Las Vegas

For all its indulgence, glitz and glamour there will always be that one 'perfect' experience for Hasan Aloul. No, I'm not talking about the jubilation when I first received the stripper trading cards, or the time when I won $209 on #32, or even that delicious duck with the amazing prune sauce. On the contrary my friends, it was on a day where the sun beat down like a halogen lamp two feet from my face. A day where the breeze decided to go else-where and be replaced by bonfire gusts. A day where you could fry an egg on the sidewalk to save lunch money and instead, gamble more. Yes sir, it was the perfect day for a nose bleed.

I had just finished my tour of the strip. Everything I had set out to do had been satisfyingly accomplished except for one thing. A picture of the famous "Welcome to Las Vegas" sign. As I walked past Excalibur, I noticed tourists loading a sightseeing bus. Without hesitation I proceeded to the public transport in hopes of uncovering the whereabouts of this landmark sign. Upon my approach to the first step of the bus, a gust of heat wiped me like a furry quilt. I continued, stepped on to the bus, and no sooner than I could finish my question a runny and liquid sensation tickled my nose. The bus driver stood there speechless, his draw dropped while I immediately took hold of the situation and demanded a paper towel. He fired back,

"don't get it on my bus, don't get it on my bus! I'll have to cancel the ride! Please step off the bus."

I ignored this asshole and demanded another paper towel to which he replied, "I'm all out, please don't get it on my bus!"

Thoughts of 'f-you' ran through my head as I began managing the red substance with my palms and knuckles. But I had the last laugh. Before exiting the bus I took a shot at the wastebasket with my tie-die paper towel. That bus driver was lucky I made the 7 footer. Nonetheless, I left my mark.

Upon exiting the bus, I proceeded hastily to the nearest individual asking for any paper tissues. However, I realized quickly this was not the answer and rushed into Camelot casino and hotel. Speeding on to the casino floor, passer-bys took notice and gave concerned and disturbed looks. Never had the feeling of "that's what you get for doing that last line" been so blatant in human communication. Luckily, however, most were consumed by their rolling slot machines, oblivious to the chaos around them.

Then, hope. A waitress, a goddess, someone who could point me away from this labyrinth of money machines and addicts. I headed straight for her, she gave me one look and to my dismay, re-routed her course. 'Bitch,' I thought to myself. She too must have been like "another coke head, forget that." Fortunately, I saw the bathroom in the distance. However, before making the turn, I asked the waitress for some of the napkins on her tray while blood steadily found its way to my wrist. She dared not to look at me as she grabbed a stash and held them like they were about to drop from her finger tips. Regardless, success and management was only seconds away.

I spent the next 20 minutes in that men's room, hovering between the sink and paper towels, pinching my nose and graciously thanking the fact it didn't reach my clothing.

There are times when I think back to that day. As the charm and luck of Vegas would have it, my condition was exploited. A perfect day created the perfect circumstances for a perfect bleed. There's nothing left to say except, to hell with that bus driver.