Shaken, Not Stirred

"Hey, what's your name?"

"Lacey."

"Oh. Hey, what's your name?"

"Ryan."

"Oh. Oh, hey, what's your name?"

"Still Lacey."

"I like Lace. Hey, what's your name?"

"Ryan."

The man across the table from me is about as drunk as anyone I've ever come across, and I've been homeless and in college. He slurs his words and makes quick sudden gestures. He looks and acts like an aging frat boy, and I'm reasonably certain he could get violent at any moment.

My best friend Ryan has come to Vegas for the weekend (the only reason I'm still here) and has brought along his girlfriend and her mother. This means the following things for me:

+ free air-conditioned floor to sleep on for the night and two, count them, two showers with real water pressure.

+ good company.

+ reason to watch the "ultimate fighting" pay-per-view the hotel is showing for free in a large conference room.

The problem with watching "ultimate fighting" in a room full of strangers is that said room of strangers consists of people who enjoy watching other people beat the living Hell out of each other for sport. I, admittedly, am one of these people, but I also recognize that sometimes adding alcohol to such a room can produce mixed results.

I shake my head as I try to look past the drunk and at the big screen. I know that this man could possibly ruin what has so far been a very enjoyable break from the van. Highlights of the day have included:

+ being treated to the buffet at Texas Station Hotel and Casino, the first place I ate after being homeless for five weeks; it tasted better then.

+ using the restroom, only to find what I am reasonably certain were cup holders attached to the urinal walls. They couldn't have been cup holders though, right? Downing a beer while you're peeing is a step past alcoholism, isn't it?

+ walking around the casino and noticing an attractive cocktail waitress offering drinks in a particularly interesting fashion. "COCKtail!" she yelled knowingly. "Can I interest anyone in a COCKtail!?" I started to tip her before realizing I never ordered a drink.

A good day, all told, now in serious jeopardy because this man can not hold his liquor. The man sitting next to me assures the drunk would be easy to "take out," but he also suggests he could "take" Brock Lesnar, the hulking beast of a man on the big screen who has just demonstrated an astounding proficiency for punching people in the face.

Luckily, the drunk man has gotten into an argument with someone else in the crowd while heading for another beer. A security guard approaches us. He looks at me, assuming I am with the drunk.

"I'm going to have to get him out of here."

"Good. Please do. I would like nothing more than for you to get him out of here."

The security guard walks up to the drunk and... walks away.

Thanks for the help.

The man next to me is furious. I can tell he is about two minutes from starting an altercation. Meanwhile, I eye the drunk, half watching the screen, half poised to strike in case things take a wrong turn.

"I'm getting out of here. It was good to meet you guys," the drunk stammers.

And with that it is over.

"Boy, I'm glad that didn't head where I thought it was heading," I say to the man next to me, who has turned a new shade of red.

"Yeah. The nerve of that guy. Some people just have no sense of..."

The crowd erupts, drowning out the last part of the sentence. I join in as the packed room cheers and hollers at the big screen. One of the fighters has just been choked into unconsciousness.

"I missed that last part. Some people have no sense of what?"

"Of decency. Some people have no sense of decency."

I nod.