The Bet: Part One

“It’s not about the money. This bet is like a vigorous shaking of the mystical eight ball or the pulling of pedals from the flower of destiny. Am I right? Am I wrong? If I’m right, then who knows what else I could be right about next?” 

–D Gonzoni

“My Soul Is A Cigarette Machine” was my first published poem. The pizza place at the MGM had a few of them.

I went to Las Vegas on a few significant occasions in my life. I transferred off one Greyhound Bus to the other there while en route to visit my dad in Prescott, Az once. I was thirteen then, and dreamed of what would happen for me in that town in the Las Vegas of my future. Plain clothes officers searched my bus for persons running on warrants before it pulled away from Fremont Street. 

But, the backstory I’m going to deal to you is from the bottom of the deck in the Fifth Year of Our Benevolent Leader, The Honorable President Barack Obama, Champion of Etiquette in Politics–I say this earnestly. 

“Trumpers best not win the option of a third term unless they want to herald in the return of a leader from an already nostalgic era of the last good college ragers in California and only the first wave of the smart phone epidemic. President Obama would swoop in and take the third term like an eagle flying down from Mount Olympus with the sword of retribution in his talons. His Trumpness would lose to President Obama in a landslide even if the former president had failed every reasonable medical exam in the realm and could only communicate via an etch-a-sketch. I’d bet money on that.”

–D. Gonzoni 

The year was 2012. I was a Hemingway fanatic at the time who secretly loved Charles Bukowski more. My best friend, [NAME REDACTED], was about to turn me on to Fear and Loathing as the first step into a serious and continued Hunter S. Thompson addiction. Thompson became my third wise man. All of them were famous drunks. Two out of three were suicides. Each of them is an immortal writer in a modern pantheon of self-destructive men with scars from the machinery of deadly institutions–Correctional Facilities, the Military, The USPS, and the Education System. Not one of them was the ideal devoted husband or father. 

Unlike my heroes, I was doing my best to be a responsible adult and parent while also juggling these butcher knives of addiction, untreated mental illness, and relentless art ambition. I wanted to become a respected author with all my heart, and live like my idols, but if push came to shove, I was going to pick being a loser in art over losing my family. Although, there was no way in Hell I was going to lame about it either. So after releasing my first novel, The Shiner, to mostly positive reviews but no interest from agents, I was on my way to Las Vegas to live a big soggy memory of being completely shitfaced to the point of staggering…but never completely falling. Despite my wobbling from a weird inner ear imbalance I’m actually very sure footed while intoxicated…until that one tumble on a Key West carpet that gave me blood poisoning. 

But I digress. Here I was, a young salesman and author and father of two sons on his way to Las Vegas with his affable until wasted but always loveable pal, [NAME REDACTED]. We left Boulder, Colorado at sometime past ten in the evening and drove straight through until the desert sun rose over that brown baked basin that hosts the town affectionately referred to as Sin City. 

Delirious from exhaustion I proceeded to get drunk as quickly as possible and tour the mall at Caesars Palace with my friend in tow. It was here that I followed the shouts of a man standing outside a pro sports memorabilia store.

“Today only! Mike Tyson and Leon Spinks signing autographs! Mike Tyson! Leon Spinks!” shouted the man. 

“Fuck Mike Tyson,” said I, “I wanna meet Leon!” 

And I did. In fact I was so belligerent and excited for the opportunity, the man in charge offered me the honor of going with him through the staff areas and walking in Mr. Spinks from outside. I met the former champ at the concrete ramp that led to the trash compactors outside the mall. On seeing him labor up the ramp I pulled out my front teeth and yammered about our having something in common. I knew this because the great newspaper columnist, Greg Lopez, wrote a story about Leon losing his dentures in his car after a drunken night in Detroit. I am a bachelor of Journalism, you know. Leon’s reaction was bemused and subdued. He wasn’t well. 

We staggered our way through the concrete back corridors of Caesars Palace into the memorabilia shop and were helped to chairs behind a long table. Leon’s walking and speaking was slow and labored. He had been diagnosed with what doctors called brain shrinkage. My speech and gait were also affected—for I was drunk. We were a matching set and I was not disappointed in the slightest. I sat next to one of two men who could say they were heavyweight champions of the world and that they had beaten Muhammad Ali to earn it. I ranted and raved cheap vodka and orange slushie flavored platitudes and childish questions to Leon for the better part of an hour. [NAME REDACTED] waited outside in the mall already regretting allowing me to lead our excursion. Meanwhile, I also pontificated on how well Leon fought Ali (as if he didn’t know) then expounded on why Mike Tyson could get fucked. Leon seemed to brighten up and have fun with me too. I’ll never forget getting some laughs out of him. This whole episode is deserving of its own story, really. Mike Tyson did not show up to the signing that day, fortunately for me. In fact, I was the only person who showed up to the signing aside from Leon. 

G.A. Johnson & Leon Spinks

I got a second picture with him for free because the owner of the store loved Leon and was happy I was truly excited  to see him. From there, my drunken escapade lasted an additional 48 hours with a ride on the New York, New York rollercoaster and a great run at the Golden Nugget Casino Blackjack table as notable highlights. There was also an incident of me trying to drink a bottle of liquid epsom salt in a vain attempt to relieve my bowls only to have it kick in at a most unfortunate moment. But, it is my autographed photos with Leon Spinks that have become one of my most treasured memories and keepsakes. They live in –D Gonzoni’s art box.  

Leon wins the title 1978.

Why all this damn back story? The point is this, I’ve always been a boxing fan. My first novel [The Shiner] featured the sport heavily as a plot device. In fact, the novel had fictionalized the fight between Floyd Mayweather Jr, and Victor Ortiz as being fixed. It alleged that Ortiz took a well orchestrated dive. 

That was me just being bitter toward Floyd “Money” Mayweather, though. I was young and didn’t quite understand how incredible Floyd is as both a fighter and heel. What is a heel, you ask? That is the professional (usually in wrestling) who makes his career being a villain. Floyd “Money” Mayweather made a historic amount of coin because he cultivated both a fighting style and persona that had millions of haters paying top dollar hoping to see their nemesis felled by a thudding hook to his pretty jaw.

“TRUMP is the great heel of a generation raised on Hulk Hogan, but who later learned to idolize Ed McMahon and Stone Cold Steve Austin. Yes, the villains end up with a stronger following than the good guys when the audience is filled with white boys who believe a loud wet fart is both entertaining and a signal of sexual prowess. Some people relish pissing off and offending others. TRUMP is the hero of NASCAR FANS and patrons of Country-esque bars where the indie folk acts dare not go for fear of bigotry of various denominations. They are a people who fill the great cruise ships and corporate resorts of the world and believe, truly, that the indentured servants imported from impoverished nations are privileged to watch them gorge, guzzle, fuck, and puke like rich Roman citizens of yore.”

–D Gonzoni

Villains do well in sports and politics. Many people believed a young and talented boxer named Canelo Alvarez would smite Mayweather in September of 2013…they lost. The match took place in the MGM Grand Casino…remember that. Canelo’s career survived being completely outboxed by “The Best Ever” and he is set to fight, as I write this, Terrance Crawford in defense of the Super Middleweight Title in this fifth year of the reign of his Trumpness. Canelo is rightly loved by many. Crawford is being treated as the chump in this engagement.

This upcoming September fight is why –D Gonzoni went to Vegas. It also brings our story back to this troubled year of 2025 where Gonzoni was arguing with the Kava bartender at the Karma House regarding the outcome of this fight. Canelo is favored by the odds makers and most pedestrian boxing fans.

“Fuck the odds makers, they work for the casinos helping you push your chips over to their greedy claws! They are agents of misinformation here to placate the chickenshits and direct the sheeple! Crawford only needs to look back at the fight between Canelo and Floyd to see the pathway to victory. Canelo was a young bull set loose to be slaughtered by one of the most cunning matadors of our time. Canelo is older and wiser by a decade since that fight, no doubt, but he is still a bull. Crawford is an equally experienced matador. An undefeated and experienced champion matador, in fact. Now, the average boxing fan is frothing at the mouth because he thinks that Crawford is somehow undersized because he is moving up twelve pounds in weight from his last victory to fight Canelo at 168 lbs. But, look, gaining weight after age thirty-five is not a chore. Crawford has the luxury of coming in with some baby fat against an older and thinner bull which affords him some padding and reserve energy for the later rounds! Many great champions finished their careers by going up in weight…including Floyd Mayweather Jr, Roberto Duran, and Manny Pacquiao!” 

–D Gonzoni

The Kava bartender countered this line of thought with, “But Canelo is the champ. Crawford will have to be very impressive to win on the card, because it always favors the title holder.” Which was a sound philosophy, too. Such rationale only firms the resolve of –D Gonzoni when confronted by it. And of course, the Kava bartender was the athletic gym going type, so now it was a matter of pride for Gonzoni to prove him wrong. I am beholden to the quixotic whims of this artist. Call me Sancho.

So there I was, a middle aged author of six novels,  no commercial success, and a twenty year wedding anniversary I needed to celebrate on a thin budget. I am only a humble Lyft driver these days when not doing the Old West show. Where else could we go for dazzling thrills and world class entertainment? Well, there were actually many options, but –D Gonzoni had convinced me to empty out my change bucket and take a chance on a vacation that would pay for itself if Terrance “Bud” Crawford could win the fight by decision against Alvarez.

We would place our bet in person at the hotel like someone seeking the blessings of God by shoving their prayer in the cracks of the western wall or tying up a flag on the Tibetan hills. 

With the aid of my youngest son, I rolled up three hundred dollars of quarters, dimes, and nickels. I had bought into –D Gonzoni’s urges to believe in the underdog once again. We needed to know if he was right, or seeing giants for windmills again.

“We will permanently shut the mouth of [Kava Bartender]! He thinks I don’t know boxing because my hair is long and I doodle pictures while in here? Or is it because I like to wear my wife’s cut off shorts? Now is the time of vindication!”

–D Gonzoni

Ali in the gift shop. Ali never fought here, but the MGM Grand was once a Mecca for championship boxing.

It was time to sell the dream to my beloved wife, who was first enticed by seeing David Copperfield performing at the best known boxing affiliated hotel in all the world–THE MGM GRAND. My beloved wife should remain in the audience's mind as a resigned co-adventurer in this tale, innocent of all things immoral by the protestant standard, because she is not of the degenerate breed like myself and –D Gonzoni. She went for fine dining and relaxation, of course. There’s great swimming pools at the MGM, I said. I offered to do all the driving, too. I asked my weary credit card to carry just a little more burden and booked what seemed like a very thrifty three night stay. 

“So long as my country is buried up to its ass in debt, so shall I be. That’s patriotism.” –D Gonzoni

My Princess had a three-day weekend in honor of the celebration of the Virgin Mother’s Assumption into Heaven. We left Thursday evening at 5pm. Fueled by the Vegas Fever I rushed my Princess out of the house as if it were about to be demolished. I rushed her…remember that. We packed light. In the back of my car were two coolers, –D Gonzoni’s art box, our carry-on style luggage, and a reusable shopping tote filled with rolls of change, a robotic laser light machine, a wireless speaker, and two of my novels for distribution to unsuspecting readers. 

I drove straight through the night just like I had done in my twenties. Seven Hundred and Forty Six miles, three energy drinks, and two adderall later…

THE MGM GRAND CASINO, 2:37AM PST. The valet and bell service welcomed us like fellow late night fiends. In fact the bell hop lingered in our 21st floor room after bringing up our cart. He continued to apologize for the delay in arrival, it was now past 3 am, and explained the situation regarding the short staff on the night crew. He gave me three more apologies after I waived off the first one and tipped him. It seems that he needed to edge his way a little further into my room and catch a glimpse of the female I brought in at this sultry hour of the night. Perhaps he’d seen all those rolls of quarters, too. My wife has been mistaken for a high priced escort once or twice. I wasn’t offended by his curiosity. Once he had slunk out of my room with the baggage cart I went over to the window filled with those beautiful flashing lights. I could see The Sphere and the Monorail below. Mesmerizing. 

My first glimpse out the window on arrival.

I was in the Las Vegas of the Future, it seemed. My thirteen year old self predicted it, I had a beautiful woman with me. I was here to do the job just like Raul Duke did in the 1970s. I figured this was the right place to do some influencer styled self promotion of both my latest novel, A More Perfect Union, and my upcoming release, “So Your Extended Family Thinks You’re A Degenerate: A Journey Through Self.” 

I did Las Vegas as a Hemingway drunk, once. This time I was going to visit Bat Country. 

“Eating an octopus is akin to cannibalism. Those fuckers are smart!” –D Gonzoni

TO BE CONTINUED

My book on the hotel dresser.