Clinton Cards.

"I'm going to concentrate on the looking forward to seeing him again
bit," I said. "And he's going to concentrate on shaving a few inches
off that fat arse."

"Good plan," said The Poet and then 16 came snaking back to his seat.
He had that look in his eye. I'd seen that look many a Friday night and
I knew what it meant.

"In the toilet," said 16. "I've just joined the mile high club. With
one of the air stewards."

"Great," I said, "but we're not quite a mile high yet. Not even six
feet as it happens."

"Does that matter?" said 16.

"It's kind of the idea," I said.

"It would be like joining a library that didn't have any books but
sold fish and chips instead," said The Poet.

"Yummy," said 16. "Sounds like my kind of library. Where is it?"

"I was being metaphorical," said The Poet.

"I thought we were on holiday," said 16.

"Poets never go on holiday," said The Poet.

"Then you should have given your ticket to Seven," said 16. "He told
me that he really wanted to come. He was even going to hire a stand-in
arse for the day and demand a recount."

And then Captain Vegas leapt up and started wiggling his hips. "CAN I
JUST SAY," he said, "THAT THIS IS MY HOLIDAY AND FOR ONCE WE'RE GOING
TO DO WHAT I WANT TO DO. WE'RE GOING TO VEGAS AND I DON'T WANT ANY
BiCKERING." Captain Vegas stopped wiggling and sat down.

"Sorry Captain Vegas," we all said together.

"That's ok," said Captain Vegas. "Now will someone take my hand, we're
about to take off."

As I was nearest, I took Captain Vegas's hand.

We took off.

****

In Vegas, there was some confusion at passport control when Captain
Vegas said his name was Captain Vegas and they said that they weren't
sure if someone called Captain Vegas was allowed to come into Las
Vegas, it could only lead to confusion.

Captain Vegas started to wiggle his hips again and was just about to
start shouting when 16 who had quite taken to one of the officials
demanded a strip search and so we were taken off to a white room and
made to put our hands against a wall and to drop our underpants and
trousers. When I felt the cold steel against my arse I thought I had
been here before. I had.

Some half an hour later after four foul-smelling security guards had
peeled off their latex body-suits with a fake sounding 'Welcome to
Vegas' we were allowed to go and as it was now getting late took a taxi
to the hotel.

Outside, the hotel was shaped like a pyramid with a large sphinx in
front of it. Inside it was more Pyrex utensil than pyramid. It was all
fine lines and gleaming surface. We were shown up to our room by a
angular lift-merchant and then we were left to fend for
ourselves.

"I've never been in a hotel before," said 16. "I'm going to pee in the
sink. Mum never lets me do things like that."

While 16 hauled one of the suitcases into the bathroom to gain the
necessary height we decided what to do.

"We're in Vegas," said The Poet, "so we've got two options. We can
either gamble or take in a show."

"I say we gamble," I said. "I fancy craps."

"I think you'll have to wait until 16 finishes," said The Poet. "You
know what he's like when he pees. Sometimes it can go on for
hours."

"When he's in there for hours I don't think he's peeing," I
said.

"So what's he doing?" said The Poet.

"Well he is a teenager," I said.

Then Captain Vegas leapt up.

"I'M IN VEGAS," he said, "AND I WANT TO GAMBLE. I WANT TO WIN A
FORTUNE AND RETIRE TO THE IVORY COAST. NOW ARE YOU WITH ME OR ARE YOU
AGAINST ME?"

"I'm with you," I said.

"Me too," said The Poet. "Although I would prefer The Gambia."

"So how much have we got Captain V?" I asked.

"What?" said Captain Vegas.

"You know," I said, "spondolickeys?"

"Sorry?" said Captain Vegas.

"Money," I said. "You told us, the competition, no expenses
asked."

"Exactly," said Captain Vegas, "none asked because none given. I
didn't bring a bean."

"Me neither," I said.

"Me neither too," said The Poet.

"So what are we going to do?" said Captain Vegas. He looked like he
wanted to leap but didn't have the heart.

We all sat down on the bed. There was no two ways about it. We were up
Vegas creek without a chip. This looked like the end of our gambling
dream. We would have to spend the week in our hotel room like Robin
Crusoe at an extended party, nearly there but not quite. I wondered how
this had happened to us and our merry band. It looked like the end of
the road, Jack, the bottom of the sack, Mack, when the phone started to
ring.

"Shall I get that?" said The Poet.

"It might be someone," I said. "You'd better."

So The Poet answered the phone. He nodded his head a few times, said
'yes, yes' a few times and then put down the receiver.

"Well?" I said.

"Well?" said Captain Vegas.

"That was Dolly Parton," said The Poet. "She's on stage downstairs in
half an hour. She wants to meet us. She says she needs our help."

"So what are we waiting for?" I said.

"16," said The Poet. "He's still having that wee."

And then we heard it. The voice was small but quite clear. "Help me.
Help me. I've got my willy stuck in the plughole."

****

The bug-eyed guard looked at us suspiciously, especially 16, who was
holding his willy in a half-pint of Dettol.

"We're here to see Miss Parton," I said. "She needs our help."

"Needs your help," said the guard and he started to laugh
uncontrollably. "Hoo hoo hoo. Hoo hoo hoo."

Then Dolly Parton appeared. She was like a triangle on a point. She
was holding a bowl of porridge in one hand and a plum pudding in the
other.

"It's my breakfast," she said in answer to a question that hadn't been
asked.

"You called us," I said. "You said you needed our help."

"That's right," said Dolly Parton smiling like the superstar that she
was. "Now you guys are all English, aren't you?"

"Sure are," I said, not mentioning that I was The Loop Garoo Kid, the
orneriest cowboy in the west.

"Then come on through," said Miss Parton. "And prepare yourself for a
bumpy ride."

We followed Miss Parton through into a dressing-room the length of a
train carriage. There were dresses on one side, mirrors on the other
and bras in between.

"I'm in an awful mess," said Miss Parton. She batted her eyelids and
looked like she was about to sing. Unfortunately she didn't.

"What is it?" I said. I heard about stars and their peccadilloes and
there was only so far that I would go.

"You see," said Miss Parton, "we're supposed to be doing Mary Poppins
tonight and Dick Van Dyke hasn't turned up. We need someone English and
we need him now. These Vegas crowds can get real nasty real
fast."

"I see," I said. I did see. I knew both how Hollywood and its bastard
offshoot the Vegas emporia operated. I hadn't expected anything
less.

"So will you help?"

I thought of our predicament, and I didn't mean 16's willy in the
Dettol. That was just a matter of antiseptic. I meant our lack of
chips.

"We'll do it in return for a night of wild gambling," I said. "And a
mention in the credits."

"That's as easy as islands in the stream," said Miss Parton. "Now I
don't know who's going to fit in Dick's trousers. Dick's got a very
small ass. Which of you guys do you think's got the smallest
ass?"

"That'll be The Loop Garoo Kid," said Captain Vegas leaping straight
up. "Ten point two inches to a T."

"Perfect," said Miss Parton, and she handed me the chimney sweep's
outfit. "Put this on and I'll see you on stage in five."

****

"You'll be fine," said Captain Vegas.

"I don't feel fine," I said. "I'm the Loop Garoo Kid. I'm the
orneriest cowboy in the west. I shouldn't be on stage in Vegas doing an
impersonation Dick Van Dyke."

"Just think of the money," said The Poet. "That's what Mr Van Dyke
does. I heard he really wants to play Lear."

"My arse," I said.

"Fits perfectly in those trousers," said 16. "And just think. By
wearing Mr Dykes trousers you've practically touched his arse. How many
gay men could say that?"

"How many would want to?" I said.

"Shh," said The Poet. "I think you're on."

I looked towards the stage. Miss Parton was currently winding up her
Truly Scrumptious number.

"I don't remember Truly Scrumptious being in Mary Poppins," said
16.

"It wasn't," I said. "Tonight Miss Parton is doing a Julie Andrews
tribute evening. Truly Scrumptious is the song from the sweet factory
in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang."

"I don't remember Julie Andrews being in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang,"
said 16.

"She wasn't," I said. "But Dick Van Dyke wanted it written into his
contract. He feels Chitty Chitty Bang Bang is his best work."

"I thought he was best in The Terminator," said 16.

"That wasn't him," I said.

"I thought it was," said 16. He leapt into the air and clicked his
heels together. "Hasta la chimchimcheroo."

"You're on," said Vegas and he gave me a push and I was on the stage.
The centre of it. Miss Parton on one side, the band below me, and the
grinning millions staring in front.

It was then that it hit me. All my life I had stood up for myself. I
was The Loop Garoo Kid, no more no less and I didn't take any shit from
anyone. If someone told me to jump through a hoop then I told them to
go and hoop themselves. And now at the drop of the first hat, at the
whiff of the first sniff of superstardom I was selling out. I was
pretending to be Dick Van Dyke, loved by Disney aficionados everywhere.
I couldn't do it. It wouldn't be right. I just wasn't Disney, there
were no two ways about it.

Without a further thought I pulled off my chimneysweep rags and threw
them to the floor. I told Miss Parton that while I admired her as an
artiste I just couldn't go through with this shamshamanee any longer.
With a flick of her wrists Miss Parton ordered her breasts to be
hoisted on the invisible wire that held them in place and said quite
firmly that it was illegal to be naked on stage in Las Vegas and would
I please put some clothes on please.

****

It was later and Captain Vegas, The Poet, 16 and me were in bed. The
room had only one bed and we were in it. We were hungry and we hadn't
done any gambling. Not even one chip.

"I'm sorry guys," I said.

"That's ok," said 16. "I quite enjoyed seeing you naked. Especially on
stage in Vegas."

"I don't know about that," said Captain Vegas. "I've had quite enough
of your arse for one week."

"Then why are you touching it now?" I said.

"I'm sorry," said Captain Vegas. "Is that your arse? I thought it was
a novelty lampshade."

"Why would there be a novelty lampshade in the bed?" I said.

"Well," said Captain Vegas, "this is Las Vegas. Funny things happen
here. You've just danced naked on the stage."

"I wasn't dancing," I said.

"Then what was all that movement?"

"I got my foreskin caught in the chimneysweeper's brush," I said. "I
was just trying to get it out."

"And you laughed at me and the plughole," said 16. "Would you like to
share my Dettol?"

"Thanks for the offer," I said, "but I'm strictly a one Dettol
man."

And then we didn't say anything for a while. From somewhere we could
hear little tiny ball bearings slip endlessly into endless cavities on
roulette wheels and I felt bad, bad for what I had done and bad for
Captain Vegas. Las Vegas was his dream and because I had stood up for
what I believed in then that dream was going to go sour. Was a moral
high ground worth all this?

"You know what this reminds me of?" said 16 as outside a coyote howled
peacefully, and he turned minutely between me and The Poet in the
bed.

"Gloria Estafan's comeback tour?" I said.

"Bette Midler's days in the grapefruit factory in Florida?" said The
Poet.

"No," said 16, "it reminds me of those stories Seven used to tell
about sharing the bed with his six brothers and of him always having to
catch the farts."

"I'm not farting," said Captain Vegas. "It's difficult to fart on an
empty stomach."

"Me neither," said The Poet. "I'm a poet I don't do things like
that."

And then it hit me. I had a plan. A way to get us out of this
predicament. I leapt up in the bed and started hopping from foot to
foot. I started howling to match the coyote that was howling
outside.

"Go easy," said The Poet.

"I was nearly asleep then," said Captain Vegas.

"You've upset my Dettol," said 16. "It's gone all over the bed."

"We're going to be rich," I said and then I explained my plan.

****

"You really think this will work?" said 16.

"It'll work," I said. "This is Vegas. People come here to gamble. I'm
going to give them the chance to gamble. We can't lose."

"If you say so," said 16. "You're the boss."

We were in the hotel corridor, outside the room next to ours. For the
past five minutes I had heard the roll of dice across stone floors
coming from within it. It was a sure thing, a Vegas thing. I knocked
and the door in front of us opened.

Standing there was a tall man in a lavender suit. He had dark Italian
eyes and a gun in his hand.

"Do you want to make a bet?" I said.

"You better come in," said the man.

16, The Poet, Captain Vegas, and me filed in, one by one, until there
weren't any more of us in the corridor and more than enough of us in
the room.

"Are you the guy I saw naked on the stage this evening?" said another
man in a lavender suit. This one was sitting on a large pink sofa and
smoking a cheroot.

"One and the same," I said.

"I admire your balls," said the man. "Now what can I do for
you?"

"I've got a proposition," I said.

"And do you know who I am?" said the man.

"I don't," I said, "but feel free to tell me, I'm all ears."

"I'm Bo Schmoo," said the man. "And these are my neo-socialist gay
gangsters."

It was then that I noticed the rest of them. Six men in lavender
suits, packing the same kind of weapons. It looked like we had
gatecrashed something big, but that was ok because we were pretty big
ourselves.

"Do you know the film Seven Brides and Seven Brothers?" I said.

"The Stanley Donen 50s musical?"

"One and the same," I said.

"Of course," said Bo Schmoo. "It's a classic of its kind."

"Well, can you imagine how much those seven brothers used to, as Miss
Truly Scrumptions put it, toot?"

"I'd never given it any thought," said Bo Schmoo, "but now you mention
it. I bet."

"That's good," I said, "because a bet is what I want."

"I don't get you," said Bo Schmoo.

It was then that I pushed 16 forward. For the past half an hour he had
been in our bathroom practising with a hotel loofer and a bean-feast
supper we had managed to bluff our way to on credit.

"I bet," I said, "that my friend 16 can fart louder than any of your
neo-socialist gay gangsters."

For a moment Bo Schmoo narrowed his eyes. He could narrow them all he
wanted. I knew that he'd agree.

"Your on," said Bo Schmoo eventually. "But what are the stakes?"

"$10,000 if we win," I said.

"And if you lose?"

I hadn't thought that far. And besides losing wasn't on the cards,
whichever way you shuffled them. "Name your price," I said
confidently.

Bo Schmoo thought for a second and then he smiled. "If you lose," he
said, "then you join me and my bunch of neo-socialist gay
gangsters."

That sounded like a whole new novel. I wasn't sure that I had it in
me. But we had got this far on belief alone and it was no time to stop
now.

"It's a deal," I said and we shook hands squarely.

There was six of the neo-socialist gay gangsters and it was decided
that they would fart first.

Each of them took up a different position before they went for it and
each position seemed more outrageous than the one before. One hung from
a wardrobe door. One climbed into a sideboard. One went into the
bathroom. And one anachronistically simply bent over.

Whatever the position, none of them were very good. 16 almost didn't
have to bother to win. But he went for it anyway, just for once, to
show those Yanks that the Brits were better.

"So what did you think?" I said.

"That was quite a sound," said Bo Schmoo. "The kid's got talent. If I
was into these things I'd put him on the stage."

"I'm good in bed too," said 16 proudly.

Captain Vegas meanwhile was quietly doing the lambada again. He was
behind the sofa and moving at quite a pace. He was like that meteorite
in Armageddon without the bile.

"So that's $10,000," I said.

"And fairly won," said Bo Schmoo. He ordered one of his men to pay up
and then he bade us farewell.

So we had done it. It was as simple as that after all.

We were in Las Vegas with money to spare. $10,000 was more than any of
us had ever had and for a second I thought we should be sensible with
it. I thought perhaps we should invest it in Captain Vegas chip
emporium, or donate it to the bastion-fighting reparation fund but they
were only fleeting fantasies.

I realised that when you're in Vegas you have to do like Vegasians do.
You have to be wild. You have to live a little. But there was one thing
I did do before I hit the roulette tables. I got on the phone and
called Seven. I told him to get his ass over here whatever the cost.
For I realised that nothing is much fun if you haven't got the ones you
love with you.

Seven was the one I loved. Along with 16, The Poet and of course
Captain Vegas.

I loved them all, every one.