Societal Satire in Shorts

Pocket Change

S. G. Lacey

​

Front Left:

     My extremely dry eyeballs are slowly exposed to the harshness of the natural world.  This is not a pleasant experience. 

     The primary source of my ocular imposition materializes as my blurred vison slowly clears.  A blinding combination of blue, white, and gold lights, their strobing pulse piercing both the sheer curtains and the early dawn light. 

     That’s weird.  I don’t remember this exterior illumination with functional faculties, and the cover of darkness, when I checked into my room yesterday evening.

     The rest of my body sluggishly follows my eyes out of hibernation.  With similar surprise and pain.

     I’m clad in only my worn and scratchy boxers, that itch like hell, and covered by only a bedsheet.  This blanket is made from some magic fabric which couldn’t be more contrasting, with soft and conforming silk threads caressing every portion of my body, aside from my borderline burlap-bound midriff.

   If I wasn’t curled up in the fetal position, most muscles twitching uncontrollably, this would actually be a pretty comfortable resting arrangement. The conforming mattress in certainly an upgrade over the rigid slab I typically sleep on, be it at home, or on the road.

     Apparently, everything is better in Las Vegas.  Granted, I have no recollection of the past 4 hours.  Make that 8.  Or maybe even 12. 

      In fact, my only reference point right now is my arrival in the City of Sin, with a warehouse delivery made just before the 6 PM Friday night closing cutoff.  After unloading, I left my 18-wheeler parked in the back of the lot, then hoofed it a few miles to the part of town where all the action happens.    

       There must be some clues around here which can provide insight on my activities since then.

    Lounging in just my underwear, while slightly disconcerting in a foreign space, is not a major surprise.  This presentation is pretty much how I sleep every night, when I’m not so drunk that I pass out in the living room recliner at my double-wide trailer, or driver’s seat of my semi. 

     The more I lay here, the more I’m enjoying the soft touch of the light fabric on my dry skin.  This covering is definitely better than the raspy, threadbare offerings I use at home.  Maybe I’ll take this fancy bedding set with me when I depart town on Sunday, heading off on my next highway trucking adventure. 

       Such perks are one of the many luxuries of travel.  Any public lodging is going to be classier than my own personal residence.  Provided such nightly accommodations can be afforded.

        Unfortunately, my content comfort is soon interrupted by another, much less relaxing, bodily sensation.  My bladder is painfully full.  I need to take care of this issue before I wet myself, and ruin these soft sheets.

       Escaping my cozy cocoon with a series of frustrated kicks, I swing off the bed, and scurry to the bathroom.  This is going to be close.  I just make it.

       Standing unsteadily at the toilet, I’m forced to stick one arm out vertically to the blank wall over the tank, like the third leg of a tripod.  Now marginally stabilized, I watch my powerful steam cascade down into the bowl.  This liquid is an unhealthy dark shade of burnt amber, which dilutes slightly as it mingles with the clear pool below.  I’m clearly dehydrated.

        It’s impressive that the human body can be highly depleted of nutrients, while also simultaneously able to expel a substantial amount of fluid.  I need to intake some nourishment if I want to get back into normal corporeal balance, both internally and externally.

        Content with the accuracy and volume of my flow, I’m able to shift my attention to the surroundings of the space.  This is a fancy bathroom.  White marble counter tops.  Ornate silver faucet fixtures.  Decoratively embroidered plush towels.  

         I don’t remember any of these embellishments from when I checked in yesterday evening.  However, all I really did was dump my bag in the corner, then head down to the bar.  Based on my headache, that frosty pint was the first of many drinks yesterday, which explains my memory challenges.

       What I need to do is find my cell.  Between texts, pictures, apps, directions, and payments, this tech gadget should have a digital record of my night saved in posterity.  Unfortunately, I can’t call my own number without a phone.  It must be in this room somewhere.

       Finishing up my piss, I give the little guy a perfunctory shake, then stride back into the bedroom.  I can wash my hands later, once I locate the mobile device which dictates nearly all aspects of my life, especially when on the road.

      It only takes a few minutes to eliminate the obvious spots: toilet, vanity, bed, nightstand, dresser, windowsill, and every electrical outlet in the place.  None of these flat surfaces or power sources yield the object of interest.

       This dense mass of electronics must still be in my pants from last night.  That makes sense, considering my high level of inebriation.  I get lazy when I’m drunk.  Fortunately, this clothing article proves much easier to find.  A pair of jeans is lying at the foot of the bed, just as expected.  If I was able to disrobe then I couldn’t have been that hammered.

      I check the front left pocket, the location where I always keep my cellphone.  This turns out to be empty, despite repeated searching with probing fingers. 

       I’m running out of ideas here.  If I can’t use memory supplementation technology, then I’ll have to settle for some old fashion deduction.  I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but how hard can it be to piece together my own activities during the past half day?

         Let’s start with what I know.  Which turns out to be not much. 

       I’m in Las Vegas, Nevada, for a combination of work and pleasure.  Maybe looking outside will help me ascertain more details.  Through the sheer drapes, it looks like the first traces of the morning sun are appearing, making the multitude of perpetually lit casino signage slightly less obnoxious than when I first woke up. 

         Hopefully, these natural rays can shed some light on my situation.      

        I remember booking a crappy motel on the outskirts of Old Town Vegas, using my mobile phone’s internet access of course.  Now, parting the curtains reveals a full panoramic view from the majestic middle of the Las Vegas Strip. 

         I must have gotten an upgrade.  I’ll take it.  Beggars can’t be choosy, especially given my flimsy financial condition.

        I rarely stay in any hotel.  The cab of my big rig is plenty accommodating, and more importantly, free.  Most of the truck stops I rest at during my crisscrossing journeys throughout the country are even dirtier than my cramped and crowded sleeper compartment.  Plus, I’m required to fund my own lodging arrangements.  Thus, spending last night in a real bed was a real splurge. 

        If only my body felt better after doling out for such luxury.  Based on my current condition, I couldn’t have actually rested for very long.

        Time to take stock of the situation.  And figure out why my head is pounding, my breath stinks, and my muscles feel incredibly weak. 

 

Front Right:

        I take the jeans back to the bathroom, where the recessed lighting is still on.  This overhead illumination should help to provide some illumination on the previous evening’s occurrences.

        The first useful extracted information, from the front right pocket, comes in the form of a small scrap of paper, with small black letters and numbers on it.  Squinting through bloodshot eyes, I slowly read the tiny text on the left side of the miniature page.

 

“Hamachi Sashimi”

“Uni Nigiri”

“Mikazushi Roll”

 

        Along the opposite edge is a row of numbers, each associated with a line item on the list.

 

“$10”

“$13”

“$19”

 

          This must be a restaurant receipt, a fact which is confirmed by the heading at the top of the page.

 

“Sunset Sushi”

 

       Interesting.  I’m not much of a sushi guy, preferring to my seafood fried as opposed to raw.  My hometown in Tuscaloosa, Alabama doesn’t even have a such a restaurant. 

         This cuisine seems like an odd choice to accompany a long night of drinking.  Not much starchy mass to soak up a bellyful of booze.  And we’re not exactly close to an ocean, here in desert-ringed Las Vegas.

         The most alarming detail is the total bill at the bottom of the ledger.  I spend over $100 on a variety of fishy items which I can’t even pronounce.  The $30 splurge on warm sake didn’t help.

         Before last night started, fully coherent as I walked away from the lonely boredom of my parked truck, towards a dense zone of infinite temptation, I made a rule to stick with beer.  My motivation for this self-induced pact was to avoid blacking out; this is always the result on rare weekends back home when I get into corn whiskey with my hillbilly pals. 

       Apparently that strategy didn’t pan out.  Sipping, and maybe even shooting, sake is probably the reason I can’t remember anything from last night. 

         Fortuitously, at the bottom of the receipt is a time stamp for the credit card transaction.  This reads 11:34 PM.  That really was a late-night snack.  At least I have a reference point on the timeline for the evening.

      While the front left pocket was a strike-out, the front right pouch proves much more productive, and turns out to extend this sports metaphor significantly.

       Next, I extract a second rectangular swatch of paper, bold text on the top, middle, and bottom, with smaller numerals interspersed in the rows between.  Another tab?  How much did I spend on food and booze last night?

     A closer examination reveals this scrap could be much more valuable than a receipt, offer the opportunity for increasing funds, as opposed to confirmation of losing them.  While I’m no gambling aficionado, I know from the multitude of similar pieces lying on the ground along the sidewalks of the Strip that this is a sports betting slip. 

        The first time I ever came to Sin City, I wandered around picking up these tallies, then cross referencing the wagers listed against the actual event results on my cellphone.  After about 20 such endeavors, all of which yielded losers, I realized gamblers weren’t carelessly misplacing these items, but instead discarding them in frustration after the desired outcome failed to materialize.

        While this process didn’t yield any monetary gain, it did teach me how to passably interpret a betting ticket, and even put in a few of my own, on subsequent visits.  Staring at the small script in my hand, trying to interpret the numerous abbreviations, it becomes clear that this describes a complex parlay.

         It doesn’t help this weekend, in the middle of March, represents one of the most popular and dynamic times for sports gambling.  The NCAA college basketball tournaments, both men’s and women’s, are starting to narrow down the large field.  Baseball is back, for those silly enough to wager on MLB spring training bouts.  Plus, two of the other major sports in the United States, the NBA and NHL, are kicking off their home stretch to the playoffs. 

      The only professional pastime not doing any kicking is the NFL, with the culminating Superbowl festivities happening just a month ago.  At least that eliminates the most popular of all gambling pursuits from the list of potential options as I decode the bets.

        The letters “NY” appears prominently on the ticket, precluding 3 of the 5 line items of this parlay.  Based on the team names listed, these correspond to a pair of pro hockey squads, and a basketball crew, all who call the Big Apple home. 

         I’m not a big sports viewer, or better, aside from one activity.  SEC football.  Like most residents of the town I grew up in, this affiliation on mandatory.  There’s no way I would wager on any team playing north of U.S. Interstate 70, and west of the Mississippi, especially on a sport involving ice.  My rural Alabama upbringing didn’t involve skating, frozen or otherwise.

         The other two gambits on the card are linked to the same team, which is completely unknown to me.  Denoted as an NCAAM matchup, this underdog must keep the game within 10 points, and the total can’t be above 133.  Whoever placed this must have high confidence on this hopefully defensive squad.

         I have no idea why this slip of paper is in my pants’ pocket.  Maybe, inebriated and wandering late night, I reverted back to my Vegas litter clean-up ways of the past.

        The only reason to decipher this code is so that I can assess if it’s a winner.  That’s going to be hard to do without internet access, but I could try turning on SportsCenter.  Considering the impressive $2,300 potential payout for a $200 bet, displayed in enticing blocky font, this may be worth looking into.  Once I get a better understanding of my own situation, that is.

          As I circle the posh room with increasing confusion, now looking for the TV remote, in addition to my multitude of other missing belongings, I inadvertently step on an unseen item.  A pair of cowboy boots.  My cowboy boots.

         These beauties represent the perfect blend of style and comfort.  At least back home in the Deep South.  In fact, this wardrobe element might be one of the few ways which I feel aligned with other Vegas visitors. 

      Even in my hungover haze, I remember getting several supportive comments last night on these kicks, and the matching broad brimmed hat, which travels in its own special protective case while I’m on the road.  This headgear in another item which is conspicuously missing on this foggy and frustrating morning.

       Bending down, I pick up one of these shoes, reveling in the weathered, form-fit, feel of the alligator skin leather composition.  The textured pattern, which started out green and grey, is now closer to brown and black, a combination of heavy usage and liberal oil conditioning.  These boots are one of my prize possessions.

         As I turn the footwear over in my hand, I quickly discover something is not right.  On the upper quarter of the tall cuff, along the back side, is a deep scuff mark, which even penetrates all the way through the tough material in a few spots.

         Instinctively, I look down to my own left calf, which this damaged region generally covers, and am met with another surprise.  A large section of my pasty skin is covered by a bulky bandage every whiter in color.  The location of this padded dressing perfectly corresponds to the scratches on my boot, along with the extended portion of my leg, nearly up to the back of the knee joint, which would not have been protected by the durable leather.

         Overwhelmed by a combination of concern and confusion, I collapse into the accommodating chair adjacent.  This finely upholstered item, in what appears to be purple velvet, hugs my underwear clad frame like only a mother’s loving embrace can. 

         I desperately need such physical and emotional support right now.  Though in my case, a generous grandmother was the positive influence during my youth, considering mom’s drinking habits.  Clearly, some genetic traits pass down more easily than others.

        It takes me a few minutes to regain my composure, but eventually I accept that I need to summon up my meager remaining strength to ponder this puzzle. 

          Lifting my newly injured leg, by contorting in the roomy settee, I’m able to get a passable view of the afflicted area.  I’m no doctor, but this patch doesn’t look like something that was executed at a hospital.  Good thing, considering my meager insurance coverage.

       The inner wrap against my skin appears to be a thick cloth, maybe a hand towel, as opposed to the airy, yet absorbent, non-woven fabric typically used in the medical profession.  Even more telling, the outer covering which secures the bandage is not normal flesh tone, highly stretchable and porous, netting, but instead white athletic tape, which is easily tearable in one direction, and completely locking out in the other.

         I’ve had my share of therapeutic issues over the years, more than average for a male who just turned 45.  Being sedentary in a truck cab for 10 hours a day, and eating fast food when I do stop, isn’t exactly a recipe for a clean bill of wellbeing.  The most recent occurrence was a series of heart palpitations, which put me in the hospital, and off the road, for 3 days. 

         According to the nurse who took care of my case, I’m supposed to avoid high fat intake, and minimize activity at night.  Sounds good, if I was an accountant or librarian.  But these unhealthy happenings are core tenants of my livelihood.

       What I remember most about that infirmary stay, aside from not logging any hours towards my paycheck, is the absurd amount of questionnaire forms I had to fill out.  Which led to an official identification bracelet, made of tight-fitting plastic, which was not easily removable. 

         Looking down at my wrists, I see no sign of such a shackle.  At least this patch-up job was done off the books.

         I better double check my wallet to make sure my insurance card is still in its default place, in the back sleeve, only to be extracted for true emergencies.  Considering the absurdly high deductible for the policy my transportation employer provides, I’m typically better off paying out of pocket.

        Where did I leave those jeans?

 

Back Left:

        Continuing my search, I’m down to just the rear pockets.  Which isn’t a problem, as the back left turns out to be the most fruitful, and enlightening, thus far.  Like a magician at a show in the many theatres here in town, I reach in and pull out things which no one, including me, knew were there. 

        The first item is a drink ticket coupon.  Finally, a productive article I can relate to.  There’s no better time to hydrate than the present.  Based on my increasingly intense, perpetually pulsing, headaches, I clearly engaged in some boozing during the recent past.  Time to get back on the horse.

        Granted, it will be hard to get a free cocktail if I don’t know where to redeem this voucher.  The bar name identified on both sides of this flimsy paper is completely foreign to me.  Plus, I won’t be able to venture outside without a full set of clothes.  I better hurry and come up with a plan, since the inked date stamp denotes drink redemption expiry today.

     I wonder how many similar tickets I burned through last night.  I’m used to plopping down $20 for 10 tokens, redeemable for one’s choice of light draft beer staples, or common well liquor shots, both served in plastic containers, at the local watering hole in Tuscaloosa.  Hydrating is a bit pricier here in Las Vegas. 

        I don’t recall an evening back home when I didn’t polish off every credit in my pocket, plus a few donations from my lame friends, along with a few dozen wings.  Considering this proficiency, an untapped beverage ticket doesn’t make sense. 

        Was I that hammered last night?  And where’s all my money?     

      Continuing to rummage around in the left rear recesses, I finally find an item of actual monetary value.  A poker chip.  A lone round piece.  It must have been an ugly night at the tables.  Especially if I lost my entire wallet.  Literally. 

       However, my demoralization turns to joy as I pick up the heavy disc and check the denomination.  This single betting unit is apparently worth $1,000.  That’s probably why the predominantly white piece is ringed with tick marks of black, red, and what looks like real silver metallic flake.

      The symmetrical object has the issuing casino’s logo written in the center on both sides.  It’s a facility which I don’t remember visiting, as this venue represents one of the consensus fanciest establishments on the Strip.  There’s no reason I should ever set foot in such hallowed halls, let alone walk out with coinage of such substantial value.

        In fact, my entire bankroll for the weekend, inclusive of betting and booze, plus maybe even a burger if all goes well, is just $300.  As such, I’m theoretically relegated to spending most of my time in the seedier gambling halls, seeking out the cheapest $5 tables, which are few and far between these days. 

      It would take an unfathomable run to quadruple one’s entire stack playing table minimum Blackjack.  An epic experience which I certainly would have remembered.  I hope.

        My head is still pounding, and this irrational speculation isn’t helping.  I need some nicotine to mellow out.  Where is my dip tin?  It should in the back of my pants.  Apparently, not anymore, as there’s clearly nothing with that much bulk to be found.  However, I do discover this vice enabler has been replaced by a matchbook and a pack of smokes. 

        I’ve always been more partial to chew than cigs, but this drug intake mechanism will have to do right now.  These cancer sticks must have been a drunken purchase.  Maybe I went through all my pouches yesterday.

        Moving to the far wall, I give the glass door which leads out to the balcony a tug.  Nothing happens.  Adjusting my position, by widening foot stance, then grasping the knob with both hands, I make a more vigorous effort.  Still nothing.

        Perplexed, I straighten up and examine this see-through barrier.  This inspection reveals that the hinges have been welded solid, and a metal bar screwed into the sliding track on the floor.  Apparently, this is more of a window than a door.  Maybe the hotel had to seal these exterior terraces off after one too many guests jumped to their death following a string of catastrophic gambling beats.  So much for the outdoor smoking plan.

       Shaking uncontrollable, it becomes clear I need my addiction fix pronto.  Fortunately, the adjacent window, a rotating crank-style offering, swings outward smoothly as I turn the handle.  I’m pretty sure every room in this facility is non-smoking, but my body needs nicotine now. 

       Not time to venture downstairs, especially in my current decrepit physical condition.  I’m fine being a slob in the secluded sanctuary of my truck’s enclosed cab, but the intensity of the real world, and the piercing gaze of public scrutiny, lies just outside these hotel walls.

       Pulling a cigarette from the middle row, I realize this package is half depleted.  I must have been smoking like a fiend last night.  Now wonder my throat hurts and my clothes reek.

        Flipping the matchbox over, for the first time, I examine the logo.  On the glossy black cardboard is the word “Disco-Very” in a colorful groovy font.  This is clearly a made-up moniker, and sounds way classier than the dives I usually frequent.

         I’m much more of a strip clubber than a dance clubber.  And the outfit I wore yesterday, dark cowboy boots and hat, weathered blue jeans, plus a maroon flannel shirt over a stained white tank top, was definitely not retro rave attire.  I made some weird choices last night.  Clearly, I wasn’t functioning at a high, or rational, level.

        Or was I. 

        Shifting my gaze from the matchbook in my fingers to the back of my hand, I spot the faint outline of an ink stamp.  The pink silhouette of a shapely woman, with “FNTSY” displayed vertically inside the female form, using the negative space of my pale skin.  It doesn’t take a savant to deduce the product being pedaled at this classy joint.  I must have visited a strip club last night as well.  Now I really wish my memory was working.

        If I ever find my wallet, I expect it to house at least a small wad of dirty singles.  This gentlemen’s haunt addiction is not just a Vegas thing, but happens to me in any highway-adjacent town large enough to offer up such amenities.  When the mood strikes, and I happen to have extra cash in my pocket.

        Which is unfortunately not often enough.  Life on the road is a lonely existence.  Any opportunities to get attention from the opposite sex are much appreciated, however fleeting and superficial. 

        This sentiment proves out a few minutes later, as I wander around the room aimlessly, puffing on my third straight cigarette, having completely abandoned trying to get the smoke to flow out of the narrow window gap.

        As I proceed with another tobacco tube extraction, I discover a stashed swatch of paper, this one thick card stock, peach in color, and die cut to add wavy edges to the basic rectangular shape.  Sliding this thin piece out of the pack, I initially mistake it for a business card.  However, closer inspection reveals this article is some sort of admission ticket. 

       The voucher turns out to be a spa pass, with the establishment, “Lavish Lather”, displayed in embossed, gold foil, letters on the front.  The back side touts “VIP” status in black, with 1 AM hand written in blue pen above the accommodating horizontal line.  A cursive signature, which could be “Julie”, “Jamie”, or even “Jessy”, is scrawled with the same writing instrument on the bottom corner.

         Imprinted on the paper adjacent is the shape of pursed lips, in a deep red hue.  Based on the waxy composition and wrinkled texture, this must be lipstick.  

         Now, I’m thoroughly confused. 

        During my entire life, I’ve never set foot in a health spa, nail salon, beauty parlor, or anything else remotely similar in format or function.  I’m lucky to bathe a few times a week, and my toenails are so brittle and cracked that I simply let them break off naturally as opposed to formal trimming.  Plus, I cut my own hair, opting for the uniform #3 trimmer setting, executed twice monthly. 

         Instinctively, I look down at my feet, suddenly afraid that I’ll find these appendages carefully manicured and coated at the tips in some feminine colorway.  Fortunately, my original hideous toes, silhouetted against the dense grey carpet, are unchanged.

        Stoic, staring blankly downward, making no bodily motion besides the pulsing on my lungs, an action meant to keep my depleted dart going, I’m in a sad state.  Then, amazingly, I’m struck with a moment of inspiration.  Which spurs an outlandish thought.  

 

Back Right:

       Returning to the bathroom rapidly, for the umpteenth time already this morning, I reach down and pick the jeans up off the tile floor.  A quick inspection reveals that these are definitely not my pants. 

        This piece of clothing is missing both the hockey puck shaped ring molded into the back right pocket from my chew can, the only one I have yet to inspect, and the telltale oil stain on the bottom right leg from my motorcycle, the lower limb which wasn’t injured yesterday.  Or maybe even earlier today.

        Checking the label on the inside of the band confirms this finding.  The waist is 2” smaller, and the length 2” longer, than the size I currently wear.  Suddenly, the events of the evening, specifically the end of the night developments, come together with striking clarity.

       I must have switched attire with someone at some point.  That explains why all the items I found here don’t mesh with my normal activities. 

     Most telling, I realize where the room key, now jammed into the vertical wall slot to promote power and light functionality in this space, must have come from.  The front left pocket of these trousers, which I mistakenly perceived as empty in my morning search.  Does that mean I’m in the wrong chamber?  That could be a real problem.

     This initial basic question is followed by a series of subsequent queries.  Where are my own pants?  How did this exchange happen?  What did I really do in Las Vegas last night?

        Aside from the signature blemishes which accompany all my worn jeans, there another missing mark which provides a clue to what really happened last night.  The left calf of this designer denim is pristine, with not a scratch showing, let alone an aggressive tear which would be a necessary precursor to flesh damage.  The apparel exchange must have occurred after my injury.

        This fact, combined with the odd dressing of my calf wound, results in a viable sequence of events to be hatched in my typically dim-witted mind.  There are only a few times in the course of even the most abnormal night where I would have my pants off around others, conditions necessary to facilitate a swap of adult male clothing. 

         Mass confusion in the men’s rest room.  Some awkward overindulgence at the strip club.  The segmented masculine section of a spa, like the boy’s locker room back in high school, where confusing cubbies and clothing changes are common. 

         That must be the answer!  I have no idea how I ended up in such a situation, but this absurd scheme also passably explains the odd nature of my injury’s treatment.

          It shouldn’t be hard to confirm this tentative theory.  With renewed vigor, despite the balky leg, I stride across to the closet door.  Throwing this bifold, louvered, barrier open, I stare in awe.  Hanging in a neat row are 5 suits, their exact color and tailoring masked somewhat by the plastic covering which is ubiquitous to dry cleaning. 

         I have no idea how expensive these articles are, but, considering my other discoveries in this room over the past hour, I’m sure this wardrobe is well above my pay grade.  I don’t own a single piece of clothing which requires special laundering.

        The final confirmation comes in the form of luggage analysis.  At the bottom of this recessed space are a pair of massive rolling suitcases, both exhibiting an exterior of shiny metal, dotted by robust rivets.  I’ve never set eyes on these containers.  And don’t even own enough apparel to fill one such chest.  Life on the road as a trucker requires perpetual minimalism.

       Closing my eyes, I don’t gain any more mental clarity, but do envision an amusing, yet still plausible, late-night scenario. 

    Two inebriated individuals in a spa setting, one via bartender overserved Jack & Cokes, the other through overindulgence of his friend Jack’s Coke.  These confusing monikers ended up being used by staff when each individual’s actual clothes were submitted in exchange for posh terrycloth robes. 

        The urgency and shortness of my stay, the booze hound as opposed to the cocaine addict, entrance earned via injury as opposed to payment, made a swap of jeans understandable by the flustered spa employees.  The rest of the situation appears to have played out predictably poorly.

        As I contemplate how to extricate myself from this mishap, the room’s phone rings.  This noise is startling, not just because of my frail mental state, but also because no one uses such landlines these days.  I consider not answering, but quickly realize the only way I’m going to get to the bottom of this fiasco is to pick up.

         Which turns out to be a terrible decision. 

       Upon uttering a simple “Hello”, I’m met with an impressively lengthy and vulgar string of curse words.  The rapid deliver, and heavy accent, are suggestive of a native New York City resident.  This Northeast locale, known for hustle and bustle, is a far cry from my mellow and mundane Deep South roots.

        After 30 seconds of expletives, the individual on the other end of the line finally gets down to business, with a series of poignant questions, strung so closely together that I have no opportunity to answer any of them.  Nor do I want to.

          “Who is this?”

          “How did you get into my room?”

          “Where are my pants?”

          I’ve encountered several of these intimidating circumstances during my life on the road, often in the anal-oriented, business-focused, top-right quadrant of the country, where I assume this agitated character is from.  As is often the case, I decide to use dumb ignorance, and a slow drawl, to defuse the situation.  These traits come naturally to me, based on my simple upbringing and lifestyle.

         “Sorry sir, you must have the wrong number.”

      Even before I’m able to gently place the phone back in its charging holster, I can hear another barrage of volatile expletives emanating from the earpiece.  Maybe, with a little civility from the combatant on the other end, I would have acted differently.

       Now that my identity and location have been determined, I don’t have much time before the crazed caller, likely with hotel security in tow, visit me in this room.  I need to make my escape immediately.

       However, I can’t exactly walk down onto the Vegas Strip in my boxers.  I’m sure my new friend won’t mind if I borrow a few possessions.  It’s not like I, or he, have much of a choice.

        3 minutes later, I’ve squeezed into the skinny jeans, which I’m not able to button at the waist, and which are bunched up around the ankle of my cowboy boots.  I’ve found the tank top I was wearing last night, with a few new blood and dirt stains added to the already dingy fabric, but there’s no sign of my button-up.  No worries, it’s warm here in Vegas, even well before the official start of summer.

       I utilize a few offerings from the bathroom in an attempt to make myself presentable: face soap, mouth wash, and deodorant.  Then, I snatch up a couple other items which will be of interest as I try to take my leave, and ease my pain: cigarettes, matchbox, and the drink ticket.

        I’ve got a big day ahead of me, with a spa stop to procure my own pants, and the personal property housed within, then an off-Strip detour to grab my bags and check out of my own hotel room before incurring a late fee.

         Soon enough, I just be another degenerate aimlessly wandering around town in the early morning hours.  Snagging a cocktail for the walk will definitely help me blend in.  I’m in no condition to hit the road with my big rig any time soon.  May as well get hammered, then pass out in the cab. 

       Fortunately, I have a change of clothes, and a medical kit, in the sleeper compartment.  These cozy confines will avoid any further confusion during my remaining time in Las Vegas.

      As I pass back through the bedroom, my eyes instinctively lock onto the flat screen television which I apparently turned on, but never actually focused attention towards, during in my perpetual searching.  The selected channel is currently displaying highlights from last night’s slate of NCAA tournament basketball games. 

        It takes me a few seconds to identify the pair of opponents, one clad in white with royal blue trim, the other in bright red with black logo accents.  These common primary colors don’t exactly narrow the field in the collegiate athletics landscape.

       Getting closer to the screen, I peruse the graphics underneath the gameplay, then stop dead in my tracks.  The road team, clad in red, is St. John’s University, or SJU, in betting parlance.  Captivated, I watch the game proceedings play out rapidly; a halftime score of 41-30 is discouraging, then the Red Storm put up a spirited second half effort, still losing, but closing the gap.  The final score is 69-63.  That result should work nicely.

        Looks like another stop on my journey will be the sportsbook associated with the new betting ticket I acquired.  I’m not one to steal, but am treating this piece of paper the same way I did the numerous discarded scraps in the gutters around town years back.  It’s still long odds to complete the remaining legs of this parlay, but at least the March Madness components are locked in.  Maybe my luck is finally turning up.

       Taking stock of the room one final time, I close the hotel room door gently, and head for the elevator, treading as lightly as possible for someone with a bum leg who’s wearing cowboy boots. 

        As I descend the 7 stories to ground level, I fidget nervously, eventually jamming my hands in the back pockets of these uncomfortable, acquired jeans.  My right fingers quickly find and extract an object which I didn’t know was there.  A casino chip.  With a $1,000 denomination.

      I know I left one identical to this on the bathroom vanity after I freshened up just minutes ago.  Outright cash-equivalent robbery is a bridge too far, even for a poor truck driver.  Apparently, this beauty had a secret twin. 

       I deposited the electronic key card on the dresser, and don’t even remember the room number, so have no way to return this loot.  Well, one man’s loss is another man’s gain. 

       Maybe this Vegas warehouse delivery trip will turn out to be productive after all.  It’s only Saturday morning, and I’ve already secured a full week’s pay.  Plus, whatever I can sell these designer jeans for somewhere down the road.  The fit sucks, and I miss my conforming chew can pocket.