"I'm sorry, sir. This bathroom is temporarily closed." The baby-faced security guard tried to look imposing as he and his partner(?) stood in front of the entrance to the only men's room on the main level of the IP, arms folded across their chests. This was obviously an Important Job that they had been given, and they were taking it quite seriously.
Just fucking great. It was already well past 4am, and I had been drinking steadily for 5 hours. I was in imminent danger of a bladder malfunction that would rival the scene in Die Hard 3 where Bruce Willis gets blown out of New York City Water Tunnel Number 3 by a million gallons of water, and while I would have jumped at the chance to urinate on Babyface's self-satisfied mug, it wasn't really his fault. The nearest bathroom, according to Babyface, was 14 miles away. Awesome.
Cue me hotfotting it past the Dealertainers (Michael Jackson, Garth Brooks, and Hot Girl with Exposed Flat Midriff who was supposed to be Christina Aguilera but bore as much of a resemblance to the Queen of Porn as I do) and up the escalator to the sports book bathrooms, where sweet, sweet relief could be had. Ahhhhh, much better. There was still a nice cold vodka shot with Corona back waiting for me at the Geisha bar when I got back. Excellent.
About this time, I learned that video poker is rigged. Drizz, already feeling no pain after a string of birthday shots, fed $20 into one of the machines at the Geisha Bar. I can't claim with a straight face that he used optimal video poker strategerie (drawing 5 on every hand will ocassionaly pay dividends but has to be seen as, at best, a flawed strategy), and yet I still don't think the machine should have blown through his money that fast. Rigged, I tell you.
One of the bloggers came by and asked us if we had seen a particular female blogger, codenamed 'Ophelia, who was strangely absent. Drizz hadn't seen anything for much of the previous hour, but in the depths of my alcohol-befuddled consciousness, the question triggered a distant alarm, a short order cook's bell that an order is ready, barely audible over the din of a packed restaurant. Ophelia... Ophelia... oh, right, the person who went to the bathroom about 30 minutes ago and whose possessions I am supposed to be watching. At the other end of the bar.
Hmm. Ok, stay cool.
"Last I saw her, she was headed to the ladies room." We'll just keep that other little detail about her belongings to ourself for the time being.
"She's not in there. I already looked. All of her stuff was on the bar, though," and here my interrogator raised up one hand slightly to show that it contained a purse (sweet! she totally just bailed me out), "so I feel like she has to be around here somewhere." She shuffled off to press other bloggers on the potential whereabouts of our MIA blogger.
A second alarm, this one a bit more brazen like the alarm signifying a period change in high school, sounded deep in my head. I excused myself from Drizz's company (doubtful he even noticed as he was well on his way to Wheelchair Land), headed past Michael, Garth and HGWEFM, and approached Babyface for a second time, still standing as self-importantly as he had been earlier.
"Bathroom's still closed." He stood up just a little straighter to really try to convey his authority. Good job, guy. Way to discharge that Important Job you have in a responsible manner.
"Yeah. Listen... by any chance, is there a pink-haired woman in there? Named Ophelia?"
"Maybe. What's she wearing?" This from Babyface's partner, who will henceforth be referred to as Number Two. And it wasn't really a fair question. You can't expect a guy who has been drinking for five hours (me) to remember what he himself is wearing without sneaking a peek at his shirt, never mind what someone that he's hardly spoken to is wearing.
"Really, I have no idea. We both just got in town, and we're part of the same group."
"Is she wearing red?"
"No. Why, is the woman in there wearing red?" Maybe it wasn't 'Ophelia' after all. That would be disappointing, because it would mean that she was still Out There, somewhere.
"No. I was just testing you." From this point forward, Number Two will be referred to as Assface.
"Listen, Assface, is there a pink-haired woman named Ophelia in the men's room or not? Maybe you could let me in to see if it's her?"
"Can't do that. Are there any other women in your group?" Aha! Yes, yes there were. In fact, one of them is worriedly pressing bloggers at the Geisha Bar on Ophelia's whereabouts, instead of fondling their asses, as is her usual m.o. Past the Dealertainers for the third time (note to HGWEFM: Christina is so 5 years ago. Get a new shtick) back to the Geisha Bar, where I grabbed her by the hand and forcefully told her to come with me. And she obeyed! I made a mental note to try this out on women in a NYC bar some night with the Rooster.
En route past the Dealertainers for a FOURTH time, I brought her up to speed.
"1. I think Ophelia is in the men's room. 2. HGWEFM is getting moist watching me pass back and forth in front of her. 3. Security won't let me into the men's room to confirm it's Ophelia in there."
We converged on the men's room at the same time as two fine, upstanding men of Clark County Rescue Squad, each of whom had enough gear strapped to their backs to survive a week on Mt. Everest. I guess you never know what kind of shenanigans a drunk and disorderly might pull. I plopped down at a slot machine as Assface led the new arrivals into the men's room. My blogger sister reappeared briefly in the doorway a few moments later to confirm that, indeed, our Ophelia was in there, and then disappeared again. Iggy describes what happened next:
As [the CCRS] checked her blood pressure and whatnot, and to find out if she was OK/coherent, they asked one simple question to ensure she had her wits about her.
“Honey, can you tell me who the President of the United States is?”
And she quickly replied, “Fuck that, I’m Canadian.”
Ten minutes later, one concerned blogger and one Ophelia emerged, smiling cheerfully at Babyface as a third member of the CCRS wheeled a stretcher into the men's room. As they staggered off, Babyface shouted at their backs "Enjoy your stay at IP!"
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